Snippets and Tales

Sarah Pearl Patterson's Endless Summer Chapter 3

2023-02-10T07:22:00.003-05:00

https://www.facebook.com/betty.henderson.9083/videos/10220511223918089

Sarah Pearl Patterson's Endless Summer Chapter 2

2023-02-08T14:45:00.003-05:00

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WD2yjpBOr4c

Sarah Pearl Patterson's Endless Summer Chapter 1

2023-02-08T14:39:00.000-05:00

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qSTx42B77A

Tragedy to Triumph

2022-11-27T11:53:00.003-05:00

The following is the introduction to the book I'm writing for a young girl who was sex trafficked. The name of the book is Tragedy to Triumph. I'm hoping to have the book done by Christmas.

Introduction

This is my story, but it could be the story of many women/girls/boys who end up trafficked into sex slavery. Predators are ruthless in their pursuit of helpless, scared, desperate individuals. They don’t care how old you are or from whence you came. To them, you are a commodity, that’s all. You’re not a feeling, emotional, or spiritual human being that can be hurt.

Hurt and wounded are synonyms that infer outward scars. Yet no one can truly comprehend the inward scars unless you’ve lived it. “Lived it” implies that one actually “lives” this kind of life. I contend “living” is not what we do. We captives are really dead. That’s the only way to survive the “life” of a trafficked person. Years ago, trafficked persons were put up on an auction block and sold to the highest bidder. They were chained to keep them from running.

However, I was never chained. He might as well have chained me, but he didn’t need to. I willingly ran into the arms of my jailer. All he needed to do was promise me food and a roof over my head in exchange for sex; no big deal. Right?

Today, slavery stills robs souls. It still turns people into objects of desire. Today’s slaves are put into dirty, dank rooms and sold over and over again to anyone who pays to play. In my room, the men checked their souls at the door to play. The soulless “play” was evil and meaningless with no passion and no affection.

My soul checked out long ago. I was nothing but a shell with innards that didn’t matter anymore. Sure, I had the working parts I needed to satisfy the customers, but the rest of me was as dead and rotting as road-kill. Maybe the men couldn’t smell my rotting, but I did. In the night, when rest eluded me, the smell was as palpable as if I were standing next to my decaying carcass.

I died inside the day I made the choice, at the ripe old age of thirteen, to run away from the only home I knew. I chose to run free. In reality, I ran into the folds of captivity, bondage, and subjugation.

Now, I am searching for freedom again. I’m searching for meaning and life. Will I find it? I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that telling my story will set me free. Telling my story might help set someone else free. Telling my story might help me to find myself again.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m still running. I think a part of me will always be running away. I’m not even sure what I’m running away from, but I know I won’t be set free until I stop running away and run to the right savior…

This is my story of finding myself and running to my savior.

Unkempt

2022-02-05T20:30:00.001-05:00

The following is an excerpt from my book, Drama Momma in the Land of Un. The book is available on Amazon.com. The book is authored under my pseudonym, Gwen Thorne. I added a link to Amazon at the end of this post.

Chapter One

The Farm

December 2016

Something in the air caught my attention as I strolled through the shade clutching my laptop. Instead of searching for a log on which to sit, I went in search of the smell. I stood for a moment under the towering oak trees in the hopes that the shade would cool the hot, humid air. I was wrong. The familiar smell was adding to the thick swelter. It wasn’t a pleasant smell like flowers or anything green and pretty. It didn’t smell pretty. It smelled dirty… and unkempt. Did I smell homeless? No. Not homeless.Almost, though. I remember smelling homeless behind the park where I used to work. I knew that smell, and this wasn’t it. This smell awoke a distant memory in the recesses of my brain. Long ago, I smelled this when I was walking in the hundred acres behind my house. It intrigued me then, and it intrigued me now.

It didn’t take long to find the smell’s origin tucked under a fallen limb where I would not sit—not today anyway. There, blending with the shades of brown, was an indiscernible shifting shape. But for the smell, I would not have noticed the four or five piglets huddled together. I guessed they were less than a week old, which meant that momma pig had to be close by. Piglets didn’t scare me, but wild momma pigs did! I quickly made my retreat to a distance I felt was safe enough and found a less threatening branch on which to unwind and write. I figured it might take me a while to relax, so I needed a comfortable spot.Was there such a thing as a soft branch? No, but I had enough padding to endure sitting for at least an hour. An hour away from the house was more than enough time to mull over the thoughts ricocheting through my brain. I had given up on writing for a long time. Was an hour long enough, or did I need days—weeks maybe?

It was hot as if the trees were holding their breath, adding to the heat. Nothing moved; not even the piglets made a sound.Strange. I don’t know if piglets are noisy, but I expected to hear some grunting coming from the piglet lair. I was sure I’d hear them when their mom returned.

So, there I sat on the less menacing branch. Waiting. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. Was I expecting a burning bush or perhaps a ray of brilliant sunshine illuminating an angel? As if on cue, a perfect circle of light appeared on the ground in front of me. No aberration accompanied the sunlight, and no voice spoke to me. It just glimmered there taunting my imagination to make something of the luminescence. Perhaps I should fabricate a divine messenger heralding great promise, I thought. Maybe, if I step into the light, I’ll be baptized with great wisdom and will write something wise and inspiring.

I step into the light. It’s hot. I go back to my log in the shade. For a moment, I sit toad-like with my laptop perched on the branch by my side. What did I come to write—to ponder? I wonder. My life? 58 years to be exact.

Today is my birthday. It’s December in Florida, and it’s hot. It doesn’t feel like Christmas time. It doesn’t feel like my birthday.A December birthday right after Christmas was always a bit of a disappointment when I was growing up because the “combined presents” were inevitable.

I never really understood combined presents. One year I got a unicycle—my only request for Christmas. My dad informed me that the unicycle was a combined Christmas/birthday present. So, naturally, I wondered why I didn’t just get the wheel on Christmas and the rest of the unicycle on my birthday.

I taught myself how to ride the unicycle by holding onto the walls in the house. By the time I became a one-wheeled pro, every wall in our home was as nicked and bruised as my shins and knees. The unicycle seat and pedals left permanent gouges in the wood floors throughout the hallways. When the handprints outnumbered the flowers on the wallpaper, I was banished from the inside of the house and graduated to riding between the cars in the driveway. I know the cars took a unicycle beating too, so I was given the ultimatum to either master the art of unicycling without props or give it up.

I never give up! So, after months of daily unicycle battles, I finally won the fight and took my first tentative no-props ride down the driveway. Within six months, I was riding backward, going up and down steps, playing basketball, and carrying my three sisters (one on each leg and one on my shoulders) all while riding my unicycle. It was as if the unicycle became an extension of my body. I was rarely without it and often rode to the store a mile away. I always had my hamster, Snowball, in my pocket while I rode. It’s a wonder he survived.

The unicycle did come in handy a few years back when I was “Skiddles,” the sweetest clown in town. I still rode that unicycle like a pro! I raced kids holding rubber chickens and did wheelies around the bases at home baseball games for our local team. I was a great clown until my knees killed my unicycle escapades, and my fingers protested balloon tying. It was good money, but I had to face the reality that Skiddles, the clown, had finally grown too old for her unicycle. The unicycle is tucked away in a corner of the garage now, waiting for another clown to rescue it.

Unicycles, clowns, and combined childhood presents are all in the past now. I didn’t come out here to ponder those things.I didn’t come out here to ponder my birthday. I didn’t come out here to reflect on birthday presents or lack thereof. What did I come out here for? I guess I came to find God. I came out here to ask God to inspire my writing.

Lately, God has been hiding from me. He’s been chiding me with His absence or lack of availability. I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything these days. Is He absent from my life or just not available? Is it Him or me? Am I the one leaving God out of my life? My life... I can’t finish the sentence. Why is it just “my life”? I mean, there are so many other lives crisscrossed in this one life, like a big ball of twine.

Here I sit in the swelter of an unusually warm December day in Florida. I wonder, am I able to tell a story that keeps you on the edge of your seat? I’m on the edge of my log now. My butt hurts, and my knees creak. My brain dissolves—evaporates into the dryness. The dryness is in my fingers, too. No story right now in dryness. Not today.

Maybe it was a story back then. Perhaps it was a story worth telling once upon a time. I don’t know that it’s a story worth telling now. People ask me to tell it. They say, “You should write a book.” Or, “Your life is like a book.” Or, “You were on OPRAH!” So what. So what if I was on Oprah? So what if my life is book material? I’m sure there are lots of lives out there that are book-worthy. Why me? Why my life?

Someone once called me a “drama momma” because my life is so full of drama all the time. I don’t think he meant it to be complimentary, but I kind of like the title of Drama Momma. It suits me. I’m a drama momma now, but the drama started in 1960 when my mother died. I hadn’t even reached toddlerhood yet.

Fragments. That’s what I’m made of. Tragic fragments...“tragments.” Three children left behind with a dad that didn’t know what to do with his broken life. I keep thinking of broken glass—shards and slivers everywhere—tragments. Impossible to glue back together, so you do the best you can to reconstruct the shatters. You make something that resembles the old, but tragments cannot be put back together again because mommies don’t just reappear out of nowhere. Putting tragments back together again is like trying to glue Humpty Dumpty together again.

That was what my dad tried to do. He called all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. In this case, he called all the grandmas and aunts, but they couldn’t—they just couldn’t. Shattered lives. Tragments. That’s what I remember.

The tragments were glued, epoxied, and cemented. I and my brother and sister were glued together, and we survived as kids will do. I even grew up despite my rebellious stage that involved drinking my way into oblivion. Oblivion was good back then. I was about thirteen-years-old when I had my first drink. I don’t know how or why I had so much access to alcohol, but I know I drank a lot for a long time. Whiskey, beer, and moonshine erasers were my constant companions. They took me places I wanted to be—mostly nowhere. They took me to nowhere and back—then back to nowhere again. I don’t know when I left nowhere, but I think it was when I was about twenty-five. Maybe, if I were brutally honest, I’d say nowhere isn’t far behind me.It’s a place I’ve become all too familiar with overtime.

Did I mention it’s my birthday? I thought that I’d become wise with age. What I’ve discovered is that I’ve become old as the years have progressed. That’s it—just old. Old and perhaps a bit crankier.

The pigs are noisy now. Maybe Momma has found her way back. I’d go see, but I don’t wish to disturb a mother boar and her piglets, nor do I wish to see if daddy boar is close by. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Felix. “Hey Felix,” I yell as if he’ll answer me. He looks my way, snorts his response, and gallops through the trees, leaving dust clouds in his wake. Maybe it wasFelix who disturbed the pigs. Perhaps it was Fred who is now visible in the clearing. Felix is lucky to have Fred as his constant companion. I wonder if they communicate with each other—dog to horse. I decide they must. Otherwise, why stay so close to each other?

“Are you God?” I ask the sunny spot that lights up the ground in front of me. No answer. “Of course, you are,” I say to the spot. “You’re God. The trees are God. Felix is God. All of you are God in one way or the other, aren’t you?” I’m so wise, I think to myself. I see God in everything. “So, God,” I’m yelling now at the spot. “Why did you let this happen to my daughter?!”

It wasn’t a question that I expected an answer to. I’ve learned that God doesn’t answer questions through sunny spots on the ground. My anger flares as bright as the perfect circular light in front of me. It flares in my soul. So much anger. Yet, I feel strangely calm. I am an oxymoron. Or maybe I’m just a moron. On the outside, I’m the perfect Christian woman saying all the right things about my daughter’s tragedy—God’s will and all that jazz. On the inside, I’m a raving lunatic. Rage is not the right word for what my gut feels. Rage is too mild—milquetoast. What’s the word? Indignation? No. Mania? No. Rampage? No.Rampageous? No. No word is adequate. No word will tell the truth about what I feel right now as I stare at the God spot in front of me. I have no words with which to spin this yarn. https://www.amazon.com/Drama-Momma-Land-Gwen-Thorne/dp/1947678159/ref=sr_1_3?crid=25LS42PVVH83F&keywords=drama+momma+in+the+land+of+un&qid=1644111169&sprefix=drama+momma+in+the+land+of+u%2Caps%2C104&sr=8-3

Herlong Mansion

2022-02-04T07:33:00.003-05:00

Leave it to our treasure hunter sister, Lorraine, to find the diamond in the rough sparkling through the dusty antique town in the sweltering Florida sunshine. It certainly stood out like a hidden gem in a five-and-dime store. Its age-old beauty and charm were not lost on our sister as she was immediately drawn to the welcoming front porch. Herlong Mansion did not disappoint. From the moment she walked through the creaky front door and saw the majestic staircase, she knew this was the place for the sisters.

Lorraine, standing in the ornate parlor of the old house, immediately called Betty, one of the other Floridians in our scattered group.

"I found the perfect place for our yearly retreat," Lorraine said breathlessly into the phone. "It's a beautiful mansion that's also a bed and breakfast!"

Lorraine's phone call started the chain reaction between all the sisters and daughters. Calls went out to NJ, FL, and GA. It wasn't long before the Herlong Mansion was booked for the five sisters and three daughters. Thus the tradition was born.

In the spring of 2019, the eight ladies assembled on the massive front porch of the Herlong Mansion for the first of many group pictures. Now, those pictures have become treasured memories, especially the photos of our sister, Lorraine. Her laughter and smile always lit up our time in the mansion.

Laughter was mandatory during our three-day jaunts. Often, the laughter, along with the wine, would flow through the mansion well into the wee hours of the morning. Somewhere along the line, two traditions emerged. The first tradition is the passing of the cups, and the other tradition is the marking of the pillow.

It's not certain how these customs were inspired, but they most seemingly occurred after the marriage of wine and laughter at 2AM on the screened-in back porch. However they came to be, they are now part of the sisters' covenant which will remain two rituals in the unwritten Herlong Mansion sisters' bylaws.

The cup ritual is simple. Each sister/daughter must purchase a meaningful cup for the next older sister/daughter. Then the eldest sister/daughter buys a cup for the youngest in the group. The cups are unwrapped after a rowdy game of Cover Your Assets or What Do You Meme. Probably the most memorable cup is Betty's, which says, "Sisters are tied together with heartstrings" and has the name of each sister in a heart.

The pillow, too, has a special saying: "Sister is God's Way of Making Sure We Never Walk (or wheel) Alone." We added the "or wheel" part because Jenn, Betty's daughter, is in a wheelchair. Marking the pillow with chosen names follows the cup ritual. Every year, Esch sister/daughter is given a name to match her personality. That name is then written on the pillow.

Busterous, Badass Betty is the keeper of the pillow. Loyal, Lady Lorraine, the eldest of the group, is the first name on the pillow. She's first, too, because she was the one who found our perfect retreat. Although she will only be with us in spirit this year, her place on the pillow will be marked in her honor with our tears.

Astute Affectionate Anne Marie follows Busterous Badass Betty. Then comes Mellow Mischievous Mary Jo. Jazzy Jeanie is next, followed by Joyful Jokester Jenn. Killer Knockout Katie and Lovely Limitless Lulu are next. The last entry on the pillow is Mysterious Myrtle, Lorraine's cancerous tumor. This year, Mysterious Myrtle will meet the sisters' wrath, and her unceremonious demise will be planned and executed.

Myrtle may have taken our sister, but she cannot steal our memories. Lady Lorraine's memory will forever be etched in the fabric of Herlong Mansion. HER LONGlasting spirit will always be with us when we make our yearly jaunt.

Forgiven

2021-08-12T09:10:00.001-04:00

When God calls, we often have a preconceived notion of a booming voice full of clarity. The voice will tell us our direction, purpose, and destination with certainty.

Isn't that the way we expect a calling to go? We don't expect God to whisper or send simple gestures. We expect powerful understanding because God's voice is always evident.

So, why do I struggle with God's calling? He wants me to write. That is a certainty. Yet, I often criticize my writing. My critical voice tells me my words are strung together in meaningless, incoherent sentences. Even though I desire to pour a perpetual stream of beautiful words of hope and peace into every sentence, I often feel that is not what I achieve.

I never want my readers to walk away feeling empty and disheartened.

Yet, peace and hope often elude me. They play hide-and-seek with my thoughts. I have a bright idea; before it reaches my typing fingers, it's hidden in my brain's shadow.

Brain shadows come in many forms; sadness, anger, despair, and regret - to name a few. The shadows slip into gray-matter crevices and hide until the wee hours of the morning. Then, they slink out of hiding and snake into consciousness. Like a serpent, they strike. They spew shadowy brain-venom into the darkness causing restless wakefulness.

Often, it's the "sadness" shadow that wakes me. The shadow slips into the night, shattering my stillness. Entirely awake, I reluctantly allow sadness to reach my fingertips. The "sadness" shadow tells my fingers to type because I must shine the light on gloom before hope and peace come out of hiding.

My son's story makes me sad. I'm compelled to tell his story from a mother's perspective, yet the tragic shadow screams that I cannot tell the story from the perspective of a mother!

It shouts, "You weren't his mother!"

It's true. I wasn't Billy's "real" mother who gave birth to him. I didn't nurse him as an infant. I didn't even know him as an infant. I was his adoptive mother. I welcomed this strangely silent, petulant little boy into my home and told him I'd be his mother.

I tried to be his mother. God knows I tried. I wanted to love him as my own. I wiped his nose. I nursed him when he was sick. I bandaged his knees, sang bedtime songs, and told him stories. I poured every ounce of mothering into him that I could. Our family gave him our name, and we gave him a room to call his own and a bed to sleep in. We got him a dog. We got him a cat. One day, I drew a picture of him in our home. He was pictured with our kids and pets, two parents, and a car in the driveway. I called him a son. He was mine!

No, he wasn't. He didn't belong to me. As much as I longed for him to be my son, a part of me knew he wasn't mine and never would be. There was the part of me that saw beyond the hopeful stick-figure picture with the sun shining through the clouds. I saw the boy, but I didn't see him. I didn't know the pain behind his eyes. I didn't understand the wretchedness of his life before he crossed my threshold. I chose not to see that because I would have to face the awful truth that he was never mine, even though he called me momma.

Just now, in the quiet solitude of my office, his voice broke the stillness like he was standing right behind me, "Whatcha doin', Momma?" I even turned half, expecting to see my son grinning at me.

My tears are flowing now. God, I loved that boy!

In his heart, I think he always struggled with letting go of the mom he knew and loved before me. I never asked him about her. I never asked him to tell me, from his eight-year-old perspective, who she was. I bet there was a lot he would have told me. I bet there was a lot he wanted to say to me. Maybe he would have said that she was pretty. Perhaps he would have told me she made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or called him snuggle-bunny. Maybe he would have cried, said she was mean, and didn't feed him. I don't know. I don't know because I never asked!

I wanted so much to be his mom that I blocked out the mom before, who did tuck him into bed and loved him before me. What was I afraid of? Was I scared the "real" mom would have been "more real" than me? Was I worried that she took up a place in his heart reserved for "real moms" that was under lock and key? I don't know. She was the ghost of someone who betrayed this little boy and left him broken and sad. I didn't want to know her. I didn't want to know what she did to him or why. Asking him about her would have made her real. In my mind, she was better left forgotten.

I did my son a great disservice by not allowing him to tell us about his mom and share his love and grief over losing her. I believe that I am responsible for his wanting to escape the pain.

I carry the heart burden of guilt. I'm guilty of not being the mother I should have been to my son.

The heart burden has weighed me down and crushed my spirit. I didn't even realize it until I started telling Billy's story from a mother's perspective. A mother's perspective would require one to be a mother, and I was only his second mother!

I should have accepted the second mother role – not tried to be his first and only mother.

Yet, now, I'm begging my fingers to type the words my soul has longed to hear: Not Guilty.

Not guilty would mean that my son has forgiven me. Not guilty would mean that I've forgiven myself. Not guilty would imply that God has forgiven me. I want those two words to replace the grief, the sorrow, and the heavy burden of guilt. I want peace and hope to come out of the shadows.

When my son grew up to be a man, he disconnected from us for about six years. Finally, after his daughter was born, he reached out to us, and we had a brief few years of a tenuous relationship. Something inside him wanted his child to have a better life, and he saw us as her lifeline.

Unfortunately, so many demons were tormenting him that he couldn't outrun them. He gave up everything to chase the one monster that gave him a flickering moment of peace. It didn't matter how false or fleeting that peace was; he craved it over all else. I know he struggled every day of his life. I know this because, occasionally, he'd reach out to me and beg for help. Here's what he wrote to me six months before he died:

3/9/17, 8:08 AM

I'm really trying to be a better person. I never took my addiction seriously. But I don't want to end up dead or in prison. I love you, mom, no matter how ashamed I make you and how much I disappoint our family. I still want to be a part of it. Please go with me to my NA meetings.

My response:

Please know that shame will only hurt you and destroy whatever we do have between us. As you know, it will be a long road of recovery, not "to" recovery. You will be recovering for the rest of your life. That's ok. What's not ok is us being on the sidelines while you struggle. I speak for myself. I can't speak for your dad when I say I want to attend your NA meetings with you. I'm sure your dad would like to go too. In any case, this is one way we can support you that makes sense. Trust must be earned back, but I am confident in you, Billy. I believed in you when you didn't believe in yourself. Isn't that what mothers do???

After that exchange, I wrote:

September 9, 2017, @ 5:25 PM

You know, I always want to prove people wrong. I want to tell them that you WILL respond and tell us when your next NA meeting is. I tell your dad constantly that I expect to hear from you any day now. I wonder why he doesn't believe me. Hope springs eternal, I guess. I love you, Billy.

His very last words were written to me three days before he died:

September 19, 2017

Yes ma'am. I love you too, momma.

I started this chapter by speaking about God's calling. I've learned that His calling is only sometimes noticed and often not acknowledged immediately. Sometimes, it takes hours; sometimes, it takes days, weeks, and even years. In this case, it took years. It took me reading those five words, "I love you too, momma."

Perhaps I wanted to hear: "You are my one and only momma!" I wish I could have him back to tell him it's ok to love two moms. I wish I could have him back to say that having two moms is a beautiful gift. I wish I could hold my son in my arms, comfort him, and allow that comfort to spill over into my soul. Yet, he isn't behind me. He isn't here. His ashes are all I have.

God is here, though, and He is whispering: Not Guilty. As I write this, I can feel my soul hole healing. I can feel my soul becoming whole. It will take some time.

I also know that the writing of this book is allowing me to heal. Writing allows me to step outside of my pain, shine a light on the addiction crisis in this country, and tell the stories of what it does to families and communities. No one emerges unscathed, but everyone can emerge forgiven.

Ask a Question

2021-05-13T08:31:00.002-04:00

Hope the Clown

Ask a question; that’s what I say. Go ahead, ask away.

Ask your question here or there.

Ask your question anywhere.

Ask, ask, ask, if you dare.

Can you think a think?

Can you drink a drink?

Yes, you can, man.

So, make a plan!

Ask that guy over there.

The guy with the white hair,

tripping up the stair.

I’m sure he’ll care!

You can ask him whether you are in or out of school.

Asking him is cool.

Send your question, don’t be slow.

Send your question - GO GO GO!

Send it in a letter.

Or, maybe email would be better.

Send it by plane.

Send it by train.

Send that question that you thunk.

You can send it in a trunk.

Whatever you do, send it now!

Send it. Send it. You know how.

Ask the question and see if he answers you.

Or maybe Jen Psaki will answer too.

You’ll never know if you don’t try.

Send the question, don’t be shy.

The question of the day, I say.

Every every every day.

The more you ask and try.

The more you question and ask why.

The more you’ll know about what’s going on.

Before your country is gone gone gone.

So, do it, my fellow American.

Do it so we can win!

Make him see!

We are still in charge of our country.

Ask him, ask him what they won’t.

Ask him, ask him what they don’t.

https://www.whitehouse.gov

2020-03-20T11:58:00.003-04:00

This is the introduction to the new book I'm working on: Sarah Pearl Patterson's Endless Summer. I'm reading it since it's not published yet. I'm asking kids to send me pictures to go with each chapter. Something to do while home from school. Anyway, if anyone want to send me a picture, send me an email at: hendersonbillandbetty@reagan.com

Lucy

2019-11-15T10:35:00.001-05:00

Lucy is tall and statuesque. I don't think she'd look good in a bikini, though. I can remember Lucy when I was a little girl fifty years ago. Even back then, she would not have sported a bikini with style. Back then, she was tattered and torn and had lost some of her statuesque beauty that astonishes people today.

I don't know why Lucy stayed around for so many years. God knows, there were times when Lucy looked like she would crumble and fall at any moment, but the old girl held on and was still there fifty years later when I decided to visit her.

I wonder if Lucy remembers me? I walked by her every summer day for years and often stopped to wonder about her. She'd look at me as if the wonderment went both ways. We'd stare at each other as time stood still, and my 7-year-old brain pondered Lucy's existence.

Today, when I visited Lucy, it dawned on me that she's much older than I, but looks much better since her facelift. In some ways, I think Lucy kind of mirrors my own life. Well, maybe I don't weigh quite as much as Lucy, but I feel like I've weathered the storms as she has. As we all can learn from our elders, I, too, learned a lot from Lucy.

Lucy loves the beach. I, too, love the beach. I love the beach when it's bright and sunny with calm, soothing surf. I also love it when the storm clouds roll in and roil the powerful waves into crashing sand pulverizers. The beach reminds me of my grandma. Thinking about grandma reminds me of Lucy.

Thus, I've come full circle to be reminded of grandma, the beach, and Lucy. When I first visited Lucy, grandma was holding my hand. Now, as a grandma, my age-spotted hand would be holding a young hand, and I'd explain like my grandma did, that Lucy is a great old girl who has weathered many storms.

I didn't have my grandma on this day. Well, maybe, I did. I think her spirit was with me as I gazed up at Lucy while the sun was shining so brightly that she practically glowed in the early morning hue. It brought tears to my eyes, reminiscing about Lucy and grandma. Two old gals who stood the test of time. I've joined the "old gals" club now. I'm glad I've made it this far. I'm just as happy to see that Lucy has too.

Lucy's story didn't start where she stands today. She took a long, tedious journey to end up where she is. Her journey required many helpers along the way. People stood by her and protected her as she made her arduous journey to where she stands now. Lucy's journey is how I think I am related to her. I've needed many people to stand by me on my often challenging trek through life. I, too, have stood by them.

My daughter and my sisters were with me on this day when we visited the old gal. My sisters and I drove down memory lane through all the towns that bordered Lucy's abode. We lived in many of them during our long hot summer romps back and forth to the beach with grandma. I told my daughter about how much Lucy was a part of our growing-up lives. It made me sad that my daughter, Jenn, could only look up at Lucy since using a wheelchair prevented her from enjoying all that Lucy had to offer.

Life's like that sometimes. Sometimes, we are participants, and sometimes we're spectators. Occasionally, we want to be participants when we can only be spectators. Often, we wait an entire lifetime to be a participant. Today, I could participate in the first time experience of touching this old gal who I could only gaze at as a child. Some fifty years ago, Lucy was protected behind a secure fence from curious children like myself.

When I came home from visiting Lucy, I brought a magnet with her picture on it for my granddaughter.

As I handed her the souvenir, she laughed at me. "Nana, she giggled, why did you bring me a picture of an elephant?"

"Well, Devyn," I said as I put her on my lap, "She's not just any old elephant. She's Lucy, the Margate Elephant, and she is older than me!"

"Older than you!" The surprise on her face made me laugh.

"Yes, older than me." I said, "I used to walk by her every day when I was a little girl about your age, but she didn't look this good back then."

"Lucy was made new again," I said. "We'll all be made new again someday."

"That's silly, Nana!" Laughed my granddaughter, "You can't be made new unless I paint you and get rid of the wrinkles."

I thought about that for a minute or two. Finally, I said, "No, Nana doesn't want to be painted, and I don't want to get rid of the wrinkles either."

"Why not?" Asked my little inquisitor.

"Because the wrinkles are what let me be part of the Old Gal's club with Lucy. If you're in the Old Gal's club, it means you're wise."

"Is Lucy wise?" My granddaughter's beautiful blue eyes pierced my heart at that moment.

"Yes, Devyn," I said, "Lucy is wise because she has weathered many storms, and she still stands tall and smiles because she was made new."

"I don't get it, Nana. You're not new like Lucy."

"That's right, Devyn, you don't get it yet," I answered, "but, you'll get it when you become a member of the Old Gal's club."

Someday When

2019-11-09T10:28:00.003-05:00

Someday When

Needles dripping with false promises fill the emptiness of so many woebegone lives. The up-in-flames hopefulness of the four-year-old fireman answering the walkie-talkie's frantic cry for help. The erased dreams of the six-year-old teacher with her classroom full of unruly stuffed animals. The avid sticker collector, the aspiring artist, the talented musician, the creative inventor, and the earnest detective - all expectantly waiting to "grow up" to reach their "someday when."

"Someday, when I'm a vet, I'll save all the horses in the world."

"Someday, when I'm a great gymnast, I'll be in the Olympics!"

"Someday, when I'm a baseball player, I'll be in the World Series!"

The little would-be teachers and firefighters wait and listen to their parents talk about someday when they go off to college, and they wonder when that "someday" will be theirs. Meanwhile, the parents encourage the hopeful children to pursue the possibility rainbow full of color and joy.

Never did any of the tots aspire to reach emptiness. Never did their parents wish for sleepless nights and sorrowful days. So, why did it come to this? Why did these confident strivers' "someday" become "no days?"

The somedays are long gone - replaced with a cruel vacuum that sucks the joy and depletes the soul. They once craved to feel again. Now, they strive not to feel the loss of someday when. They crave the tantalizing needle that seduces them into the deception of "not feeling," if only for a moment.

There's no feeling, hope, ambition, or daydreams that may come true. The needle claims another someday when. It tumbles another dreamer into a soulless nightmare.

And, again, we ask, "Why?" Why are so many young star-gazers slipping into oblivion and sliding into the abyss? Nirvana isn't found in a needle, we tell them. Yet, it still claims young hearts and minds with reckless abandon.

The destroyer. The ransacker. The demolisher home-wrecker spreads its lies and sows its seeds in young hearts everywhere. We cannot fight the exterminator if we don't acknowledge the source of its roots. The roots have gained a strong foothold in our decaying, godless society.

A fractured bone cannot offer support, nor can a fractured society support its most vulnerable persons. We are a country on the brink, and the root system is deeply embedded in division, strife, and discord. Fatherless families, run-down neighborhoods, black vs. white, rich vs. poor, liberal vs. conservative, woman vs. man, gay vs. straight, MAGA hat vs. non-MAGA hat, god-fearing vs. godless, gun-owning vs. non-gun owning, hopeful vs. hopeless.

Hopeful people look forward to the future, so they have children, love them, nurture them, and dream of someday. Hopeless people cry over a lost future. To the hopeless, the future is sown in tears.

As a parent who has lost a child to the hopeless promise of a needle, I still want the future of this country to be full of "someday when" and not sown in tears.

Gone Fishing

2019-10-30T09:32:00.000-04:00

I just made a "gone fishing" sign to hang up in my house. The problem is, I don't even own a fishing pole or a tackle box. I don't have a fishing license. A "gone fishing" sign would not pertain to anyone else in my family since no one in our household fishes. Devyn and I had plans to fish in the lake behind our house, but the HOA won't allow it. So, making a "gone fishing" sign for my wall seems futile, but I'm still making it.

I'm making the sign for myself, and I'm making some signs for the other women who go fishing with me. The truth is, I would fish morning, noon, and night if I could. The problem is, it's dark and dingy where I fish, and I prefer sunny places with lots of fresh air. I don't think there is any fresh air where I fish. Where I fish, there is a lady named Ace, who is often fishing before I even arrive. Ace is close to being a professional fisherman (or maybe it's fisherwoman). I don't know how Ace got her name, but she is an ace at fishing.

I, too, am becoming an ace at fishing. I catch big fish, little fish, medium fish, and even an occasional mermaid. Sometimes a bird flies by while I'm fishing and I kill it too! When people hear that I'm going fishing, they expect me to come home with dinner. I don't come back with dinner after fishing, but I usually come home with the money to buy dinner.

I don't fish in a lake. I don't fish in the gulf. I don't fish in a pond or stream. There is only bottled water where I fish. When I fish, my girlfriends often join me. I think they'd fish morning, noon, and night if they could. Jenn goes fishing with me, not because she likes to fish, but because I drag her along.

Once, when I was fishing, a buffalo ran by. I'm not kidding. Me, Ace, Iris, and some of the other ladies all tried to kill it. We all failed. Sixty-something Iris lassoed the beast, but he got away! Last night, me and two of my friends fished until after 11 pm. I never stay up past eight! However, I made an exception last night because all eight of us were singing Janis Joplin songs as we each went after the sharks, blow-fish, mermaid, and falcon.

"Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz…" Our voices enhanced the atmosphere of the dark, dingy place. I think everyone else that was there left very quickly when we got the stanza, "My friends all drive Porches…"

Everyone was drinking wine as we fished. I was the designated driver, so I didn't partake. Imagine, if you will, eight ladies drinking wine, fishing, and singing Kumbaya while doing the wave every time someone killed a fish!

Luckily, for the fish, they never really die. They swim by every few minutes - even after they've been "killed." The mermaid laughs at us over and over again. I won't say what some of the women call the mermaid, but I'm not sure she'd laugh if she heard it. Besides the mermaid, there's the octopus, the crabs, the crocodile, the darkness monster, and the falcon that all have nick-names, which I can't repeat.

One might wonder why so many women love to fish. An occasional man might wander over to us, but the men usually are outnumbered at our fishing hole, or should I say table?

That's right; it's a fishing table. Our table is not for the faint of heart. We take our fishing seriously - even when we are drinking wine. Whenever we put our sights on a fish, mermaid, crab, octopus, darkness monster, or bird, it takes a lot to kill one of them! Five cents can quickly add up to five dollars or more. Of course, the amount you lose is directly related to the amount you bet. There can only be one big winner at a time at the fish table. Of course, everyone can shoot and kill the smaller fishes too, but to win the big bucks, you have to kill the larger images, such as the laughing mermaid. When she dies, she pays out big. It might take eight of us shooting her for five minutes, but eventually, she explodes for one lucky fisherwoman who can win more than thirty dollars on a five-cent bet.

Sometimes my family tells me that I'm addicted to fishing, which is a form of gambling. That might be true, but I could stop if I wanted to. For instance, I have gone three days in a row now without dragging poor Jenn to the fish table.

True, my button-pushing hand is twitching a bit, but it is not because I miss killing the mermaid. What I do miss is the comradery of sitting around a table with a bunch of ladies singing and doing the wave to celebrate each victory. Wouldn't it be nice if the world was like our fish table? Wouldn't it be nice if everyone celebrated everyone else's victories even though their success means that you didn't win this time? The last time we fished, after signing Kumbaya, Vicki started crying. She was crying because she missed her mom, who had just passed away and would often join Vicki at the fishing table. My two friends, who accompanied me, are mother and daughter, and they both hugged and comforted Vicki. That's what gone fishing means to me. It means getting together with a bunch of friends and laughing, sharing, singing, and celebrating little victories.

Survivor

2019-10-18T10:04:00.001-04:00

If you're reading this, you're a survivor. When someone tells us they're a "survivor," it's natural to wonder what that individual survived. Often, the individual will say, "I'm a survivor of…," and they fill in the blank. Then, we don't have to guess, but it doesn't mean that we better understand what "survivor" means for each person. In reality, we are all survivors.

Life is a survival sport. It's just how we participate in the game and survive. We can be angry, joyful, grateful, triumphant, or sad survivors. Ultimately, the way we choose to survive is what people will remember.

Today, I read a post on the brain aneurysm survivors' website. The post said, "A brain aneurysm changed my life by ____________________." I read the post and asked my daughter, Jenn, how she would fill in that blank. Jenn said, "Giving me a new appreciation for every moment of every day and every breath I take that doesn't require a breathing tube!" That's a typical response for Jenn, who always looks at her post-aneurysm life with a positive attitude and humor.

It didn't occur to me that I should also answer the question since I, too, had a brain aneurysm. I, too, am a survivor. I am a survivor of a brain aneurysm, a stroke, and heart stents. I am a survivor of a parent that has lost a child. I am a survivor of so many things that I forget what I've survived!

I want to say that I am always a grateful survivor, but that wouldn't be true. I am not always appreciative, joyful, or triumphant. Often, I'm angry and sad. Sometimes, I mourn all that I have lost. Sometimes, I get mad because my brain does not function like it used to.

I could write a lot about sadness. My tears could salt many pages of loss - enough to fill an ocean. God knows there are times when I let the ocean waves of emotions wash over me and threaten to crush me into the rocks. I could easily allow myself to be tossed and thrown by the waves. I could drown in the sorrow.

Thankfully, despair is not the spirit God has allowed to take root in my soul. If depression gained a foothold, the root system would be massive. Instead, I'll body-surf the waves and say, "I've survived this far!"

Craft Night

2019-10-11T10:39:00.001-04:00

I always said I wasn’t going to move away from my beloved farm. Who would want to leave two adorable miniature donkeys that had no interest in becoming a cart-pulling duo and thought that a halter meant, “kick up your heals and run”? Or, the six chickens that laid more than eggs on our front porch? Then, of course, there were the four roosters that insisted the sun came up at 4 AM every day. Our home had the farmhouse charm of plaster walls that hated nails, eroding pipes, and an outdated kitchen and bathroom that I just had to remodel all by myself. Sure, the five acres required Bill to mow every weekend, and the barn needed rewiring before the malfunctioning stall fans started a fire, but that’s all part of farm living.

Speaking of fires, we were always burning something at the farm, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. There was that time that Katie pulled the plumbing off the barn wall while trying to put out the tractor fire, but that’s another story. Along the fire theme, there was the time the house almost burned down due to faulty electric in the den. Luckily, Bill got Lulu out and put out the fire before it spread. Some of our friends had the audacity to suggest we should have let the house burn to the ground! Then, of course, there were the numerous bonfires that were responsible for Bill’s singed eyebrows. I also miss the sight of teenagers jumping through the blaze during one of my daughter’s epic parties.

There are many things I miss about the farm: the quiet of the pasture, watching the horses galloping, milking the goats. Well, maybe I don’t miss the time the goat nailed me in my forehead during that one little milking incident. Thankfully, I didn’t have to go to the hospital despite the fact I was knocked out and lying facedown in the barn for a short time. I did have a goat hoof-print on my forehead for a week, but I survived. Even though we had many near misses, like the time the saddle went sideways while Bill was riding the horse, I still miss the farm.

Moving was never on my radar. Living on the farm gave me the satisfaction of practicing veterinary medicine without the hassle of eight years of schooling. In high school, I took Latin so that I could become a veterinarian. It wasn’t in the cards for me to pursue that dream, but somehow, I convinced Bill that farming was the next best thing. So, I doctored my animal charges. I became the queen of birthing goats (even breach). I cured colic in horses and saved many a goat from dysentery. Sure, we did have a small pet cemetery in our pasture, but that wasn’t because my vet skills were lacking.

Anyway, the time finally came when Bill announced, “We need to move!”

“What!” I exclaimed, “I just finished soaking the kitchen hardware in vinegar, and the last pallet just went up in the bathroom! We can’t move now, the kitchen backsplash isn’t done, and I haven’t rewired the electric in the dining room!”

“I’m tired of spending my weekends mowing!” Bill whined. “The farm is not a good place for Jenn in the wheelchair, and Devyn is tired of playing with the chickens.”

So, after that heated exchange, I finally relented and agreed to look at houses in a neighborhood. My enthusiasm for moving was underwhelming. I continued to paint the kitchen cabinets and lookup goat cheese recipes as if I’d always be on the farm. I never entertained the thought that I was selfish. It seemed I was the only member of our family that loved farm living. Even Devyn’s rooster, RooRoo, couldn’t keep her from begging me to look for a house where there’d be real friends to play with.

The house hunting brought us to a lovely neighborhood just a couple of miles from the farm. I tried to picture myself on a cookie-cutter block with houses that all had the same paint color, but moving into such a place would be a tough pill for me to swallow! I guess it was the pool and the pickleball courts that convinced me I could consider the move. When Jenn saw the pool and Devyn saw the kids playing, and I saw the looks on their faces, I knew my farm days were numbered.

The two-story home that we set our sights on had five bedrooms and looked out over a “lake” (it’s more like a pond). Unfortunately, the house had a sold sign out front. Jenn and I started visiting the neighborhood every day in search of the perfect home. Then, one day, as luck would have it, the “sold” sign in front of the two-story house was missing. I inquired at the office about the house, and I was told the deal fell through. The salesman told me we could buy the house if we sold our house over the weekend.

“Okay.” I said with conviction, “We’ll get it sold.”

We sold the farm that weekend. Just like that, we got an offer from the third couple that looked at our house. I know it was because the remodeled kitchen and the pallet bathroom looked so good!

Now, we live in that two-story house overlooking the “lake.” Now, I have received at least 20 letters from the HOA (about once a month) addressing the wagon wheel I put in the front yard, the kayaks in the back yard, and other various infractions concerning our parking habits. All-in-all, the neighborhood has been a good thing for the family. Jenn loves the pool. Bill is closer to work, and it only takes him about an hour to mow the lawn. Devyn’s friends don’t have feathers, and I have organized a pickleball group. But, perhaps the most surprising change of all is that I am knitting on craft night! Yes, it’s true, I went from milking goats to knitting half a potholder (which has only taken me eight months). Maybe it will be done in time for me to give it to Bill for Christmas next year.

I could end this story by saying how sad I am that I left the farm, but that would not be true. The truth is, I have discovered that, despite the HOA, this neighborhood is made up of wonderful people. Craft night at the clubhouse is just code for “get together and laugh with friends.” Do we ever laugh! Granted, my potholder is the brunt of many of the jokes, but that’s okay. The friendships we’ve formed in our new neighborhood are priceless. They are worth far more than a few fresh eggs. I never thought I would say this, but I wouldn’t trade our craft night for all the donkeys and chickens in the world!

Shim and Hir

2019-01-25T16:13:00.001-05:00

I need some clarification. In this politically correct climate, I can no longer say him; instead, I must say "shim." Ze, hir, and hirs are all atwitter in this land of hither and thither. I'm unsure, but I think she and he are no longer. Instead, I should say they or maybe you. Can I say you, or is it ewe? It can't be ewe since that would be a female sheep.

I tried to figure out what was happening in our upside-down world. I found this simple explanation: sexuality (whom you go to bed with) and gender (who you go to bed as) are now flexible.

Anyway, in light of the new gender-neutral grammar rules, I have written a children's story to explain this confusing new way of looking at the world and the people in it. I didn't use people, though. I used sheep to stick with the ewe theme.

Shim and Hir

Once upon a time, a ewe didn't know she was a she.

So, their friend, who was a ram, said, "Ewe, you can call yourself 'shim' since you don't know if you are she or him." "Shim would make you neither or neither (however you want to say it)."

"Why, that's a great idea!" Said the ewe who didn't know she was a she.

Not long after the ewe became Shim, they and the ram talked for a long time about why the ram had to be a him. So, the ram finally decided not to identify as him and to call theirself "hir."

Over time, Shim and Hir developed a close friendship. Shim and Hir played sheep games every day. Then, one day, ze became upset with each other when Shim wanted to play "baby ewe," and Hir wanted to play "horn bashing."

Shim got mad at Hir and said, "I'm not playing horn bashing with you because I don't have horns!"

Hir retorted, "You are really acting like a ewe!"

When Hir called Shim a ewe, it made Shim so mad that they decided to be friends with Hir no longer. It came to pass that ze went their separate ways to find new friends with whom ze could identify.

The End.

Two Promises

2018-04-04T08:40:00.004-04:00

Three years ago, the world crashed around our family when our eldest daughter suffered a life-threatening brain aneurysm and stroke. While she was on a respirator at the hospital, my husband and I took a short respite from round-the-clock sentry duty to attend the wedding of our friend's daughter.

The outside wedding was in the afternoon in Florida. The afternoon weather in Florida is known to be unpredictable. Often, it rains with little warning. This afternoon was typical for Florida.

The rain started with a trickle and soon became a deluge threatening to move the ceremony inside. All the guests were seeking refuge under a nearby park shelter.

I stood with a friend from the church as we waited out the storm. Denise and I engaged in small talk about the weather, and we wondered aloud if the ceremony would be moved. As we talked, we each seemed preoccupied. The gloomy weather matched our private gloom, and the weather conversation masked the emotional storms we were each facing.

The awkwardness of our conversation was broken by the easing of the storm as the rain began to subside. It wasn't long before it cleared up, and the sun made a feeble attempt at shining.

"Maybe they will be able to have the ceremony outside after all," I told Denise. "We should both pray that God will send us a rainbow!"

I didn't need to elaborate. Denise knew what I was saying. It was no secret that we each needed soul calming. Denise's husband and my daughter were both facing an uncertain future. Miguel, Denise's husband, had just been diagnosed with aggressive cancer. Jenn, my daughter, was not breathing independently or responding to anyone.

After the chairs had been dried off and the guests seated, the ceremony began without a hitch. The bride and groom stood under a huge banyan tree as mist from the rain shrouded them. It was a beautiful scene. From where I sat, I could gaze just above the tree into the cloudy sky. The clouds hung so low that I was sure we'd be soaked at any moment. Selfishly, I prayed for a rainbow before the sky opened up again.

No rainbow appeared.

It wasn't long before my eyes began to water, and I couldn't stop my salty raindrops. My tears weren't tears of joy for the bride and groom. They were tears of despair. I desperately wanted God to answer my prayer! I halfheartedly watched the ceremony as my mind drifted to my daughter's hospital bed.

As I stood to leave, I glanced one more time at the sliver of the sky over the banyan tree. It was at that instant that the rainbow came into view. I was momentarily overwhelmed by the sight of it. My husband had to grab my arm to keep me from falling over.

"You okay?" He asked nervously.

"Do you see it!" I pointed to the sky.

"What?" He asked.

"The rainbow!" I said as raindrops started pelting us.

My husband grabbed my arm and started hurrying me toward the shelter.

"I didn't see any rainbow." He said as we reached the shelter.

"Well, I did!" I said stubbornly. "I prayed for the rainbow, and I saw it! I know that Jenn will be okay because God sent it!"

Later, at the reception, Denise and Miguel were tearing up the dance floor. To look at them, you'd never know that Miguel had just received devastating news about his health. I kicked off my shoes, grabbed my husband, and joined them on the dance floor. Soon, we were all dancing as if we had no care in the world.

As the crowd gathered on the dance floor, I danced close to Denise. Over the din of the party, I asked her if she saw the rainbow. Denise smiled at me, grabbed my hand, and led me over to the edge of the dance floor where we wouldn't be knocked over by the swaying mob.

"Yes, Betty, but there wasn't just one - there were two rainbows!" She laughed.

"You're kidding!" I yelled over the music.

"No!" She yelled back. "I'm not kidding. It was a double rainbow! It was only there for a minute, but I saw it!"

Some might say that God doesn't exist. Some might say that He doesn't make or keep promises. Some might even say that God has nothing to do with rainbows. I know that God answered two prayers that day with two promises.

God chose to color Denise's and my grief. When He sent that double rainbow, He brightened our darkest hour. God knows when and how to answer prayer. Sometimes He whispers. Sometimes He shouts. Sometimes He's silent, and sometimes He makes us open our eyes to the rainbow's promise.

God never promised a life without pain or sorrow. God never promised the sun without rain, but He did promise strength for the day, comfort for the tears, and light for the way. The day of two rainbows was when God promised something good would always come from the storms of life.

God gave my daughter a new life. It isn't the life we wanted for her or one she would have chosen for herself. She could be miserable, but she is grateful for the blessing of each new day and thankful that she can live a full life, even from a wheelchair.

God gave Denise and Miguel three more happy years together: Three more years with their family and friends and three more years of dancing.

It is not always easy to be thankful. Sometimes, we don't want to thank God! We are commanded to give thanks IN all circumstances - not FOR all circumstances.

I went to my friend's wedding feeling less than thankful. I left the wedding with a promise of God's faithfulness. I was reminded that a spirit of thankfulness is something we must always keep close to our hearts. We learn life lessons when our hearts are thankful - especially in tough times.

As a mother of five children, there are many days I don't feel thankful. I don't feel thankful when my patience is stretched thin over a new catastrophe in one of my children's lives. While I didn't feel grateful when I lost my son to a fentanyl overdose, I realized that his tragedy propelled me to do my part to help save someone else's child. Thankfulness isn't always something we feel. It's something we must practice. So, on Mother's Day, I urge all moms to thank God for His many blessings and remember his promises.

Indomitable Will

2017-06-14T21:41:00.005-04:00

Creak, scrape, creak, scrape; the repetitive sound goes down the florescent-lit hallway as the walker slowly advances over the spit-polished hospital floor. The movement is slow but steady as each step is carefully maneuvered to keep the walker from zigzagging off course. The final destination is about 15 feet away - a meandering tortoise might reach the door quicker. Still, nothing will get in the way of Jenn's determination. She WILL walk into this room even if it takes her all day! Creak, scrape, creak, scrape; almost there! The smile on her face belies the struggle it takes to make this journey.

With each creak and scrape, I film the slow progress, and my heart feels like it might burst with joy. I know this struggle all too well. I know how long it took to get here to this day, this hour...this moment.

Jenn's struggle started almost two years ago. No one ever thought the day would come when she pushed her walker down the hall. Indeed, no one thought it would be this soon! Her smile lights up her entire face: creak, scrape, creak, scrape.

On she goes. Her braced leg has a mind of its own; wayward and helter-skelter, it tries to veer off course. Jenn doesn't give in. Jenn doesn't give up. Jenn doesn't allow her impetuous leg to rue the day. This day is exceptional!

The door to his room is just ahead. He doesn't know Jenn is coming. If he hears her, he probably suspects it's just one of the many mechanical assistant machines almost everyone in this hospital wing uses. He would have no reason to suspect that the person operating the contraption was anyone of any specific interest.

I move to the door of his room. I'm shaking. The tears are flowing now - I can't help it. I'm about to open the door to Gavin's room. Courageous Gavin. Fearless Gavin. Audacious Gavin. Gavin the brave!

There's no describing Gavin - Just like there's no describing Jenn. God found a way to put these two indomitable spirits together in this cosmos. Together, they each faced insurmountable odds and, together, each triumphed.

Gavin was Jenn's first-grade student - her favorite (she always reminds me). He was born with Cerebral Palsy and faced many obstacles in his young life. Jenn was chosen as his teacher because of her unique way with children who face challenging situations. I have no doubt that God's mighty hand was at work when Gavin became her special charge.

Although Gavin is now nine, he has kept in touch with Jenn for years. Jenn taught with Gavin's grandmother, and he often visited Jenn in her room before and after school. When Jenn suffered her brain aneurysm, Gavin frequently came to the hospital. He always told me that someday he and Mrs. "P" would do physical therapy together.

There were days when we had doctors tell us that Jenn's prognosis was bleak - but Gavin the brave would always tell me that Mrs. "P" would get better and walk again someday. He never wavered in his belief that he would one day walk side by side with his teacher.

Over this past year, Gavin has had some major surgeries. We learned Gavin was going to St. Joseph's Hospital in Tampa for his most recent surgery. Since Jenn goes to Tampa General for her outpatient therapy, I called Gavin's grandma. I asked her if we could stop and see Gavin at St. Joseph's on Monday. We were already on the road, and I expected that we could visit Gavin after Jenn was done with her therapy.

Imagine my surprise when Gavin's grandma told me he had been transferred to Tampa General Children's wing for therapy! Jenn was excited to learn Gavin was next door to the building where she does her treatment! Not only that, but Jenn had put on her "team Gavin" tee shirt that morning!

It's a good thing that I called Gavin's grandma on Monday because, in true Gavin fashion, he was already amazing all the doctors at Tampa General with his determination and grit. They were already discussing an early release since Gavin had made tremendous progress. This last surgery was very serious because it involved his spine. He wasn't expected to walk for at least three weeks. However, on the day of his surgery, he stood. The day after his surgery, he walked.

Now, this day, this hour, this moment has come. I open the door. Gavin's face lights up as Jenn appears in his doorway. She gradually makes her way step by step into his room. Gavin sits up. Slowly, painfully he moves to place both feet on the floor. Then, taking his father's hand, Gavin stands.

Deliberately, Gavin places one foot in front of the other and haltingly walks over to his teacher. Each of them has walked a path that few of us will ever have the privilege to experience. They have traversed rugged terrain not meant for the faint of heart. Many people grow weary from life's struggles, but Gavin and Jenn never become disheartened. Jenn's favorite word is "perfect," and Gavin's famous saying is "Never give up." They are the perfect "never give up" team. I've learned from them that facing trials is about the fight in your heart and the heart in your fight. As Gandhi so aptly put it: Strength does not come from physical capacity but from an indomitable will.

Slippers

2016-04-12T08:34:00.001-04:00

I opened my top drawer this morning to find three pairs of ugly tread socks staring up at me. No regular socks. No underwear. No bras. Only these reminders of two hellacious weeks in a hospital bed listening to the constant presence of the beep...beep...beeping machine reminding me that my broken heart was at least beating for now.

“Why is my underwear not in here?” I thought to myself. Then, I answered my question, “Because you’re too sick to do your laundry!”

“Damn slippers!” I shouted as I slammed the dresser drawer.

Anger is my constant companion these days. I can’t say that I was furious at the slipper socks. I might not have even been infuriated that I couldn’t do laundry. I hate doing laundry, after all.

No, the anger isn’t at the slippers. It’s at the slipping. It’s at the slipping away of my life as I knew it. It’s at the slipping away of my daughter’s life as she knew it. The anger is deep. It is a level five on a river of rapids that ram helmeted thrill-seekers into jagged rocks at will.

Slippers keep you from slipping, but I’m not slipping. I’m tumbling. I could put the hospital slippers on, yet I have to wonder if they will protect me from the fall of my life? When your life is tumbling and falling, what do you do? Do you slam drawers and curse at inanimate objects? I do. I find myself yelling at dishes that I can’t pick up to put away because they are too heavy. I find myself cursing the bed sheets for not putting themselves on the bed. I scream at the vacuum because it is not an iRobot Roomba on autopilot that knows the carpet needs cleaning.

Screaming at inanimate objects is uncomplicated. They never yell back at you or argue. No matter what I say to the dreaded tread socks, they sit silently in the drawer, taking my abuse. The dishes do nothing unless I throw them. The vacuum remains still.

Screaming at people isn’t as trouble-free. I’ve learned the hard way that bubbling anger should never boil over onto spouses, children or anyone else that happens to be in the line of fire.

I know that anger breeds indiscriminately. If I’m not careful, anger bunnies will hop all over this house, competing with the dust bunnies I cannot vacuum. How does one herd rabbits? I could google it. I could put on my tread socks and chase the anger, but it might strain my heart too much.

I could write about my anger, but that would give life to it. Wait a minute; I am writing about it. I am angry that my life has been taken from me. I am angry that Jennifer, my beautiful daughter, struggles to regain her life. I am angry! I am angry that I cannot pick up Jennifer’s daughter, my granddaughter, and hold her like I used to.

I am even more outraged that Jennifer cannot pick up her daughter because she is paralyzed on her left side. The thought of Jennifer’s daily struggles breeds my anger bunnies to the point where I cannot escape their floppy-eared presence and thumping feet...thump thumping in my brain. I see them. I feel them. I cry over them.

Should I feed them? Should I feed the anger bunnies? Should I give them more and more fodder by writing about them? No.

I could give in to the anger. I could succumb to the slipping. I could wear hospital slippers as a constant reminder of my broken heart. I could continue to yell at everything that reminds me of what used to be. I could yell at everyone who reminds me of what I cannot do. I could grieve regularly, but what would that accomplish?

Yes, I’ve lost a lot, but what have I gained besides three pairs of hospital slippers? I have gained a new perspective on life. When I’m not angry, I’m grateful and even hopeful. When I’m not chasing anger bunnies, I’m pursuing a bright future full of cute little donkeys that make me smile.

I have lost so much. Jennifer has lost so much. There is no escaping that fact. Dwelling on that fact could cause me to spend the rest of my days trying to herd anger bunnies. I don’t know, but I’m guessing that herding rabbits is futile, even if you’re wearing non-slip slippers.

Bud

2015-10-09T10:02:00.002-04:00

His greeting was always the same, “Hey, Little Bit,” followed by a big bear hug. I guess I was “little bit” to him, standing five feet tall (on tippy toes) next to his six feet. I thought of him more like a dad than a friend. He became such an intricate part of our family that the kids thought of him as Grandpa Bud.

We could always count on Grandpa Bud to be in the cheering section of every sporting event for each of our kids (even though he didn’t know a lick about sports). Grandma Carol, on the other hand, loves sports and made valiant efforts to instill a love of sports in Grandpa Bud. She claims she gave up after Bud asked her one day while watching an NFL football game, how many of the guys had last names of “Riddell” (the helmet manufacturer).

Bud entered our lives when our kids were little and remained with us as our family grew and grew with foster and adoptive children. It fits that our children were in his and Carol’s wedding as flower girls and ring bearers (God knows we had enough kids to make up two bridal parties!). The circle of life came full circle when Bud and Carol represented the grandparents at our daughter’s wedding.

He always made each of our kids feel special and loved. He was a man of few words, but he never missed an opportunity to speak encouragement at the dance recital or the graduation. His gentle kindness won the trust of Nurjahan, our little girl from Bangladesh, who was terribly burned by acid. In her culture, it was forbidden to be alone in a room with a man who was not a relative. Over time, she would sit on Grandpa Bud’s lap while he read her stories.

If I were asked to come up with one word to describe Bud, it would be gentle. He was always gentle and kind. I never heard him raise his voice or utter a mean word to anyone. He was also fun.

For a man his age, he was up for anything. We’ve been on camping trips, hiking in mountains, tubing, and canoeing. I’ll never forget the time he was canoeing with my daughter, Jennifer, and the canoe tipped. Carol and I were not very compassionate as we laughed our heads off! Then, we realized Bud couldn’t swim, and his hat and hearing aids were floating down the river! All was not lost, though, and we managed to rescue Bud and his belongings.

I have so many beautiful memories of Bud. I feel so blessed to have had him and Carol in our lives all these years. He lived a good, honorable life. He loved his country and served in the military in WWII. When he wore his WWII veteran hat, he was often approached by strangers that just took the time to say, “thank you.” I want to take the time to say, “thank you.” Thank you, Bud, for the joy you brought into our lives. Thank you for your loving ways. Thank you for always being there for my family. Thank you for teaching me that gentleness and kindness are a sign of great strength of character. You will be greatly missed and always treasured.

Someday, I hope to hear that greeting again, “Hey, Little Bit!” Until then, rest in God’s arms, my dear friend.

In Loving Memory
Bud Treiber
April 1, 1922 - October 8, 2015 

Bathing Soup and Sun Scream

2015-09-13T06:10:00.004-04:00

Something magical happens when “grandma” appears in your name. Actually, in my case, the name is “Nana”. To some, nana conjures up images of an old lady sitting in a rocking chair reading books and singing to a content toddler in her lap. Not this Nana! This Nana is very busy indeed. There are the few times when a good book and a comfy rocking chair serve their purpose for a few seconds. But when three-year-old Devyn is in the house, we’re more likely to be rocking and rolling than rocking and dozing.

Magically, Nana’s knee finds a way to keep up the pace. My energy level gets a boost out of nowhere and I can Nay Nay and Whip my way into a frenzy dancing to Janis Joplin on the old record player. There is no slide too tall nor fort too low for Nana. The super-human strength even holds up when Devyn suddenly has to ride on Nana’s shoulders during the longest hike into the pasture to find the elusive crowing rooster.

What is it about being a Nana that brings out this “magical” vigor? I think it is a mixture of bathing soup and sun scream. Every time Devyn and I are together we laugh. We laugh our way through Miss Devyn’s Whip and Nay Nay dance lessons. We laugh as we sail over rough seas in our homemade couch yacht. We laugh at bubble bath beards and edible cow pies (Devyn’s favorite imaginary snack). There is nothing too crazy for Nana and Devyn: between finding the hippopotamus hiding in the closet to dragging the giraffe out from under the bed, we laugh our way through the day.

When I was a kid, I used to spend summers at the Jersey Shore in Atlantic City with my grandmother. We’d spend hours on the beach making elaborate drip castles - just me and grandma. It seemed that time stood still during those hours that we let the sand drip off our fingers creating beautiful castles for imaginary princes and princesses. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we just dripped our castle - no words necessary.

There are days I wish that I could gather up those grains of sand and turn them into seconds. If I did, I bet I would have enough seconds to fill up another lifetime with my grandma. She didn’t watch the clock worrying that we were frittering away our time. Even though she had arthritic fingers, she never once told me that we needed to stop building drip castles. She knew the secret of grandma strength - laugh, dream, imagine and love.

Today, I was getting Devyn ready for a day at the beach with Nana. As we were gathering up our pails and shovels for our drip castles, Devyn reminded me that she needed to get her bathing soup on and that I need to pack the sun scream. I laughed.

Fractured

2015-09-08T13:04:00.002-04:00

Perhaps the most convincing evidence of the moral decay of our country is the abhorrent practice of selling baby body parts by Planned Parenthood. The recent videos released by The Center for Medical Progress spotlight the callousness by which Planned Parenthood's representatives describe the procurement and distribution processes as though they are describing collecting and retailing auto parts.

As a nation, we have a moral obligation to awaken from our self-induced stupor, shake off the inertia, and do something to stop this atrocity. We are becoming a nation enslaved by the radical few espousing all things disparate to Judeo-Christian values.

Americans can only look so far into our history to find one of the radical few. Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, is a perfect example of a fervent radical who pushed her beliefs on our society. She radically restructured the conscience of this nation while the majority of the citizenry slumbered.

Margaret Sanger enthusiastically embraced eugenics. She referred to blacks as "human weeds" and "reckless breeders" and espoused racial purification. In her writings, she frequently stated that she wanted to "protect society against the propagation and increase of the unfit." She was diabolical in her pursuit of eradicating "bad stocks" (poor, minorities, physically and mentally challenged). Today she is hailed as a great women's rights advocate.

I wonder how advocating for human rights has warped into the grotesque practice of harvesting and selling baby body parts? We hear time and time again from supporters of Planned Parenthood how the rights of the mother are paramount to the rights of the unborn child. They choose to overlook overwhelming evidence of Planned Parenthood's illegal practices. Meanwhile, most Americans who do not support these appalling practices remain silent.

So, how did it happen? How did a great nation that believes in God, liberty, and the inalienable rights of citizens of all ages become a nation dominated by the radical few? I'll tell you how - divide and conquer. Margaret Sanger knew this. She knew she could never convince our great nation to engage in eugenics, so she split us into groups of men and women. Then, she appealed to women and made birth control an issue of "rights." She convinced women (predominantly minority women) that it was their "right" to end their child's life. Absurd, isn't it?

Enemies of America fully understand the divide and conquer strategy. They know that a fractured society will collapse. That is what is happening to our country. We are fracturing into a million pieces - and selling the pieces of our babies! What is wrong with us?

If we don't wake up and stand up for what America has always been - a great free nation founded on Judeo-Christian beliefs - then what will we become?

The Constitution of the United States starts with the phrase, "We the People" - not "We the fractured." When Benjamin Franklin was leaving the constitutional convention, he was asked by a woman what the outcome of our Constitution would be. He replied, "A republic, madam. If you can keep it."

Can we?

Lost and Found

2015-08-03T09:31:00.000-04:00

God made me who I am. I am a radical thinker. I am a dreamer. I am a visionary. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am compassionate. I am fiercely loyal. I am a fighter. I am a voice for the voiceless. I am stubborn. I am mean. I am proud. I am angry. I am lost. I am found; lost again and found again. Found and lost. Lost and found.... a vicious cycle.

I’m on a vicious cycle.

I’m in a vicious cycle.

Lost in the world: Found at home....

Home is where the heart is, after all. Home is where the soul belongs. Home is where it all starts and where it all ends. Lost can be many places, it’s really hard when lost is at home. Found can be many places but it’s great when it’s at home. Found is where I need to be. I need to be found. I cannot be lost anymore. God, find me - please. Find me and never lose me again. I am too tired to be lost. I am too lonely to be lost. I am too afraid to be lost. I am too cool to be lost. I am too smart to be lost. I am too....What? Too far into a journey? Too far down the beaten path? Too far gone?

Journeys have a beginning and an end. This journey has been a great adventure from beginning to end. God has guided me - even when I was lost and I didn’t know he was there for me, like now. He always led the way and sometimes I followed and sometimes I didn’t. I caught up later. He let me venture off, but he always came after me. He always called me back. Is he calling me back now? Is he telling me to follow him? Am I venturing off or am I following? Such a perplexing question - am I lost or found?

All I ask, God is that you make this path, this journey, this next step clear to me. I need to know that I am following and not lost in some chasm that is deep and dark and leads to destruction. How do I know, God? How do I trust that my path is right with you? That is all that matters. Don’t lose me again, God. I can’t bear to be lost anymore. Please find me. Find me and put me where I belong. Help me to find “it”. I’ve been chasing “it” my entire life. I lost “it” when I was a kid. I don’t know if I lost “it” or if “it” was taken from me, but either way “it” left me and I’ve been looking for “it” ever since. So, if you know where “it” is and if you know what “it” is, please help me find “it”. Please help me to know “it” again and to never lose “it”.

What is it? Is it peace? Yes. It is peace. It’s been out of my soul and out of my heart on some wild adventure for over 40 years. It stops in occasionally, but it never stays for long. It is like the wind, blowing on a wayward breeze. It is a whisper in the darkness that calls my name as the shadow passes. It is a tease: Come here and you’ll find me. Okay, I say. And I go. I go to West Virginia. Hah! It vanishes. Come here and you’ll find me...the shadow beckons. Okay, I say. And I go to NJ. Hah! It vanishes again. Come here and you’ll find me, the voice says in the wind. Okay, I say. And I go. I go to Florida. Hah! It hides. It plays hide a seek with me over and over again. It hides from me at work and at home. It hides in hospital rooms. It plays lost and found with me for years and years. And I let it hide. I let it stay hidden. I seek, but I don’t find. It knows where to hide.

Where do I find it? I know, of course. It is inside of me. It is right there hiding but, in order to find it, I have to look inside. I don’t want to look inside. There are dark things in there. There are things that I’d have to look behind to find it. I’d have to move abuse out of the way. Then, of course, there’s shame in the great big over-sized box. I don’t know that I can move shame. There’s sadness in the corner - it’s stuck there. So many boxes - how could I ever find it? The darkness is great and I don’t have a flashlight. Besides, the negative box is enormous! Next to the negative box is the tiny and very fragile hurting box. The hurting box just doesn’t want to be moved. I bet it is hiding behind that box. Of all the boxes, the hurting box, although small and fragile, is the heaviest. I don’t think I can ever move that box.

I’d have to open the hurting box and take some of the things out of it in order to move it. I’d have to take sorrow out. Anger is in there too. So is doubt. The hurting box has lots of hurtful words in it. It holds lots of regret. The hurting box holds six babies. I can’t take them out. As much as I want to take them out and hold them and mother them and love them, I can’t. They’ve been tucked away in the hurting box for many years. They are what makes that box so fragile. If I were it, I’d hide behind that box.

So, here I am. Chasing it and knowing that it lies right there. It is within my reach if I decide to find it. I cannot find it without moving the boxes. I cannot move the boxes without help. I cannot find help without asking. So, I’m asking. I’m begging. I’m pleading...God help me. God help me to move the boxes because I cannot move them myself. Better yet, God, pick up the boxes and move them for me. Show me where “it” is and help me to keep “it”.

Philippians 4:6-7
“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

John 14:27
“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

GodSpeak

2015-07-20T10:05:00.001-04:00

I tell my children that taking a stand for what you believe in is essential despite the consequences. I believe God puts certain longings in our hearts that we must pay special attention to. Sometimes, those longings are easy to spot and easy to heed. Other times, the message is complex and requires great strength of character to take on.

Throughout the Bible, God calls his people to take on seemingly insurmountable obstacles - David and Goliath, Moses parting the red sea, Noah and the ark, Jonah in the belly of the whale, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego thrown in the fire. Mary was asked to bear a child even though she was unwed.

All of these stories have two things in common. The first is that these mere mortals could not accomplish any of these tasks without God's divine intervention. The second is that they all said, "Yes." Jonah had to be helped to say yes, but he eventually came around and went on to follow God's calling.

Each of these stories was pertinent to the times - the obstacles were seen as insurmountable and relevant to the day. For instance, an unwed pregnant mother would not appear to be a considerable obstacle today. Yet, even today, we face obstacles that still test our faith and call us to rely on God to see us through. Christians are being thrown into the proverbial fire of our time when we stand on our faith against abortion.

I'm sure I will be thrown into the fire for writing this piece - but I must write it because I feel called to do so.

I prayed long and hard about what to say and how to say it. I asked God to direct my words. I asked God to speak through me to whoever needs to hear what I will say. This story will reach the people it needs to reach and connect with the people it needs to touch.

This past week there was a disturbing news story all over the television and the internet concerning the selling of unborn babies' body parts. I could use the word fetus - as if that is somehow more palatable, but the pieces are human and fully developed. In a humane world, those parts would be described as human and not fetal (like a fetal pig, for instance). In any case, I forced myself to watch the gruesome video of the woman peddling body parts over her fancy dinner as if they were auto parts. The unconscionable lack of emotion and indifference for what she was trafficking was genuinely mind-boggling and completely indefensible. Watching that video made me cry out to God and beg Him to guide me to speak out against this wickedness.

God's timing is perfect, isn't it? I don't believe in coincidences. So, I know that opening my grandmother's old jewelry box just a few days after I cried out to Him was His way of answering me. Today, when I opened the jewelry box to look for a necklace, the mirror fell off the inside of the box as it has been prone to do because it's so old. As the mirror fell, it revealed an ultrasound I had placed in the box 26 years ago. It was dated February 6, 1989.

I remember that ultrasound because I was so excited to hear my baby's heart beating. The technician stamped the ultrasound with my baby's age: eight weeks and four days old. I asked for a copy and put it in my jewelry box when I got home - a special place for my special baby.

Today, I was thirty-one again, remembering the day that this precious life ended. My fingers feel almost frozen right now. What do I say next? How do I put into words the waves of emotion that still crash over me? I can't. I can't convey to the reader the awfulness of listening to the doctor's clinical voice telling me the baby is gone in the blink of an eye - just a few weeks after I watched my baby's heart beating strongly. His voice sounded like it was coming from the far end of a tunnel..." skull cap might still be intact. I'll have to perform a D&C to evacuate the incomplete miscarriage." I remember running out of his office, jumping in my car, and driving for hours without a destination - feeling completely helpless, hopeless, and empty.

Going through a miscarriage is tough enough with people around you, but when it's just you, it weighs you down and burdens you in ways I cannot explain. It was just me with my misery. My husband didn't understand the tremendous loss I was experiencing, and he expected me to get over it quickly. We had a beautiful two-year-old, Jennifer, so he kept telling me I should focus on her and move on. He kept assuring me that we'd have another child soon.

That miscarriage was followed by four more over five years. I didn't think that I would ever have another child. I considered Jennifer a true miracle considering my history. When I became pregnant with Katie, I assumed the pregnancy would end like all the others. Carrying her to full-term was my second miracle. Then, I got pregnant one more time and lost that baby too. Six miscarriages were enough for me. Bill and I decided to adopt children to grow our family.

I didn't know at the time that the miscarriages would become something of a catapult for me. I didn't realize that the loss I experienced would be my walk through the fire so that I could give voice to the voiceless. I didn't know God would use my pain to strengthen me.

I can tell you, though, that I know now why God placed this heartache in my life. I know that God was preparing me for a battle. I understand that this battle doesn't require super-human strength, but it does require super-human resolve. It requires super-human understanding and forgiveness.

What is the battle? I know that God has called me to speak out against the atrocity of abortion. I know that it is imperative that I speak out in a way that honors Him. I know I cannot just sit back and watch the horror of the trafficking of baby parts and do nothing. I know I cannot have a cavalier attitude about the tremendous loss of human potential that occurs through abortion. I cannot condemn women who see abortion as the only alternative. I am asking God to direct my path. I am asking God to speak to me and through me. I ask that He open the right doors and closes the wrong ones. I know that this is my walk of faith through the fire, into the belly of the whale, to face the Goliath of our time.

What Not to Wear

2015-07-18T10:34:00.003-04:00

I know that I sometimes don't really consider what I have on before I leave the house. One morning, when I had a respectable job that required me to do interviews, I inadvertently put on two right shoes (one black and one dark blue). It wasn't until I crossed my legs during an interview that I realized my folly. It appeared that I had two right feet, and the color difference in the light was quite noticeable. My colleague, who was doing the interviews with me, noticed my shoes at the same time, and we both burst out laughing. I can't imagine what went through the mind of the poor candidate we were interviewing. We had to explain to her my propensity to be clothing challenged. The interview deteriorated from there, and we ended up taking the interviewee to lunch (and hiring her).

Fast forward a few years: I not only live on a farm, but I work at a worm farm, so why would I dress up to go outside to feed the livestock or go to work? A ratty pair of jeans or shorts with an old tee shirt suit me just fine. Bill, a PE teacher, doesn't dress up much either. Little did we know how much embarrassment we must have brought our children because they entered us in a contest to win a $5,000 wardrobe - each!

Had we known we'd been entered in the worst dressed couples contest, we may have made a more conscious effort to adorn ourselves in the sneakers with the most holes in them. Maybe we would have worn matching armpit stained tee shirts. I have to say, I was wondering why our children suddenly took such a great interest in photography. Often they would snap pictures of the two of us while we were out herding goats. Sometimes, I'd hear the shutter click when Bill and I were on our way to estate sales. For at least a week, it wasn't unusual to find one of the children hiding behind a wall trying to sneak a picture of us in our casual attire. I had no idea what they were up to, but I was too busy to really give it much thought. I had goats to deliver and worms to feed, after all.

The photo sessions ended as abruptly as they started, and I completely forgot about my children's strange behavior until the day the letter arrived. The message came from the TV show, "What Not to Wear." It said something like this: Congratulations, you have made it to the ten finalists in the "What Not to Wear" worst dressed couples contest.

I was devastated! How could my own children be so insensitive! No wonder they were intent on snapping covert pictures - the insolent guttersnipes (it took me a long time to find that word). After calming down, I took an inventory of what I was wearing as I stood by my mailbox. No shoes, an oversized nightshirt with "Merry Christmas" on the front (it was July) and no undergarments. At that moment, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe my children had a point.

As I made my way into the house, I read the rest of the letter: Should the two of you make it into the top three finalists, you and your wardrobe will be flown to New York City where our What Not to Wear staff will make the final decision on which couple will be given a $10,000 shopping spree and a complete makeover.

Did I call my children guttersnipes? I was mistaken - after all, they were only trying to assist their poor clothing-challenged parents. As soon as I got into the house, I immediately did a google search of What Not to Wear's worst-dressed couples. From what I could find, we had some stiff competition; a leather-clad duster duo with purple hair, a pair of hippie throwbacks in camo, and two punk rockers. I was not concerned, though. After all, thanks to our little cherubs, I was photographed barefoot in my daisy duke shorts and their dad in his ripped shorts with his ever-present white crew socks. Admittedly, we had a good shot at making it to the final three.

Sadly, we didn't make it. I don't even know who won the contest - although my vote was for the hippies in camo. To this day, I wonder what would have happened had we won. Would I be leaving the house in Avalon tee-shirts to tend to the worms? Would Bill be braving middle school PE in Milo designer shorts? Would I long for my University of Kentucky nightshirt and pink polka dot undies? Would I never see my husband's farmer's tan again?

I guess these questions will haunt me forever...

Unbroken

2015-06-26T12:26:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite pastimes is sitting on the porch watching the horses run. About eight years ago, we got an unbroken horse for Katie. We named the horse Jersey Girl. I thought I could break her. It’s rather sad when you think about it - breaking a horse literally means, “breaking the spirit”. When you break a horse, you bend it to your will. It’s really hard to break a horse’s spirit. I worked for months trying to break Jersey Girl. I think it would be more fitting to say that Jersey Girl broke us with her “Jersey Girl” attitude! Katie was probably not at the best age for horse breaking with her mother. I’ve learned that teenage girls tend to butt heads frequently with their mothers. When teenage girl attitude is teamed up with “Jersey Girl” attitude - Let’s just say that I don’t want to be in the horse breaking business anymore!

I don’t want to be in the people breaking business either, although I think that we all do some people breaking from time to time if we are honest. Then there are the times when we break our own spirit.

In thinking about this phenomena of breaking one’s spirit, I believe that each person must be acutely aware of what their own spirit needs to thrive. I know that my spirit needs to be free. It cannot be lassoed or penned in. My natural reaction to being penned in is to run. In this way, my spirit is akin to the horse’s spirit.

When I tried to break Katie’s 1200 lb. horse, I had it haltered and I used a long rope to give it lots of room. The horse would feel the tug of the rope and respond not knowing that it was only being controlled by a five foot tall, 125 lb. weakling. The more I reigned in the horse, however, the harder it was to control her because she sensed the shifting power. The minute she thought that I was dominating her, she bucked, kicked and fought for her freedom. She only let me control her from a distance and, even then, she really never gave up her independence.

That’s me. I’m just like Jersey Girl. I am a Jersey Girl, after all. If I’m not given lots of rope, I’ll start to buck and kick and do just about anything to break free. There’s a part of me that thinks this is not good. I must always think and act outside the box. Yet, maybe I’m just looking at this wrong. It’s the way God made me, after all. It’s my spirit. I believe it is part of why I am so drawn to the spirit of a horse.

There are many things that free my spirit. Perhaps the most freeing is writing. It’s something that I love and yet I’ve strayed away from it for a long time. I’ve reigned in my passion for writing - lassoed it with negative self-talk: “You're not a good writer. No one wants to read your stories. Give up.”

So, over time, a part of me has given up on writing. I’ve locked the creative door of my brain and thrown away the key. I’ve allowed myself to break my own spirit. Well, no more! I’m going back to writing and I may or may not post the stories on my blog. After all, my writing is for my soul and it really doesn’t matter if anyone reads it or likes it. I’m going to promise my spirit that I will allow it to be free in as many areas of my life as I can. As of today, I will vow to keep my spirit unbroken!