The Space Between Us

Oppenheimer’s Dream

2021-06-27T00:08:00.002-07:00

of man is

Rebellious

he swallows

the ball of fire

that rises

from the sea.

A force that kills

Those who live

A force that enslaved

All things And changes

our world forever

Oppenheimer's Dream

We sit and wait and

watch the horizon like it is the movie screen at our hometown drive-in

where we first tasted love in a bubble gum Lip Gloss kiss. Where we slipped slick popcorn buttered fingers Into Her Panties. Our white t shirts soaked with summer sweat. We wave and smile at the whirring news cameras. We are All-American Patriots. We are grand in our uniforms fresh face and freckled. All Crest smiles, Aquanet and Brylcreem, drinking Coca-Cola, ice cold from small glass bottles. I pull a packs of Camels from my pocket and offer them all around thinking them grand. Believing that smoking makes me look modern, dashing

we are here in this desert because we have been called to witness the power of Our Bomb. A new technology. Oppenheimer's Dream unleashed. Our picture show Is about to begin. We smile at the cameras and wave, laughing. Our mouths forming "Hi Mom!". We are proud. So proud to be here for Our Country. Mom is proud to. We secretly pray Mom will see us on the the news! Did we know then that we were waving goodbye? We trust our country. We love our brother. God is real. Suddenly we can't, we don't, He's not. We are only tears.

he swallows

the ball of fire

that rises

from the sea.

A force that kills

Those who live

A force that enslaved

All things And changes

our world forever.

our innocence is burning

and into ashes

we are living in the shadow

of the bomb.

A power never

before dreamed of,

never before unleashed,

never before seen

Now televised

So millions

Are cursed

Becoming

The damned

Smoke and Fire

mushroom upward.

the demon shows his face

The demon laughs

and makes us believe

he has disappeared.

But he has not

Our silence

Being our consent

In our chest He places

Openheimer's fire

and it catches in

Our throat

This atomic fire

pulls down

praising hands

outstretched

to ourr God

And molds them

Into fists

that beat

the life from

their brothers

a cataclysmic

power that has

forms a ball

that oh so

carefully hides

itself

A burning

that can only

be controlled

Our primal man

who makes

himself known

by infinitesimally

small gestures

such as

toe tapping,

eye twitching,

blank expression,

we may

appear nervous

or motionlessness

or we may

violently

lash out

In greater

and more

damaging outbursts

Rage visible

by the mass murdering

and destruction

of our brothers

I think

Life's answers

Are some where

between the stutter

and world war

be - life in the shadow of the bomb

Jerk Monkeys

2021-06-27T00:05:00.001-07:00

Here is nugget fer ya. When a woman is giving birth her body produces a chemical oxytocin and her baby produces the same chemical passing through the birth canal. Now oxytocin keeps building in both their bodies ( I assume in some glands) and when the mother holds her baby, breast feeds, and she and the baby make eye contact the chemical is released in a huge flood into both their brains. This love chemical acts as glue that chemically bonds mother and child. Now we can all agree this is the strongest bond going. That said when a man experiences sexual arousal his glands begin to produce the same chemical. It is released into his brain at the moment of climax. So man bonds with the same glue (as a mother to baby, or baby to mother) to what ever he is looking at when he cums. If at the moment of climax he is looking at red fu me pumps and a large dill pickle he will bond to it just as strongly as mother to child. He will seek the same images in order to ejaculate. Oxytocin is also believed to increase sperm count. Porn producers know this. So with the same technology that tells Google what ads will appeal to you, the porn industry knows your tastes in sex. They then intentionally, gradually, begin to expand your sexual tolerances and then to control your burgeoning sexual desires, triggers and impulses. You start out by peeking at beach boobs and by month 12 you are cemented to 6 year olds having sex. Remember too that action is born of thought. Eventually the images won't be enough. The desire for a tactile experience will override the fear of being caught. The sexual fantasy must be made into reality.

Porn is not harmless. It is nasty, mean slow form of brainwashing that has turned millions perfectly good men into jerk monkeys spending thousands to beat off alone in the dark in parking lots, driveways, dirty book stores, parks, offices, public bathrooms and garages across the nation at any given moment to unimaginable ima

gery of sexual torture, murder, child sex and slavery, beastiality. Sex, suffering, blood, sex, suffering, torture sex all commanding the leading role in man's sexual psychology. The man is like a zombie beating off to this sick shit and spilling sperm virtually everywhere. He wastes his youth and virility. He spends his life smearing his possible progenies on pant legs, walls, car seats, dirty rags, door handles, underwear. He turns his future and his immortality into filth that offends. He is planning, he is watching, he is waiting in the shadows dreaming of a time when at last he will turn his sexual fantasy into reality. Daisy's Demise should have been a warning to us all .MK ultra at its finest.

Be Tucker

Open Borders

2021-06-27T00:03:00.000-07:00

Be Rhyne

November 22, 2016 ·

How can you speak to me of open borders when you live in a gated community that is intentionally, strategically, insulated from poor communities? Do you think our borders would be flooded with people who are prospering at home? No, we would embrace the poor and you can't even tolerate the ones you already have.

Why do want to bring the Syrians here when there are prison camps set up for them? We are not ready yet. We must close up shop and concentrate on uprooting the corruption in our government and in our own hearts. How can we grant human rights to others when we have given our own away? They will only be met with poverty, loneliness and abuse and some say genocide.

We need to help them go home. We need to stop killing their children.

Be Rhyne

Fun Friday

2013-03-03T11:22:00.001-08:00

Fun Friday

Today was a hit with my little guy. Because of the MD and how it’s effected his body, going to the park has been something he’s only dreamed of doing for the last 2 years. For Ian, climbing on the play structures is an impossibility and swinging is entirely too hard on his back. We found out about a park in Nashville across from the children’s hospital he’s treated at that has handicap-accessible play structures and modifications to all the eqipment that would allow him to play like any kid. How cool is that?! Unfortunately our plans were foiled by scattered thunderstorms in the area so instead, we went to a local park to see if we couldn’t try our hand at learning new ways to play at the park.

We chose a rural park near the military base and accross from some horse stables. Driving down the country roads with the windows rolled down was, in itself, a great way to spend the day. The kids loved seeing the horses at the stables as we neared the park, so that was a second score for team Ybarra. The park itself, play structure-wise was nothing to scream about but as it turns out, that was okay because it wasn’t the equipment he was interested in. It was the stream. He loved sitting on the bank playing with sticks and watching the ducks. There was a waterfall and he was totally into that too. He wanted to see it up close so we ventured into the wooded area to see how close we could get him. As it turns out, getting close meant a hike and some mild rock climbing. So, John put Ian on his back and made the journey while I followed along with Miss Kitty. It was tiring but so worth it. We got the head of the waterfall where there was a large platform made of flat rocks and another smaller stream up top.

Both Kitty and Ian had a grand time splashing in the water, looking for bugs, climbing on things and just generally being kids. It was the first time in a long time I got the feeling that Ian wasn’t being cautious because he was afraid of being hurt. He smiled (in his own Ian way) he laughed, he made monkey noises, he just had a good time.

It’s funny thing things you take for granted when you don’t know anything different. I was left thinking on just a few years ago when in Germany we took him to the park all the time. Iremembered watching him climb, run and swing his little heart out and never once did I ever dream that I would be here. That when that little child was 8 years old, moments like these would be so precious. Yet, here we are and the funny thing is that while I wish against hope it were different, I feel so fortunate to be able to have the gift of taking the smallest moments and triumphs and keep them in my heart like I do now. That’s one of the aims of this blog for me, to share my family with others and to encourage all parents to do what I’ve been forced to learn to do. But I digress…

So Ian had his first hike ever, his first very first waterfall and his first park in years all in the same day. Me? I had a moment of introspection and some fantastic photo ops.

What a day!

Tales from a Cell

2011-09-27T07:45:00.000-07:00

I saw so many tragedies while I was incarcerated in Texas. My heart broke daily for the lost and wounded women around me….I saw a sixty something year old black woman, who used a cane to walk, grabbed by a large male guard for no reason that any of us could figure out. He handcuffed her and slammed her head into a window so hard that the glass broke. She was cuffed with her hands behind her back so when she fell she hit the cement full force with her face. She required fifty-something stitches. The guard was back on duty the next day. I saw the tears and the ligature marks of a young girl who was waiting in medical with me. She whispered to me how the guards routinely tied and ganged raped three of these little sisters behind the dryers in laundry. They all told if they exposed the guards they would be killed….all I could say to her was “They will. You better believe they will. Sweetie, get transferred out of laundry and live. Get home alive. Then you can deal with rapes.” I heard this very true story and wept…A young girl of about seventeen was coughing up blood so she went to the female guard late one night and told her. The guard told her she wanted proof so girl coughed into a napkin and showed it to the guard. The guard laughed at her, replies to that it was catsup and demanded that the girl go back to her bunk. The young lady was afraid and did as she was told. At the four o’clock breakfast call the innocent was discovered dead in her bunk. I often imagine what it must have been like to be that girl, alone and afraid, and very, very sick? What would it have like to lie there dying yet too afraid to move? I met a girl at a hospital facility. I will never forget her beauty and sadness. Her last name was Lennox, like the china, like her skin. She was nineteen and dying of cancer. Pale and hungry for love this child held my hand and cried, and cried and cried. A life destroyed from the womb this girl had finally found love in a boy, he stole something for their support and both were jailed. She could not contact him, nor him her, because in Texas inmates cannot write one another. She would die young and alone and unattended in a facility in Texas City. She has two week or less when we met. I heard she only lasted one. I am crying now as think of her. Lennox was her last name, like the china… Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Loosing Sight....

2011-06-24T07:46:00.000-07:00

Written 09/06/2009

My cravings yesterday where overpowering. I am afraid of slipping back in to that terrible and dark life so this morning I rage. My mind is a storm of blame and messages of being a failure. The Old Man tapes begin to play as if on cue. My well trained heart opens wide and embraces them as “THE TRUTH ABOUT ME”. Truths rejected long ago but somehow becoming real to me again in this moment.

”You are worthless, you will never be able to stay sober, you’re a loser, you’re going to be old and alone and living on the street, crack-head, useless, unlovable, can’t even hold on to your husband, a nobody, you are a nothing”. The tapes play on and on until I feel defeated, lost, and finally in resolve; I reach to call The Dope Man.

Then in silence between the last protest and surrender to the darkness of mind a small voice says “PRAY”. I ignore it as I dial the phone…..”PRAY”…..I keep dialing…..”Pray”. It is ringing……”PRAY and I will help you”…..click….I hang up and open my heart to The Spirit.

“I HATE this!” Desperate words flew from my war-torn heart into the room. Silence…seems as if even He doesn’t care. “I care” small, barely perceptible. “So do my Children.”

“Is that why I am all ALONE?” I fire back.

No answer. I wait. Still no answer…..I shut my eyes and breath in slowly; the cravings are lifting. I exhale slowly and open my eyes. They immediately rest upon a bright and cheerful display of garden flowers fondly arranged in an old honey jar brought me by a beloved friend, Cindy.

Now when I looked at those flowers I am suddenly transported to another place. Cindy! I am standing with her and can see what she sees, feel what she feels… I can understand her heart song. I can feel her being as she grows those flowers, loving them, understanding the miracle of them. I experience her Spirit thinking of me and of many others as she tends her little garden….Her Garden of Future Gifts.

Prayerfully, quietly, she talks to her plants as she gently snips flowers away from each one and places them in a basket she carries. We are in her kitchen now making two arrangements; one for her (the imperfect blooms) and she reassures each one telling them they are beautiful. We feel sorry the most injured and offers them a prominent place in the arrangement so they don’t feel bad. The second arrangement is for me, which consist of the most perfect flowers.

She puts the arrangement mindfully in a basket, lined with linen and filled with an array of items she knows I will need. She looks the basket over once more. “Wait! I have just the thing!” and whoooomp! I am back in my apartment again and all though I am alone I do not feel lonely anymore. The sudden spiritual transference leaves me in awe.

Now the voice The Voice of The Spirit is clearer. “It is time to take the log from your eye”. My gaze falls to Herman, my beloved baby tears plant happily sunning on the sill by the couch. This fragile plant is a gift from Cindy.

The small still voice invites to open my mind and here is what He told me: I am strong in my sobriety when I am in crisis. I have learned this through living it….I get weak in my sobriety in my day to day living…why?

The Spirit shared. I spent a couple of weeks counting my things, accumulating things and counting the things that I did not have to start this next phase of my new life and I became entirely too focused on things and stuff. Then I got stuck on the things and did not have and the money I did not have to acquire my new must haves. I began to focus on lack and this created fear instead of focusing on the blessings around me which creates gratitude and a sense of the complete. This is THE TRUTH ABOUT ME and now I can see the earlier thoughts are a lie.

I turn my focus on the “Haves” in my life instead of the “Have-nots”. My attention is pulled to a beautiful basket that a thoughtful friend has filled with a single banana and some home grown tomatoes. Oh yes! What about that pristine, tempting chunk of white cheddar cheese sitting on the shelf of my refrigerator acting as a constant temptation. An older couple graced my table with white dishes that sat sitting bright and patient on yet another shelf. I spy a house warming present of freshly laundered towels rolled up and ready in a heavy wicker basket next to my freshly scrubbed, enormous tub. There is the birthday present re-gifted from one lady’s well loved collection. I admire the gift of a hand-thrown pottery vase that dazzles me with its form, intent and simplistic beauty. A book recently read and discussed mocking me from across the room. The rosary made of olive wood still tucked away yet somehow still in my vision. A brand new vanilla scented candle on the same shelf as my husband’s pictures. I remember white eggs brought to me, loose, and waiting in the door of the refrigerator. Wondrous teas complete with two tea balls just waiting for company all arranged in a basket. Two ceramic containers holding aromatic coffee and espresso roast. A clean cool breeze that blows gently through all the windows that moves in my soul a dance that is both melancholic and joyful. A hand painted cross waiting to be hung. Books I have actually read! Pear preserves and a two day old loaf of French bread. I admire this golden jar of local, raw, wildflower honey gifted by a bee keeper’s wife. I ponder the miracle of an air-conditioner window unit on the way. In my new purse a cool new cell phone that allows me entrance into my new life. A card adorned with roses and a poem reminding me. A stack of letters from my beloved read and reread and read again. Framed photos of my lost and hurting husband, one of the both of us in happier times displayed on a shelf in my living area. I adore the pictures of my family. Here is an ever growing library of music that I love. A silky comforter wrapped snugly around me as I type this. A set of chocolate brown sheets that waiting uncomplainingly for the bed to arrive. A handmade card displayed on shelf that I made for my granddaughter. I pour myself a coffee and notice the snagged Coffee/espresso machine inviting me to luxury forgotten. Clean underwear that is actually comfortable. A Catholic card with a picture of Jesus on it and a prayer on the back

There is Light beyond compare pouring through my many windows bringing both Herman and myself life… I have a feather pillow gently tucked under my head. Newly washed hair still damp and smelling of coconut and skin scrubbed with homemade oatmeal soap and softened with lotions. The sound of the church bells ringing the hour and calling His Children to mass. There are birds singing happily and the whisperings of trees outside my window. From every window a view that pleases me. A friend that runs to talk to me when her heart is broken… friendships. The scent of Patchouli wafting in the breeze from a small vial that contains the fragrance. Prayers said just for me. A God who sees me and a fat little kitty sitting in my lap.

I understand now…My new life is the work of God’s hands. My new life is the hard work of His Children. Everything around me has meaning. Everything around me is gift. I am loved and I am safe and I am real. I know longer live in a world of darkness. I am surround and dwelling in the land of Light. I am rich beyond compare. The time has come for me, like Cindy, to share my bounty.

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Written 09/06/2009

In My Own Words – Carmela – From Enslaved Child Prostitute to Worldwide Advocate Against Abuse

2011-01-31T14:31:00.000-08:00

“IN MY OWN WORDS” – SUBMITTED BY CARMELA

“Being nothing more to her parents than a house servant and a child prostitute, Carmela’s free time was occupied with studying her mother’s moods and strategizing how to best meet the ever changing whims of her parents, in order to avoid having “time outs” in the dank, dark, spider, rat and snake-infested basement. Time and time again, Carmela’s mother warned her if she complained to anyone about the happenings in their house or of Carmela ‘working for her father’ by letting he and his friends ‘visit’ her at night, it would get back to her grandfather; and then Carmela herself would have the guilt to bare for leaving her siblings fatherless and seeing her grandfather die of a heart attack or locked away. Carmela was not certain who she was to tell anyway – in grade school she learned that she was to tell the teachers, police and other authorities in the community. Were these not the same who were coming to ‘visit’ her at night. If her grandfather was so scary, and what they were doing was wrong, they why was it being done? Seeing herself as the cause and solution of the problem, Carmela took to harming herself with the intention of suicide – this on top of dealing with normal childhood illnesses, STD’s, endometriosis, cancer and treatments, along with the scarring from the abuse which started at a tender age – prompted doctors to say she would never have children. The doctors were wrong about this but who could for see the health problems she would have even decades afterwards?”

“Carmela knew her grandfather to be well-liked, respected, and feared throughout their small rural community. Adoring her grandfather she understood why he was well liked, but could not understand why some people feared him, until given an assignment in junior high school where she found the ‘family’ name in a book about the mafia. When she read the paragraph, paying careful attention to the particular sentence, her grandfather interrupted her by slapping her in the face and told her never to talk about it again to anyone. Days later, this confrontation prompted her grandfather to spend more time with her and open up about his life. He spoke of his family and upbringing, never once mentioning anything about the ‘family.’”

“Today, Carmela uses her own experiences to help people out of child/domestic abuse, homelessness, human trafficking, and organized crime. Crisscrossing the United States, she implores communities to address the needs of their youth and families; helping to raise funds and start programs where there are none. She also gives lectures and workshops about what it was like growing up in the mafia culture. This work often prompts ‘invitations’ from organized crime members of various strata and nationalities -invitations that Carmela often accepts. Carmela servers on the boards of several organizations and NGO’s in various capacities, and is an advisor to many more. Her latest project is the formation of Once Upon An Eden, with the goal of eradicating organized crime and human trafficking and the long term effects – one garden at a time.

Please take the time to check Carmela's Website and show your support for her and her work. I believe she is truly a hero of our time.
http://www.onceuponaneden.weebly.com/

The Beating of Senior Couple in Kansas City

2011-01-29T13:22:00.000-08:00

These are two letters that were written by Paul and Belinda and sent to Emmanuel Clever in Kansas City. They were hoping to receive some help to live a safer more secure life in their own neighborhood. I would like to you all to read and comments on these letters. They will break your heart. There should be a way for the elderly to be able to walk away from their homes and seek safe shelter when the neighborhoods once safe and secure have taken a downward spiral to drugs and crime. It is not their fault and they should not be forced to stay......

Letter From Paul

My name is Paul and I am 80 yrs. Old. I am a veteran, fought in Korea in the infantry, and have been awarded two purple hearts. I am a devoted husband to my wife Belinda and she is 58, the love of my life. She is very gentle and loving. We are contacting you because we feel our lives are in danger because of where we live.

The deterioration of our neighborhood is so bad that we were attacked in our home about midnight last spring and held at gun point by three youths. They kicked in our door and came in through the broken panel while we lay in living room. We were threatened and told we would be killed if we called the police, so we didn’t. We are still afraid and unwilling to speak up on this matter. Several windows in our home have been broken out by thugs and people attempting to enter our house. Just this last week, on October 1^st, at around 7:30pm, we were assaulted while walking home from a church dinner at Cherith Brook. Several young men ran up behind us and hit me very hard on the side of his head and I fell to the ground dazed and bleeding from my ear. They started kicking me repeatedly. I could hear my wife Belinda screaming for God to help us. One of the men ran over to Belinda and told her to “shut the f--k up” and then the young man struck her across the head with his hand and she too fell to the ground. I was helpless to defend her as they continued to beat me. Belinda, in spite of being hit, kept begging them to stop and to leave me alone. We know we would have been killed if a truck driver, who happened to be driving by, had not stopped and jumped from his rig with a crow bar in a heroic effort to save us.

We are afraid to stay home and we are afraid to go out. We are surrounded by dealers and thugs and gangsters. There is another elderly woman on our street is also 80 yrs old and she is also scared and harassed constantly. Her front door has been shot up, I believe she too has had windows broken and the people shout at her when she is outside calling her an “old Bitch”. We are suffering both hate crimes and elderly abuse. We would like to be allowed to leave the area and live in a somewhere where we will not be beaten up or worse, killed. We are not sure how we can do this since our home has lost so much value due to the declining area. Please can someone tell us what we should do? How are we to stay alive in the area we are in?

Letter from Belinda

My name is Belinda and I am 58 yrs old, soon to be 59. I worked many years as nursing assistant. My wonderful husband’s name is Paul and he is 80 yrs old, a veteran of the Korean War and the proud recipient of two purple hearts. He is also retired from a 25 year career as a welder. We have been married 15 years and are very happy together. We attend xxxxx Church and xxxxxx Lutheran Church regularly and have many friends there. I am proud of Paul and am grateful to have such a wonderful marriage. He is my best friend. I don’t know what I would do without him. Please can you help us? I am afraid all the time now for Paul and me.

We live in an area that is crime ridden and hateful. You have the facts from Paul’s letter so I won’t repeat them. I will however tell you how it feels to be in our shoes. We are fearful all the time. Twice, in less than a year our very lives where threatened. When those boys kicked in the door and put guns in our faces I thought for sure they would kill us. It was like Paul and I were asleep in our living room and suddenly there was a loud noise and I opened my eyes and saw these kids pointing guns at us. I cannot describe how terrifying it all was. I don’t why but I just kept yelling hysterically, I kept yelling “Get out of our house! Get out of house!” Paul could not do anything. He just sat up and didn’t move he was so terrified and confused. I demanded to know what they wanted even though I was afraid they were going to shoot us right then and there. They threaten to come back and kill us if we told and I believe them so I would rather not tell a lot about the details. Trust me when I tell you it was horrible. We are still very afraid and cannot sleep well at night and are always terrified they will come back for us. We have tried spending a lot of time away from home to ease the terror. One of the events that we attend regularly is a dinner at Cherith Brook that they give every Thursday night. While we were walking home from our outing we again where attacked by a different band of thugs. We didn’t even see them until Paul was knocked to the ground by a blow to his head. I started screaming and screaming and crying and crying while they while they were kicking Paul as he lay on the ground. I kept hollering for someone to help us. I ran thorough the group to reach Paul and started begging them to stop and I cried out God help us! One of the men hollered at me to “shut the f--k up” and hit me and I fell by my husband. I tried to cover him with my body while they continued to kick. All the time I was begging and crying for them to stop hurting him, to please stop. I was terrified of being hit again but could not help but to protect my Paul. It was awful. I still cry when I think or talk about it. Me and Paul are afraid to go anywhere but we still do go here and there but have to be very mindful of our surroundings. I am afraid if those boys see us again they will attack us again and this time we may die.

I don’t want to spend these, what are our last years, afraid all the time. I want to enjoy my life and my husband. It is not fair that we should live in such great fear all the time inside or outside. I don’t understand why this is happening to us. We need someone to care enough to help us, to protect us. I am crying even now as my friend helps me to write this.

No, I’m not okay. Thanks for asking.

2011-01-23T19:45:00.000-08:00

No, I’m not okay. Thanks for asking.

Ah yes, an even deeper foray into the life of yours truly. You see, my 8 year old son has Muscular Dystrophy. This isn’t usually a conversation starter for me but this is a blog, and it seems that as a blogger, it’s my duty to peel back the layers and expose these bits of my life. So there you have it. My 8 year old son has Muscular Dystrophy. Infantile Onset Facioscalpialhumoral Muscular Dystrophy actually. This means that my young child over the last 2 years has lost much of his ability to walk, see, hear and has a complete palsy of the face. This means that because of about 100 doctor’s appointments this year I’ve had to remove him from school to save him the embarrassment of failing the second grade. (However, this has turned out to be a boon for us. I’ll blog more on this later.) This means that he must wear, on a daily basis; glasses, hearing aids, AFO’s (leg braces) and let us not forget the oh-so-stylish gauze dressing on his feeding tube. Then of course there is the ultimate accessory, the wheel chairs.

It’s a funny thing when you have a child with issues like these who can’t leave the house without a truck load of equipment and who, everyone knows, will never get better. People ask the same thing over and over. “Are you okay?” Funnier still is the reaction we parents are expected to give. “Yes, I’m fine!” and “there’s a reason for everything”, or “I was only given the challenge because I could handle it”. Most people don’t ask you this question expecting to hear the truth. My truth? My truth is that no, I’m not fine. I’m pissed off. I’m pissed off that my child is being given such a raw deal. I’m pissed off that he has the grace to except it and that I don’t. I’m pissed off that I worry every day about him and I wonder relentlessly if he’ll ever be able to live on his own, have a lover, travel somewhere fabulous, father a child, live in a dorm, kiss someone, and and…

I’m coming to understand that it’s okay to not be fine. I am always fine when I’m with him. I’m always together when we see his doctors, I rarely let myself not be “fine”. But every once in awhile, when I’m all alone, I give in. I let go. I cry, I scream, I throw things and at those times I yell to no one and to everyone, “NO! I am NOT okay!” and you know what? I’m okay with that.

Here’s the thing. I’ll never be “okay” with this. I have, however, learned so much from this child and from this disease. I have learned patience, righteous anger, the true meaning of beauty, I have learned that I can be a kick-ass mom and that I have more strength than I ever though possible. That John is a fantastic father and that together, we can handle anything. I have come to understand that my son is incredible. He is the most adaptable being I have ever met and my heart bursts with pride when I think of how he has come to live with his ever-weakening body with acceptance, grace and with just enough of a stubborn streak to refuse to take this lying down.

Am I okay? No. Am I getting there. You bet your ass.

Mellissa Ybarra

A Perspective on Beauty

2011-01-22T15:03:00.000-08:00

A Perspective on Beauty

Being physically beautiful is a crippling experience. I was, myself, at one point in my life quite lovely. I also worked with models for many years and noticed a definite lack of character, a lack of maturity in all of us. Our value system was flawed, sometimes to the extreme. When we grow up physically beautiful, people do for us what we should do for ourselves. We are excused from many tasks and duties because we are pretty. We are never properly taught or disciplined and because of this we never mature.

We are awarded social status that we do not deserve nor are ready for. We are gifted with material items and wealth because of our beauty and that denies the ability and value of earning our own way and the beauty of growing strong inwardly. We have an overblown sense of selves, of our personal worth and the value of money. We are artificial, prideful and vain. We are unformed spiritually and stunted emotionally. Because our self-esteem is based on the way we look, we judge others by the way they look. We become extremely petty and competitive and can only maintain superficial, strained relationships with others of our gender. We have many “friends” few of whom care.

We are used and abused because the men who are attracted to us are shallow and vain themselves and desire not to be with us because of who we are but because of how we look. They are quite often narcissistic. We hold as much value as their car, or watch, or shoes. We are merely something else for them to wear. We are only something else for them to show off to their so called friends. We are an object, a thing, not a real woman. We are a Doll….

The men that seek us are quite often narcissistic. It is as if our only value is in being part of their inward, twisted sense of self. We are their mirror, and they imagine that we are how they are judged by the world. We must not only look perfect. We must be, in our totality, their psycho idea of perfection at all times. Otherwise their carefully guarded lack of self-esteem comes crashing down on our head and life begins to get very nasty.

These men can be quite cruel in their efforts to abandoned or reform their once perfect object of love. We have no defense against this because we ourselves are shallow, vain and malformed. We think it is ok and normal to be so plastic on the outside that no life can reach the inside. Not to mention we picked him because he is handsome, so he must be Mr. Right. And we look so good together!

When we begin to fade, as the world's idea of beauty always does, we are traded in for a newer model. When we break, as all immature people do, we are thrown away, like a thing without use. If we are lacking morals and depth and fullness, we become crushed under the weight of it all.

We age, not so gracefully, slipping into addictions and fight for our lives with plastic surgery after plastic surgery. We become those terrible pathetic women with giant unnatural boobs, face brightly painted, clothes too tight, stiletto heels with shorts, big hair, drunk at the bar, hanging on an old rich man or a young guy. You know the ones who can drive a porche convertible but cannot afford the maintenance. The kind of woman that sees nothing, is nothing.

It as if we become as plastic as the Barbie we once so admired.

Barbara Rhyne Tucker

Why is This Domestic Violence Shelter Abusing Women?

2011-01-01T20:46:00.000-08:00

My name is Barbara Rhyne-Tucker and I writing to you to make you aware of the abusive treatment that is considered “necessary” at Newhouse. I have been a “guest” on two separate occasions and have been sickened by the way the upper-management abuses the women who come there to seek safety. It appears to me that these women are further victimized for being victims….

I would like to first make it clear that I myself had no real issues there and was able to maintain a friendly relationship with all the staff and upper management. There are three reasons for this. The first and most important; is that I have done prison time and Newhouse is run like a prison, with the staff and management having the same sort of mental attitude as prison guards. In prison you are called “offender” and are treated as one. You must “do your time” of punishment to gain re-entrance into society. This is the attitude at Newhouse. The women are considered criminals and are treated as just that. They are to be punished and punished they are! I recognized this unfortunate attitude when I first arrived, so I was able to adapt to the hostile environment quickly because of my past experiences. The second reason; is that I was not in the Newhouse program; I was in a separate program that uses a room at Newhouse and was able to move about without too much contact with their staff. The third being; I am educated and older with a professional work history and know how to maneuver in competitive corporate settings and am adept at spotting potentially detrimental situations and am able to avoid them all together. I understand power plays and the corporate mentality of “company first…. people second”.

I will never forget the things I saw at Newhouse. The blatant misuse and abuse of power still haunts me to this day. All incidences here I observed firsthand:

Xxxx and her mother: I greeted them upon their entrance because I know this little family from another shelter. Xxxx’s mother is poor, uneducated and severely troubled. She suffered abuse from both her father and mother, and then true to the patterns set for her, she sought abusive men. Xxxx is a four year old little girl, bright, beautiful and loving. She is very outgoing and intelligent. When she and her battered, war torn young mother arrived at Newhouse I was shocked to see Xxxx in a tiny wheel chair. When I ask Xxxx’s mom what happened, she told me Xxxx had climbed into a car and hit the gear shift. The car began to roll down the hill and Xxxx fell out and was run over. I inspected the huge fresh scars that Xxxx proudly displayed for me on her legs, stomach and head. We sat together at dinner and the mother told me how she was determined to secure a safe and happy life for herself and for Xxxx.

The next day we were out in the play area and Xxxx wanted to swing, so I took her from her petite wheelchair and placed her in a safety swing and we began to laugh and talk. Xxxx told me, in her child words, of her accident and of her time at the hospital. She spoke with love and wonder of the nurses and doctors who were so kind and loving to her and her mother. I know this sounds strange, but all the love that came to Xxxx and her mother came because of the accident, which caused both mother and daughter to bloom. She commanded me to push her higher and higher…she laughed again and said “Ms Barbara, when I was at the hospital the nurses told me I am a brave little girl! Am I brave little girl?” “Yes, Xxxx” I replied “You are indeed a brave little girl” and with that she sang out over and over “I AM A BRAVE LITTLE GIRL! I AM A BRAVE LITTLE GIRL!” as if that was the best thing a girl could ever be. It was the highest honor to her. I was deeply touched and so were many other women standing around. This was evident by the tears in their eyes. As I carried her back to her mother, I whispered in her ear “All of us here Xxxx, are brave little girls”. She nodded knowingly and laid her scarred, shaved little head on my shoulder. Xxxx walked for the first time in many months that day. She rose up and took those first tentative steps out there on the playground. The truth of her pain was evident on her face, but she kept going, moving with silent determination towards my outstretched arms and laughing triumphantly when I swept her up and we danced to the cheering of the other women and children. Xxxx walked for the first time in many months at Newhouse that day. Just two days later, she was wheeled out the front door by her defeated mother because they had been “exited”. This miracle child filled with hope and love, just a couple of days before, was scared, pale and crying. Every woman and child watched in fearful, defeated horror as these two had no choice other than to leave with one of the many abusers in their lives. Let me explain how this came to be.

Earlier that day, Xxxx’s mother came up to me crying and said she was being thrown out for being rude. She said she was having a really bad day and snapped out verbally at a staff member. No cussing, just a “leave me alone” sort of defense that we all go through. The struggling mother and our beautiful Xxxx were exited immediately, no dinner, no time, just pack your things and get out. She felt she had no choice but to call her abusive, drug-dealing boyfriend and he picked her up. She did not want to take Xxxx out on the street in her wheelchair, still healing and in some pain. I wish you could have seen the terror on each woman’s and child’s face as they sat in the dining area and watched Xxxx and her mother leave, like criminals condemned to death, and I cried when they loaded Xxxx into the car. Her last words to me as her mother pushed her past me were, “Ms Barbara, they are throwing us out! Why? I’ve been good! Why? I don’t wanna’ go! They’re throwing us out! “THEY DON’T WANT US ANYMORE! THEY DON’T WANT US ANYMORE!” Her pale little face was confused and terrified. Her tear filled eyes were looking up at me for help and I could do nothing but stand there as helpless as they. I said to myself, as the car that held them captive once again pulled away, music blaring and the young mother looking angrily out the window at us “You are a brave little girl Xxxx, we all are”. I am crying even as I write this. I saw Xxxx and her mother downtown, about a week later, Xxxx still in the chair…I watched from afar as they huddled close together, alone, watchful and scared. I hid from their sight, then ran away. I never even said hello. I was too ashamed of having no way to help them. To this day I have never seen them again and I often wonder what has become of that beautiful little family?

Ellen: Ellen is an older woman, a senior, with a long history of mental illness. She has been homeless countless times in numerous cities. She cannot recall much of her “street days” because; it is my belief that it is a direct result of her mental illness, which is episodic in nature. I was a witness and party to Ellen becoming homeless again under the spell of a terrifying psychotic episode. Ellen was normally quiet and stayed to herself. I made a point to befriend her so she would not feel so alone. She finally began to sit with me at meals. She was intelligent, soft spoken and polite. I first began to notice a change in her when I went to smoke a cigarette early one morning and Ellen was there and told me she had not slept all night. She was talking loudly and rapidly and was very animated. She started to tell me she had a dream that I was to become a famous author and would own a huge business. I just let her talk and went back inside but was concerned in her complete change in personality. Later that day several women came to me and asked me if I had noticed a change in Ellen and I replied that they should talk to staff. Later that afternoon I was in Xxx’s office telling her of my concern for Ellen and she walked in and began to talk about how terrific she felt and how “all the colors where brighter”. She was even more animated than before and her thoughts where strange and nonsensical. When Ellen left I spoke with Xxx further about the matter. I took Ellen with me to Swope Clinic later that day and she saw a doctor. She did not want to share with me the outcome so I let it go and at dinner she refused to eat and retired to her room. Later that night, I found her talking to herself in the smoking area. She had become combative and hostile towards everyone, showing signs of paranoia. I went to the staff the next morning and spoke with them about her. I don’t know exactly what happened to Ellen but this is what I heard. When she was asked if she would go to a doctor she refused so she was set out on the street. Here is what I want to say about this. The woman was delusional, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy at this point. How can she make a “decision” to see a doctor? And when she refused, how can someone place a person in full psychosis out onto the street? There was no way Ellen could have taken care of herself or made correct decisions on what to do next. The neighborhood in which Newhouse sits is extremely dangerous. I want to know what happened to Ellen.

Lane: My friend Lane was 47, a survivor of Katrina, a recovered addict and I loved her deeply. Her little boy was 6 years old when she came to Newhouse. Both mother and son had extremely complex issues but Lane was determined to “get it right”. I have rarely seen a mother so devoted not only to her son but also to herself and their future as a family. Lane and I became very close, very fast. I enjoyed immensely her company and the company of her little boy. My friend strove to follow all the complex and rigid rules at Newhouse. She was open and honest in group and looked forward to therapy sessions. She was excited about the changes taking place in her. For the first time she felt “almost” secure. She sat on a board at Newhouse, in which the ladies came up with new ideas and projects to implement at Newhouse. I sat with Lane and the board one night, on their invitation, and was moved by how much confidence and joy it gave the women to be creative and a part of something larger than themselves. It removed them from the horrors of their lives and allowed them to be creative and free in both their thoughts and expression of themselves. They organized their ideas and felt ready for the next day. I was impressed.

The next day at the meeting Lane, being the spokesperson, began to list their ideas proudly, and I watched as Munsey shot them down one by one. Munsey was rude and condescending and I saw Lane grow more defeated as each gem, each idea was mercilessly destroyed. I watched Lane become publically humiliated. I watched Lane suffer abuse from the hands of the staff that was there to protect her. I became so angry I had to leave the center that day and calm down before I returned. After that meeting the attitude of the staff toward Lane began to shift. She could nothing right. Every little slip, real or imagined, was amplified and she began to fear she would be exited. While all this was going on and Lane was becoming more and insecure Xxxx, her son, began to act out more and more in reaction to the stress of his mother and the decision was made to send the little boy to Spoffard, a child’s psychiatric hospital to live. Lane was devastated at the prospect of being separated from him but bravely moved forward as an effort to please the staff and gain some sense of security for herself again.

Here is how and why Lane was exited. One morning a new girl walked up and began to talk to me. She was young, black, and wore a hoodie with the hood pulled

up so one could not see her face. She seemed nervous, high and sinister. After a few minutes, I noticed that her clothes were “street” and she was very dirty. I wondered to myself why this girl had not cleaned up yet. I continued to visit with her and then I became more and more aware that something was not right with this girl. I suspected mental illness coupled with being high. How has no one noticed? I left for the day and when I returned the girl was gone. I was relieved because frankly she scared me. She never pulled down her hood nor showed her face to me. The whole scene was weird and I just figured the staff had taken care of it. Later that evening, I heard that a girl had snuck into Newhouse and was there for sometime before it was noticed. This frightened me because we are supposed to be secure there. How can a person sneak into a domestic violence shelter and go unnoticed for a day or more? Lane had encountered the girl while I was gone and this is what Lane told me. The hoodie girl had approached her and asked if she knew Nikki, and Lane did, but did not comment. Nikki was a drug dealer who was allowed to operate out of Newhouse for sometime because she knew how to manipulate the staff and justify her odd hours. Nikki had left the shelter a week before. The hoodie girl continued her questioning and while they were talking, Nikki called Lane. Lane told Nikki about the inquiries and was asked the hoodie girls’ name. Lane told Nikki the girl was right in front of her so Nikki wanted to talk to her. Lane handed the hoodie girl the phone and backed off. That was it. I went to the staff to express my concerns about someone being able to infiltrate Newhouse with such ease. This lack of security was of a grave concern considering many women there had men that were actively pursuing them. Lane also went to the staff and told them of her encounter with hoodie girl. The next day we were all told that hoodie girl did not exist and that there was never a breech in security. I knew it was a lie, but held my opinion to myself, because it was more important that the women felt safe, than for me to be “right”. A couple of days later they exited Lane on a Confidentiality Breech because she gave hoodie girl contact with Nikki. If hoodie girl did not exist how could there be a breech? Everyone knew that they had been looking for a reason to exit Lane and used this encounter as an excuse. Lane was put out the next morning. Her sister took her in. With neither woman being healed from their traumatic childhood it did not work out and Lane found herself again back out on the street alone, struggling with a re-emerging addiction and feelings of defeat and worthlessness. All of this because Newhouse did not want to admit to its’ failure to keep the premises secure. My friend died by way. She contracted H1N1 and died. Xxxx is now in the care of her sister and husband. Would Lane have contracted H1N1 if she was still at Newhouse? Doubtful…It seems a high price to pay for having “ideas” and expressing them when invited. It seems a high price to pay because Munsey was having an off day.

I can give you story after story of women thrown out onto the street in fear of their abusers finding them and killing them. I can tell you story after story of confused children shuffled out by weeping mothers. I can tell you story after story of women and children hiding in their rooms in fear of failing somehow and being ask to leave. Of women saying good bye to newfound friends and their children, as they packed up what little they have left, what little they are allowed to bring in, and walk out the door. None having a safe place to go, otherwise they would not have been there in the first place. Some feel forced to have to go back to their abuser rather than face life on the street with their children. Some will face life on the street rather than go back to their abuser. Life on the street is hard enough. Can you imagine living it with someone out there looking for you to harm you?

I overheard a conversation between upper management. It went something like this. “We really don’t want these addicts here. I hate druggies. They are all the same.” Strange that these people are considered as ‘experts’ in their field and they haven’t grasped the basic truth, that addiction and abuse go hand in hand! Why has no one told them it is NOT alright to punish people because they have a disease...The disease of addiction. That you cannot put women and children lives on the line because you do not approve of their behavior.

For a moment wear our shoes and walk in them. We are beaten, raped, strangled, stalked, pimped, exploited, used, burned, slapped, run over, stabbed, shot and left for dead. WE ARE MURDERED. There are the children that suffer, that are beaten, abused, raped and hurt. We are helpless in our current state. We are broken. Feel how it is to be empty, numb, sad, terrified, confused, unloved and desperate. We are black, white and all the colors in between. We are rich, we are poor. We are educated, illiterate, genius and challenged. We are victims not criminals. We need for you to stand up for us, not hide us and our issues because it makes you uncomfortable. We need love, not hate. This is our world too. We are humans with human needs and feelings…..and human rights.

I want to know why my tax dollars, why my family’s tax dollars are being poured into a program that only perpetuates further abuse. Why, after so many complaints and investigations, this place has not been turned over to people who are good at what they do and have a real heart for the women who seek help. There are not enough beds for the women and children who desperately need help. Why would you allow such precious space to be so grossly misused? Why do you continue to support these people who further abuse?

What are you going to do? How many of these women and children will have to chose between a life on the street and a life of abuse? Someone has to start somewhere to stop this gross abuse of power and terrible waste of funds. It starts here with you, right now.

Help me, help them, help us.

"I'm Tired"

2010-12-30T18:53:00.000-08:00

“How are you feeling?” concerned family members inquired over and over during our very recent family reunion. “ok” has become my standard reply......because the truth always evokes a blank stare or that trapped I gotta go look, or the worse one "advice".

I don’t even think about my answer anymore because I always feel the same, tired. I use to have youthful healthy replies like great! Wonderful! Well! Terrific! but this last year all that has changed as the Hep C virus overtakes my body. Now I look stunned and worn out and can only manage the feeble answer that says it all. “I am tired”. When I tell someone I have Hep C they almost always offer up “I knew/know this guy/girl that had/has Hep C and they…….” Now the outcome of their fate is always one of two scenarios. They either are still alive or they are dead. When people are “encouraging” me with their stories and the person they are speaking of has died with it they hardly ever tell me the end of the story and more often than not look embarrassed after they tell me that person has gone through treatments…..It goes something like this..” My Uncle such and had Hep C. He did those treatments and did real well. (sheepish, sad look)” . “How are they doing now?” I inquire. “They died". Somehow I don’t feel encouraged...

Somehow the lyrics of a country song keep bouncing around in my head. “Everybody wants to go to Heaven, but nobody wants to go now”……

written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Where is Your Chest Hair Dude?

2010-12-28T16:14:00.000-08:00

He appeared and took my breath. Even more beautiful than in my dreams….. Walking toward me, smiling, gorgeous, my husband reached out for me. I stood unsure, afraid and turned my face away as he tried to kiss me. I sat down. He looked at me, confused, and sat across from me. Somehow his prison whites looked spectacular on him, but something was different… After a few moments, like a light bulb going on in my head “click” …Where is your chest hair dude? He was shaven, no hair on that chest where through endless pain I had once laid my head for comfort. Where is your chest hair dude? My mind screamed. “What is that around your neck?” I ask with as much innocence as I could muster. “Nothing” was the defensive reply. “Yes, there is something! Is that a necklace?” “Yeah,” coupled with the ‘deer in the headlights’ look. “Where did you get it?” I interrogated. “This guy made it for me” flat, embarrassed, all revealing. “Some guy made it for you?” I practically screamed. I stopped right there and released my claim to my husband. My mind shut down and my soul flew away hurt beyond healing and all I wanted to scream was “WHERE IS YOUR CHEST HAIR DUDE?” Instead I rose from the table and bought us both a soda.

Merry Christmas from Around the World

2010-12-26T06:31:00.000-08:00

I made this video late Christmas evening 2010. The "American" children featured here are my grandchildren. Please leave your thoughts on this page. I want to know..

A Letter to My Mother in Law.....

2010-12-23T22:53:00.000-08:00

A Letter to
My Mother in Law.....

Psalm 25:16-20 (NIV) Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. [17] The troubles of my heart have multiplied; free me from my anguish. [18] Look upon my affliction and my distress and take away all my sins. [19] See how my enemies have increased and how fiercely they hate me! [20] Guard my life and rescue me; let me not be put to shame, for I take refuge in you.

Psalm 147:3 (NIV) He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.

12/4/2010

Mrs. X;

I wrote this about four months and never sent it, but The Spirit has compelled me to do so after this mornings’ prayer. Being abandoned by Greg was the most painful event of my life. It destroyed my hope, my faith and my life. Gratefully though, I am on the mend from losing him. Only in this past week have I begun to pray again, to hope again, and to forgive. I suppose this is my way of observing Advent. My husband is dead and I cannot change that. The person that uses his body is a stranger to me and I do not wish to know him. He is vain and cares only for what he possesses. Funny my husband is dead and not forgotten and I am not dead but forgotten…..

Here is your letter written in August, near my birthday.

Mrs. X,

I have, for a long time, toyed with the idea of sharing with you, through a letter my deep sorrow at the loss of my husband Greg. Everyday seems to be a veil of tears and prayer and petition for him to come home to me. Every night I dream of him and they are so real. I wake crying and shaking. I wake in the middle of the night calling his name. He is holding me, in these dreams, and I can feel him solid around me, I can smell him, I can hear his voice. I miss him so much. This darkness of utter aloneness is worse than the darkness of the drug or the street.

I remember you telling me that I should go home to my family. Greg is my family and I am his. When we married God said “a man shall leave his mother and father and cleave unto his wife” I don’t believe this says “except Greg Tucker”. I know you love Greg and thought you knew the right way for him. I am telling you that you and your husband have done a grave disservice to Greg, me and our marriage.

Your allowance of Greg to run away from his responsibility and aiding him in his flight have denied both Greg and myself to work with God and move through the pain of our mistakes. God would have used these mistakes to make us closer to Him and closer to each other. We are now robbed of that because you insisted on giving Greg an easier way instead of God’s way.

You only know Greg’s perception on the events that took place here. Denial is the earmark of addiction; Lies, deception and playing the role as the victim is an addict’s way to avoid responsibility. It is the only way an addict can cope with the things that they do. So you must ask yourself did you base your decisions on the truth and did you base your decisions to bring Greg to your house on God’s truth? Did your actions, in regards to Greg, serve God or you or Greg? How can you assume you know what is best when you don’t even know the truth? I was there too. Did you ever consult me as his wife, or did you believe that your rights are more important than mine because you are his mother? Do you believe that I am worth nothing and can be thrown away like yesterdays trash? Do you believe that our marriage is not from God? Is this how you justify using your money as leverage to separate me and Greg? Do you think after his series of failures up here he is without fear of his future? Do you think he can withstand the thought of trying to be out here without your financial cushion? You told both him and me that you and Mr. X would deny any help unless he was there. Think about that Mrs. X. Greg is fearful, fearful enough to color his perceptions against me to hide his insecurities. You told me that a good wife stands by her husband no matter what. You have shown me that a husband is not called to that same standard.

I looked to you as a teacher and model of a Christian wife. I looked to you as mentor. You taught me well. You taught me that I am disposable, that I am not worth standing by. That if I should require help or lose my way that I am best forgotten and my husband should move on.

A marriage, Mrs. Tucker, is a sacred covenant between the man, the woman and God. It is not a covenant between the man and his parents. Greg, upon our vows, was commanded to leave his mother and father and cleave unto me. It does not say unless you and your husband disagree. It does not say only if things go great. It does not say only is Barbara behaves in a way in which we like. It does not say until Greg becomes uncomfortable. It is an absolute.

Just so you know; here is what I believe and will believe until my very last breath. That God put Greg to sleep and took his rib. From this rib He made me.

I believe that God didn’t consult Adam’s parents or Adam as to how He should make Eve. There was no wish list of features that was turned in from Adam and his parents to God. God made Eve from Adams rib in a way that was perfect for Adam. Even if sometimes Adam didn’t see it. God made Eve to be with Adam throughout his life to walk with him through it all. Bone of Adams bone, flesh of Adams flesh she is called woman because she came from man. I believe that I am created and being created each day to be the wife that God calls me to be to my husband. I believe that I am worth something. So much in fact that God called me to be with the most beautiful man I have ever known. So much that He placed in me a great love for this man. He placed in me His love. I screw it up sometimes and put my own twisted love in there. But God has told me I can do better. That He will teach me.

When Adam and Eve sinned God did not say that they where no good for each other. He put them out of the garden together and they were allowed to work through their sin together. No one came to “rescue” Adam. No one cast Eve away from her husband alone. I believe that God wanted Greg and me, like Adam and Eve, to work out our problems together. I believe that there was no other way for us to heal except God’s way. Adam and Eve shared the same sin, just like Greg and I. They were both tempted by the apple and ate of it. Tell me again how two addicts shouldn’t be together? Tell God he made a mistake then when He took two blatant apple eaters and joined their hands in union. For life. No matter what. Our vows are “in sickness and in health, till death do us part”. Oh wait a minute; I guess that only applies to the wife. The husband can leave whenever he likes and its ok.

I love you Mrs. X and I am so sorry that our life took what looked like a down turn. Really though it was just reaching the bottom which is what all addicts MUST do to get better. The bottom is NEVER pretty but you see if it was then we would stay there and not feel the absolute horror and pain of it. We would not run from it. We would die in our addiction. If you ask Greg he will tell you I use to look at him and tell him I was going to allow him to bottom out so he could be set free from the drug. And I did what I said. I held him absolutely accountable for his actions. I let our life be defined by the drugs and his love for them. He saw for the first time that he could not ever have a life, a relationship, anything good as long as he was using. The part I believe that scared him the most was he had to face the fact that he would sell anything, and I mean anything, that he would give up anything to use. He was a slave to the drug and it could take from him whatever it liked. I did not abandon him though. I stayed with him through it all. I never let go of his hand. Even when I became lost too I clung to him knowing God was with us and maybe that morning would be the morning that Greg would say to me “Let’s stop”.

If you ever want to know the truth so you know what you are supporting you can call me anytime. I always feel that I need truth so I can make informed decisions especially when I am enabling someone to run away from his responsibilities and his wife and God.

Be Blessed Merry Christmas

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Footprints in the Snow

2010-12-23T22:30:00.000-08:00

Footprints in the Snow

I want so much to write you a love letter….You knows, the type of letter that would leave you breathless, aching, and trembling in the want of me. I want to write words that heal you, move you, change your very core…..I want to write you a letter that you keep close to your heart and secretly read over and over by night light. I want to write you a letter that makes you love me more passionately than before. One that erases old hurts and raises new hope. One that echoes forever in you…..I want to pen the words that make my tears your own. So you can know this shattered desperate heart, so you can know the utter sadness that has become this broken soul.

The snow falls beautiful and terrible and without care to me and the memories she evokes. Gently in her hush she muffles my terrible screams so that even I cannot hear it except in my dreams. I see you there, next to me holding my small hand in yours, you are laughing, the winter manifest on your lashes, your hair, you kiss me….our footprints side by side, the snow making our journey visible. Today, just today, I saw my footprints walking all alone..… The snow, she keeps falling, taunting me to memory and making visible my aloneness.

I gave your things away and today, pray only today, I long with all that am to touch the sleeve of a shirt left behind by you, to smell some lingering part of you, to wrap your shirt around me, to don your pajamas pants and sleep forever in your clothes. They are gone now….like you.

Dreams, I sleep always on these snowy days to dream because in this nether world we are still one, and we are laughing, and hopeful, and in love. I live there with you and you hold my face in your hands and kiss me, your voice still calls my name like a great thunder. I hear you calling and I run and run until I find you and there in this world you run to me and grab me up in your arms and we are lovers. I am no longer lost. I wake shaking and calling to you, my arms empty and reaching out into nothing……then I see the snow, feel the pillow wet from my tears. I pretend that your tears are there too. Your tears are mixed with mine because we once again are torn apart by real life, to the sad awake life, and I will myself to sleep again so I can be with you……

My life is series of sleep and painful awakenings….I have no desire for anything that the day world holds for me. Not food, not drink, not life. I desire only to return to you in twilight because there in the slumber I live forever in your arms. Your kisses are forever mine. Your love is forever mine. We are one.

I am grieving……..

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Life interrupted

2010-12-23T19:45:00.000-08:00

This is my radio interview....enjoy!

Life interrupted

A Letter to My Husband......

2010-12-23T19:08:00.000-08:00

Tucker,

How sad was I when we hung up last night. I guess you are right. I guess it is over. So…..

I cried awhile then Laurie called me and we talked about it all. I am feeling better today and am actually going to church. I am tired of being mad at God; I am tired of being mad at me. It is time to take the next step and move on.

It is so hard to know that we love each other but cannot be together. I need to realize that there is more to life than love. I will miss you Tucker….all of rest of my life I will miss you

I love you Tucker and am sorry you cannot my truth in all of this. I am even sorrier, however, that your truth is so hateful and hurts you so badly that you have become blind. I do not want you hurting. I pray that your perception of the events changes so you can see how you were loved so very much by me that I was willing to go anywhere, do anything to keep you near me. I know what we did was not right but Tucker we both know that when we are strung out on crack that we MUST do what we do so we can survive. It comes with the drug.

I must tell you I am proud of how we were able to hang on to one another through it all. How our love actually GREW in the midst of it. It was only when the crisis was over that you withdrew your heart. How sad for you. That you forgot the passion and bought into the “story”, the events alone, with no emotionally reality attached to them. You judged the events and not the heart of the woman who followed you into hell because she could not bear to be without you. I can almost bet that never in your life will find another that is willing to die, to fight for you. That was willing to honor her vow that she had inscribed on your wedding ring:

Ruth 1:16 (New Living Translation)

¹⁶ But Ruth replied, “Don’t ask me to leave you and turn back. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God. ¹⁷ Wherever you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord punish me severely if I allow anything but death to separate us?”

I did not leave and turn back (although I wanted to badly run away and go home) you turned back. Wherever you went I went (even when it was dark and scary and pitiful and it hurt me or put me in danger) you left me behind all the time, in crack houses, on the side of the road, with Andy, and finally to Houston. I lived where you lived (under trees, shelters, the car) You would always leave the shelters and use knowing it would put us back on the street. Your people became my people (the dealers, addicted and your psycho “friends”). Your God of crack became my God (and knew I may not make it out alive). I was willing to die with you. (And death was a realistic outcome of “the life”) You were willing to judge me on the things that were necessary to keep us alive. I did not allow anyone to come between us. (Your people, the shelters, caseworkers, family) You allowed everyone to come between us. (the dealers, addicted and your psycho “friends”). I was not willing to allow anything short of death to separate us.

I kept my word……….You left me for it.

Strange how you have reacted to devotion.

Love to you Tucker

…….Always I am dreaming of you no longer dreaming of me.

Darkness Becomes Light

2010-12-23T13:00:00.000-08:00

Darkness Becomes Light

I have been lost in the dark

I have been lost in the dark….lost in my addiction….lost in my insanity, my pain, my grief. I have been lost, a throw away, a nothing. A child of the street.

A slave to the darkness was I.

Most of the time, I was invisible to the “good people”. I was junky thin, reeking of death and despair, my withdrawing body shaking. I was dying slowly in full view and they would glance quickly over me, across my face, pretending they did not see me. My fellow humans would walk past me. I did not exist. I was invisible. My sins to great even to be…….

A slave to the darkness was I.

When the “good people” did see me they forced me to become invisible again. I was not even considered human by some. I was denied a place to sit or rest. I was denied water on hot summer days when my thirst was so great I could no longer swallow and my exhausted body would almost faint. I was denied a place to refresh myself or relief myself, instead using bushes and running behind building and risking arrest for my need. Debased and ashamed I sought places to rest only to be chased away again and again with the threat of imprisonment if I did not “move on”. I was told NO you cannot come into this store, NO you cannot shield yourself from bitter wind, NO you cannot get warm here, seek shade here, or ever, ever rest. You must make yourself invisible again because you are too disgusting. You do not belong. Not fit to view or consider. You are not a human-being. You are an animal.

A slave to the darkness was I.

To some people though, I was quite visible. Predators saw me clearly even when I did my best to hide. They hunted me in the dark…..animals, hunting animals in the dark, on the street. These memories are too painful to recount. To be trapped by one of these meant rape, murder, or death…..so I spent a great deal of time running, hiding, afraid…….I’ve been raped, tortured, pimped and beaten. I have been emotional and physically used and abused. My value was reduced to my vagina and nothing else about me mattered to anyone. Some days, most of those dark days, not even to me.

A slave to the darkness was I.

I was visible to the tricks when they required sexual gratification but became invisible again after the fact. I was also invisible to them if we came across one another in public even though just days before they may have sworn to help me in any way they could. Many claimed to care, to love me, to be my friend yet only when they desired sex was I visible. Still, I welcomed them because the only relief from the physical agony of the street and my addiction was when I prostituted my body and was able to slip inside a cool or warm car. The only way I had to bath was when a John got a seedy room for an hour. I had to put back on my filthy rags, more often than not throw away my shameful underpants, always carefully hiding them somewhere in the bathroom or stuffing them in my pocket so my “client” would not witness to my personal decay. I would pass the time and cover the shame by praying “please God, let this be over soon”. I would hold on the truth that the act brought the money that I, or we needed to get more crack and that meant that soon, very soon the agonizing pain of my being, of my existence would end shortly and I would once again be numb, gratefully numb. I would finally once again be dead inside and it was only in that death of mind and spirit in which I could comfortably dwell. It was the only time I was safe from myself and my conscious.

A slave to the darkness was I.

I was visible to other addicts, other street people. They recognized my despair and loneliness and they fed on it. I would provide money, cigarettes, food and shelter and dope to those who professed to be my friend. They, in return, would make promises then vanish with all that I owned onto the darkness. Even those who said they loved me, in the end, encouraged me sell my body while they waited for me in the dark. I step from the car still lost in my own filth, reeling and in pain from yet one more act of degradation. No words of sympathy ever came. Just “how much money did you get?”, “how much dope do you want?”, then a flurry of phone calls and activity, then the tense, unbearable waiting. Finally, the dope. My body sick with the want of it. My emotions, out of control. My need to be numb, overpowering me. He moves deliberately slow….him, taking the first hit. Is it real? Is it real? Finally! My turn, his turn, my turn, his turn. On and on until there is no more. We have to have more! We cannot stop! There is no choice so out into the darkness walk I. We tell ourselves this is the last time. We will stop after this. Freezing, one more time. Raining, one more time. Blistering hot; one more time. Day or night. ; one more time. Dangerous wee hours of the morning…one…..more….time. I AM AFRAID and the addiction lies “One more time”.

A slave to darkness was I.

A slave to darkness was I.

I remember, very clearly my reemergence from the dark. It was when I became visible to people like you. You know, those of you who see me as a troubled person, an addict, someone who needs help and deserves love. Those of you who see me as a lost daughter, a lost sister, a lost mother. Those of you whose love of transcends those narrow, cruel societal views of me. Those of you who look into my face and say “I see you and you are beautiful to me” with an understanding smile. Those of you who dared to touch this leper. Those of you whose loving actions said “I love you and I am here to help because you deserve help, not hate.”

A child of The Light am I.

I did not become visible to myself all at once. Perhaps the pain of who I had become would have killed me where it so…..I could not look in the mirror at first, even to try to straighten myself out to look presentable. I was afraid of that lost, hunted person in the mirror. That person who was trying to kill the real me. The person who was burying me alive, coldly deaf to her/my screams of terror. You saw these things, you Children of The Lord, and you continued to reach out. To smile, to look in my eyes…To Remind Me Who I Am…..and slowly, oh so slowly, I began this journey to remembrance. Slowly, one meal, one bath, one meeting, one service, one word of hope, one action of love at a time you Children, you Saints, brought me to The Light. To Love. To God.

A child of The Light am I.

Sometimes I acted as if I did not hear you. Sometimes I believed I was not worthy and ran away, back deep into darkness. But always, even when I ran I hid, like a starving child, your love, deep in my heart and in the darkest of dark I would remember this love and yearn for more….so your love acted as light to guide me back to His Children. I learned to seek you as you sought me. I learned to seek God……I learned to see myself through first your eyes, then His eyes. Then I learned they were the same. His heart was in your heart and I began to BECOME. I began to heal, I began to change….I REMEMBERED WHO I AM…..A Child of God. Worthy. You taught me who I am. You showed me God’s Love so in a way that I could understand, then embrace then desire, then seek then live. You forgave me and that taught me God forgives me

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

http://www.onevoicetoendslavery.com/profiles/blogs/a-slave-to-the-darkeness-was-i

Sandra Passed....

2010-12-23T12:47:00.000-08:00

My friend, Sandra died on October 20th, 2009. I received this news at 12:45 pm via text message. It simply said “Sandra has passed”.

I didn’t know Sandra long. I didn’t know Sandra from childhood. I knew of Sandra’s feelings about her childhood. She shared with me her inward experiences of the pain as well as the sad, terrible and lonely stories from those days. I believe that this makes the child in her more real to me than if I was with her then.

I know Sandra, the brave and tattered little girl who fought injustice, because she placed her in my heart.

I did not know Sandra when she married nor did I know her during her many attempts at being loved by a man......but I knew of her marriages, her lost loves and her experiences of constant abuse, abandonment, disappointment and heartbreak. I know Sandra, the broken, abused young woman who never gave up on love, because she placed her in my heart.

I did not know her oldest son but knew about his life. She allowed me entrance into their world of abandonment and sorrow. She told me of her inability to be the mother she desired to be. I know Sandra the desperate, abandoned lost, young mother who bravely continued to try because she placed her in my heart.

I know from our daily life together, firsthand, the son of her heart, Michael, and learned through careful observation and with admiration of their great love for one another. She blessed me with entrance into her inner world, Into her inner self.....her holy of holies.

I know from her who she was in the past, I knew from her actions who she was in the present and who she was becoming So although I did not know her long, I know her well. She shared with me who and what she desired to be. And I think we will all agree: Sandra desired, above all, to be loved.

Sandra has passed....

Looking back I think how strange it is that three little words represent so much in both the past, now and our future. An entire life has come and gone. My friend, my sister, her existence just...gone.... I am not sure I believe that!

Sandra. Sandra Myles. Sandra Lane. To me, friend and teacher. To me utterly beautiful. I can honestly say when I think of Sandra one word comes to my mind that describes her perfectly:

Love

“Sandra has passed” flies before me.....

Sandra lived her Love Spirit naturally and gracefully. She gave me this love freely as only one who has learned the one of the greatest lesson in life can give. That great lesson is What we desire the most in life is what we are required to give to others. That we give love even when it is not returned. That we give it because we know, often through our own lack of receiving, the importance of love. We give what we desire the most to others.

Her very vibration was that of love. She asked for it and extended it with every breath. She was acutely aware that she, that all of us, require love the same way we require air. That without it life was just that. Life. She knew, instinctively, that in order to be ALIVE, to truly feel ALIVE, we must learn the power of giving and receiving love. It is what are all designed to do. She pursued love and her ideals of it with a passion. Always talking and encouraging her version of the “Sisterhood,” always striving to be there for me and for others, always letting me know she loved me, appreciated me and valued our time together. Sandra was the great giver of this pure water and holy water. It poured forth from her and I eagerly, thirstily drank of it.

Through her I learned to speak words of love. To not be shy in saying I love you, to hug warmly without reserve, to give, without fear that which I myself require the most.....Love.

How beautiful it is to me to know that I was blessed by the short time I was allowed to walk in the warm light of Sandra’s life. That I was blessed by her intimate sharing of her spirit. That I was given such grace through knowing the heartbreak and joy of her life. I learned valuable lessons of courage, humility and of life beyond survival. Her example showed me that I could and should ask questions, learn about and change my inner-self. Her ways taught me to listen, embrace new thoughts and ways of being. She showed me how beautiful it was to admit when and where I went wrong, where others had wronged me, and to embrace the truth of my life with courage. I learned, through her private “sisterhood,” to stand in the light of truth and experience joy and not to selfishly hold this knowledge and joy for myself...but to pass it freely forward to all that I meet.

How blessed I am that God brought us together, that we spent part of our journey together. No, Sandra has NOT PASSED. The dust that is her body has passed, but the true Sandra, the everlasting Sandra, the spirit that animated the clay that housed her, is alive and always will be. She lives in me and you, she lives between us, every time we extend or receive love. She is alive and here right now in and around all of us and she is laughing and she is dancing... And she is telling us “I am loved and so are you.”

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Trafficking, Truth and the Abuse of Texas Prisoners

2010-12-23T12:20:00.000-08:00

Trafficking, Truth and the Abuse of Texas Prisoners

The incarceration of addicts and many other non-violent is Human Trafficking in its’ lowest form. Money is being made, billions of dollars through “legal means”. Prisoners in Texas work in these camps for no pay, in businesses that profit from the goods or services produced. They have no choice, they are held captive. They routinely are tortured, beaten raped, abused …

I want to let you know why I was sent to prison before you read this. I want you know what crime I was guilty of. I was in a car with many people and we were pulled over. The police officer found a miniscule fleck of crack cocaine on the floorboard where I was sitting by spraying the carpet with an agent that renders this drug blue. The piece they found was no bigger than the head of a pin. Texas sentenced me to six months state jail for this heinous offense that in other states would not even warrant a misdemeanor charge. Texas deemed it felonious…

I was, admittedly, an addict. I know I needed help. What I was not is a criminal. I am now drug free but I must tell you I will never be free from the memories of surviving a corrupt and dangerous system that exist to profit off the flesh of the addicted, the poor and the broken.

Arriving at Plane State Jail

After being held for twenty-four hours in a freezing, over-crowded Harris County Jail cell, we were roughly hand-cuffed in pairs and loaded onto one of the many Texas Department of Correction buses. We bumped endlessly down the road to, what my imagination and several had told me, Hell. I watch the familiar scenery of my forty years fly by through the meshed window, mourning the beauty of the sunrise and thought “will I ever see my home again?” As we moved into unfamiliar scenery I began to doze off, not only exhausted from the ordeal of the holding cell, but needing desperately to escape the reality of my existence. I pulled my coat warmly around me and gratefully tumbled into the arms of Morpheus.

I woke when the bus came to a stop. We had arrived. This was the infamous place that stole your name and reduced you to a number. This was the place where you could just as easily die at the hands of an inmate as at the hands of a prison guard if you made a wrong move. This is where I would be spending the next several months of my life and I was deeply afraid. The Constantine barb wire that ran endlessly around the fences might as well been wrapped around my very soul.

I stepped off the bus carefully so I didn’t trip the woman they had cuffed me with. I felt tender towards her and was especially careful to be gentle. She was of a simpler mind than me and often appeared confused and lost. One of the prison guards freed us from our handcuffs. She looked at me with swollen, tear-filled eyes and simply wandered off to the sidelines. Then, unbelievably, we were ordered to take off our coats. As I obeyed, I was immediately knocked senseless by a huge gust of icy wind. Even though I had tried to brace myself against the impact of the wall of cold, my breath caught and my tears of pain and fear froze on my face. I watched helplessly as they took each woman’s coat and threw them back on the bus. Fearfully I watched two male prison guards with shotguns pace back and forth in front us, screaming obscenities at various women. As I watched what little warmth left in my body escape as frozen breath, I thought, “This is me. This is all that is left of me and even IT is leaving me, freezing and dying in this terrible moment. The guards forced us to stand on a line beside the bus. I watch in wonder as more buses arrived and more women stood bleak and coatless beside their bus. Over one hundred arrived that day.

After about half an hour in this frigid, surreal reality, we were allowed to enter the large steel and cement structure that housed the yet unknown prison administrative process, inoffensively called “Intake.” While the building itself provided little relief from general cold, it did shield us from the bitter winds. I was unprepared, though, for the emotional and psychological effects this process was designed to inflict.

“Intake” was both terrifying and humiliating. Already under tremendous physical and emotional strain, we were required to form a long line and strip naked in mass. Many of the women cried out loud, others wept silently, all covering their bodies as best they could from foreign eyes and to guard against the bone chilling cold. Most of us looked down and away in shame. Concentration camp movie scenes had nothing on this. As for me, I stood erect, stepped out of my clothes and folded them neatly, laying them at my feet. I quietly comforted the young girl beside me who was close to hysteria. I made eye contact with other women to show them quietly that they need not be ashamed. “Stand up straight, keep your head up, this is only a moment and it will be all right” I whispered to the weak and to the fearful. Some actually did, others managed a small smile, crying, but still a smile. I think I needed it more than they did.

The female guards picked up bras and panties, dropping each set back at the feet of the woman to whom they belonged after a thorough inspection. A tall, thick prison guard commanded us to take our orange county uniforms and throw them into a pile across the room. All of us naked, many still crying and as always, freezing, we complied and reformed our pathetic tear-streaked line on a long wall. I began to notice that all the guards had on very warm coats, while we were naked. Another heavy-set one began to scream at us to stop covering ourselves. That it wasn’t THAT cold. She stood face to face with several girls and leaned in so close she almost touched her nose to theirs and shouted for them to stop crying. She shouted into their eyes that they were no good stupid bitches. She shouted into their hearts that they deserved what they got. She shouted into their souls that they were so bad nobody loved them anymore. I watched in silent horror as this evil being shouted these wounded, broken spirits into Sheol. Several broke down and became hysterical, but still she forced them to stand up and look at her by threatening them with a night stick and stun gun. She bellowed to all of us that we needed to be afraid, that we belonged to the State of Texas now and she could do whatever the hell she wanted to us. We all stood stock still, arm at our sides, the basic need to warm ourselves lost to the terror of this woman. As if staged, suddenly, one very young girl fell to the ground in a seizure. I moved to help her but was shoved roughly against the cinderblock wall. Every offender looked on in horror as the naked woman-child convulsed violently on the floor. My attention was riveted to her painfully contorted face and sightless eyes as they moved in and out of view. I watch in horrid fascination as she skittered across the icy floor. I silently prayed for her as she unknowingly performed this strange and terrible dance, each part of her private self exposed then gone, exposed then gone. The only sound echoing through the room was the THUD… THUD… THUD… of her head striking the cement floor. At last, mercifully, her body lay still. The terrible drumming stopped. The prison medics arrived and dumped her unceremoniously unto a stretcher, her battered body twisted, arm under her back, legs askew and head lolling partially over the side. I noticed there was no blanket to cover her. Were they going to transport her to the hospital exposed like that for everyone to see, I wondered? As they carried her out a back door, an older female prison guard walked up to the stretcher and gently covered the girl with her own coat. Bless this woman I silently prayed, bless this woman for her compassion.

Still lined up against the chilly wall, naked and freezing, we stood utterly lost in our own horror. The screaming guard demanded that we turn to face the wall, squat and cough. We did so one at time as she slowly passed each one of us. Stand up end over at the waist and spread your butt cheeks was the next command. We each in turn performed this most embarrassing task while a brutal rubber gloved women inspected our most intimate parts with a flashlight seeking contraband. Being forced to display ones’ self, regardless of our feelings, to a power that would cause us harm if we refused, was like being raped. Finally, what we thought must be worst, was over and we were allowed to turn around and put back on our bra and panties. Relief spread through each one of us as we covered ourselves in haste. A few even cracked a quiet joke here and there and others giggled gently.

We walked in line into a nearby holding cell to wait for processing, clothes and coats. We sat on steel benches in our thin panties, the freezing cold relentlessly assaulting us. When we attempted to huddle together for warmth, we soon learned that this was against many as yet unknown prison policies. There was one particularly nasty guard, constantly screaming that we would go to “the hole” if we continued to “touch each other.” She used the words “fucking queers” quite often in our direction as she happily paraded back and forth in her warm down coat, hat, gloves, and winter boots.

We waited like meat in cold storage as they called us out one by one. Each girl would walk up to the metal desk and a box of their personal items was presented and dumped aggressively on the table. Each thing was held up by the guard and as the woman looked longingly at it she was told she could not have it. They asked if she wanted it thrown away, mailed home or someone could pick it up at visitation. Pictures of children and lovers and letters all hit the garbage with regularity when woman confessed over and over for all to hear that she had no money for stamps to mail it home, that she had no home to mail it to, that no one would be visiting her.

Many, many women watched helplessly as what little they had left in the world was thrown unmercifully in to the trash. After each was stripped of any and all personal items that arrived with them from county jail, they were handed an official looking yellow paper that declared that they are now chattel of the State of Texas and have been renamed offender number such and such. At that time each was advised to memorize it, because no longer did you have a name, you were a number.

My turn finally came and I stepped to the metal desk. I watched gratefully as they boxed up my personal letters and photographs, my art and my poetry. I had the money to mail them home, I had a place to mail them to and I had a mother who would visit me regularly. I felt nothing but resolve as they handed me the horrid yellow paper that took away my name. Only after all of us had been reduced to offender were we led away to our temporary housing assignment. I marched along in this silently long bitter line of hopeless, nameless women. Our hands clasped behind our back, heads down and eyes forward, as prison procedure demanded. All I could do was wish that I could shove my hands in the pocket of the puke green coat they provided me during intake that was riddled with huge holes with all of the stuffing pulled out. And pray as our ill-fitting plastic sandals slapped out a haunting rhythm that echoed through my head like a march of the living dead.

Written by: Barbara Rhyne-Tucker
Edited by: Rhonda McLearen

A Christian Take on Gay Marriage

2010-12-23T11:52:00.000-08:00

A Christian Take On Gay Marriage

I came across this post the other day on Facebook: “Support the Constitutional Amendment to Protect Marriage: This is a group for everyone who believes that marriage, as a tradition and as the fundamental bedrock of society, should be preserved as between one man and one woman and a constitutional amendment.”

….hmm….interesting….I thought so innocently I clicked the link that mysteriously appeared on my home page and read the first comment: “ugghh what are we gonna do with all these gays?” WHAT!?! Who is this guy, Hitler? “Amen to that!” writes the next person. Oh Lord, gay bashing Christians, what have I stumbled on? Surely people don’t confuse the rights of gays to marry as a Christian issue? Most people just need more rational information to make the right choices, so I decided to set them straight.

So I thoughtfully type: “Oh my! Same sex marriages are an important legal action to ensure the rights of both parties are honored in the event of legal and civil matters. It is not about Christian marriage, it is about legal rights and lawful representation.” A small little voice inside of my head warns me, but with a click of mouse I hit “send.” I dismissed the voice and now am smug and satisfied that I have done my civic and Christian duty to show these people the truth.

In just a few seconds my inbox alerts me that I have mail, then more mail. What’s this about? There are seven or eight emails about comments in response to mine. Oh joy, enlightened people, all voicing their intelligent agreement! Eagerly I go to the first email and am instantly slammed into an unexpected storm of hate.

“Adam and Eve!!! Not Adam and Steve!!!” declares the first post. Cute, I think, but over-used. I knew I should have listened to that inner voice. The next guy comments “One man one wife Gods law. And no one gets away with breaking Gods law, NO ONE!” What kind of statement was this? Does this person view God as their personal hit man? What a hater! The next guy writes “Amen!” Amen? Amen to what you moron? Aggravated but still hopeful, I continue to read: “Barbara is misguided!” I’m misguided! You’re the misguided one mister! I move to the next one. “Barbara, same sex legal rights are what’s important, not same sex marriage. Use your brain!!!” Use my brain!?! That is what I said in the first place, freakin’ weirdo! What’s next - the crazy lady in every crowd who cries hysterically “What about the children?” And next, “rights? So will they have the same right as having/adopting children? How will the child understand having two dads, moms? How will the child introduce his "parents" one day? Meet my dad and err...dad?” THE CRAZY LADY HAS ARRIVED!!! “Marriage wasn't invented by the legal system, Barbara; it was made as a covenant between a man and a woman by GOD!” What kind of statement is that? I suppose when God brought Eve to Adam he had a contract and a minister? Then Leslie says: “couples of same sex already have those rights Barb. No need to have more. The word "marriage" is an all-important concept, not a must for health insurance, wills, or estate inheritance, etc. The main reason some gays need to have a "marriage" is to remove the meaning for Christians worldwide and to include an "anti-Christ" life-style into its meaning.” OK! If gay couples had the same rights why is there such a drive to legalize gay marriage? OK, NOW WE HAVE THE ANTI-CHRIST THING - when all else fails it must be SATAN! It can’t be that you’re a brain dead idiot with the thinking capacity of a plant! “This nation is founded on CHRISTIAN BELIEFS and in those is NO GAY LIFESTYLE. I ban same sex marriage... god made Adam and Eve - not Adam and Fred - or Eve and Mary....If we allow same sex marriage to be legal what’s next - allowing civil rights to pedophiles? Heaven forbid! Why should we allow special rights based on who you have sex with? This is not a racial issue!” WHAT? First, capitalize God if you love Him so much; second, what do gay rights have to do with child-molesters? I doubt upholding gay rights will lead to pedophiles having the right to marital bliss with children. Yep we’ve got it all here with this loony-tune! God, Children and Country…Oh! Let’s not forget the oh-so-clever word play on Adam and Eve. And I don’t even understand the need to bring up racism. God help me, I think I am having an aneurism!

Really angry now, I read the next one. “De una costilla ...Hombre y mujer nos creó Dios... para complementarnos y uno al otro expresar lo mas sublime su amor.” I have no idea what this says, so in my mind I decide it says “Barbara, you are brilliant! I will never be the same after reading what you wrote. I was, until I was blessed with your words, an anti-gay terrorist who has taken many innocent lives. Because of you I have decided to give my immense fortune to support the legalization of Gay Marriages. As soon as I post this I am turning myself into the police. You are indeed a truly beautiful person”. Lost in this fantasy, I read on. “Barbra your prolly a faggot yourself.” Bastard name calling closet queen! “Judgment is bad and yall r being partial against gays god says to love everyone equally just talk to them about god and don’t shun them” Thank you Emily! The next one declares “You are all a bunch of Bigots” Tell it! Looking for more light I find “I am for a man and woman marriage but ya’ll are treating them like they r things and not human beings who have feelings.” Amen! Then dreadfully; “AIDS is a gift to mankind from the gay community! Homosexuality is sin and the wages of sin is death!” This one sickens me. I take a breath and move on: “I don't mean to sound bad, but God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve. People need to get there bible and read and get to know the Lord before it’s too late. Sorry to friends that are. They already have the same legal rights as heterosexual couples. They want the title of marriage because they think that with it will come social acceptance for their perverse lifestyle.” Did she really just call an entire section of society perverts? She must be Southern! “They are perverted, bless their hearts, but we should be nice anyway.” My exasperation is mounting again…“Marriage: the institution and process that should precede parenting. This should be protected from being slandered and altered so as to fit the political and/or financial desires of other unnatural influences.” So couples who choose not to have children or are unable to have children should not marry? What sense does that make, you dense person! Every whack job in the country is on this thread spewing hate and intolerance and they think I am the misguided one?!?! Idiot! Jerk! Hater! I’ll show you gay bashers!

In a temper, I type an onslaught of corrective advice to these brainless people who have nothing better to do with their time and whose IQs are obviously not high enough to contemplate issues weightier than “Amen!” Just before I made my opinion permanent for all to see the Spirit moved in me, quietly, and said “read what you wrote Barbara”. So I did. Well, I reasoned, it isn’t very good and it IS a bit strong, so I calmed down and wrote: “-David...I thought that is what I said....Same sex marriage is one step that ensures same sex rights. It can be very complicated and expensive in regards to legal issues. Legal Union - is this a better term? It would simplify things for them, not to mention it honors their right to love and be with whom they chose. -Leslie, again I say...this is not a Christian issue. This is a matter of legalities and rights. The New Testament sets the stage for forgiveness, tolerance and the power to repent if we choose to follow Christ. Only Christians are expected to follow the path. Our government was indeed built on a moral code that Christians adopted as in "Thou shall not kill," etc., but it is not built and founded on Christianity. It is built and founded on the freedom to worship and live without overbearing government interference. Our government is not meant to force us to be Christian, it is meant to serve ALL the people. It is meant to make certain we all remain free and are able to live our lives within a safe and secure homeland. Gay and lesbian unions threaten no one. They hurt no one. Your theory says Catholics (since some Christians do not consider them Christian), Jews, Muslims, Buddhist, etc must live for and worship Christ. It seems to me you are asking government to take on the job of The Holy Spirit and that is idolatry - worshipping a false God and not trusting in Our Savior. “If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. ”1 John 1:8“ But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger . When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her." John 8:7””

A new post pops up: ““1 Corinthians 6:12; …you may say, "I am allowed to do anything." But, I reply, "Not everything is good for you." And even though "I am allowed to do anything," I must not become a slave to anything. Believing the lie that anything other than marriage as one woman and one man is ok is allowing yourself to become a slave to the world and the way the ….” Clearly she is not listening. I should never have thrown scriptures in! Then another; “Romans 12:2, …do not copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think.” Scriptural arguing, how I hate it. No one becomes enlightened when the only desire is to win. Blane comes back with: “And then Jesus said to the woman "go and sin no more." The Bible clearly states that homosexuality is a sin. You make some very good points Barbara but the fact of the matter is to re-name marriage as a civil union or legal union just washes down the importance of marriage. We already have a divorce rate of higher than 50 percent. Make no mistake; I know that it’s no better within the church. As a society we don't see marriage as sacred or worthwhile. We need to protect the sanctity of marriage and keep it one man and one woman. And I am not judging anybody, that is not my job, it’s God’s. History repeats itself...Rome, Sodom and Gomorra....you get my point. If we don’t turn from sin and turn to God, He will take care of it.” Some very good points Blane, but your argument is still lame although I hold respect for you and your approach.

Calmer now, the Spirit again is moving in me. So I carefully type “Thank you Blane for being gentle yet corrective...You leave my heart open to consider what you have so correctly and peacefully shown me. I am not suggesting we change the reality of Christian marriage, which is a holy covenant between God and the Man and Woman…I am saying why not develop another way, other than “marriage” that allows gay couples to protect themselves and to be “legally recognized” as a “legal couple.” There are millions of marriages that are not Christian yet are legal. There are millions of unions made outside the churches. These are legal agreements, not Godly covenants. Non-Christians cannot operate under the same laws as we do. They are not capable because they do not have the Holy Spirit indwelt. Until they do, they cannot make the same walk as we do. God will judge, this is certain, but He asks me to let Him make my life an example of Him and His love. Can I do this if I am busy judging others? Am I the example Christ calls me to be when I treat people harshly and with disdain and hate? If my intolerance repels them, am I doing what God calls me to do? Love conquers evil. No, this is not what Jesus would do.”

A few minutes later the first comment on my post comes up “It is a very Christian matter...we have stayed silent too long. Prayer taken out of schools, God removed from whatever they wish, and so frankly, America is no longer a nation under God but a nation needing God. When do we stand and say enough....without God we will fail and rampant sin will get worse and then what? I have a brother who got married to his partner in California and he has disowned me cause I told him it is wrong. Sin is sin. If you murder you go to jail....that is a sin in the word of God. Homosexuality is clearly defined by God also. Read your word.” I have yet to meet a silent Christian!!! No wonder her brother hates her. She is a legalistic ass! The next: “gays are sick and wrong.” Here we go again! And bigots are stupid and offensive! Bracing myself against the rage, I read “Gays pay taxes too - that they do not have the same rights as heterosexuals to legal union (which is defined by the state as marriage) is discrimination. There needs to be compromise here - heterosexuals need to lead the way to a fair outcome that allows homosexuals the same rights & homosexuals need to lay off the "marriage" moniker so as to not offend religious beliefs. The solution, marriage becomes only a religious union & the states change the word "marriage" to "legal union" in the law books. Would this satisfy everyone? No - but it would be fair & less contentious.” I then post “I think I'm in love with Russell...” Finally, oh Praise God, finally, a really smart one appears. “I agree with Barbara on this one!!” Nuff said! I logoff, still angry but feeling slightly vindicated!

To blow off the last of my steam (and to further confirm my rightness in this matter), I made many phone calls to friends and family with much ranting and raving about ‘those narrow minded Christians.’ During those phone calls a voice rises up in me and asks gently “what are you?” I kept pushing it way to vent my anger and sense of injustice. Finally when my overblown offense abates, the voice becomes louder, gently asking me again “What are you?” This quote comes to mind: “Wise are those who look at others with the same generosity they offer themselves, and at themselves with the same critical eye they have for others.” Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, it hits me - I am a hypocrite! This terrible insight goes straight to my heart as THE TRUTH ABOUT ME. I am angry with myself more than the people who commented. How can I preach tolerance when I myself am intolerant of people who do not share my views? The level of judgment in my internal dialog while reading the comments of those people frightens me. The very foundation of my Christian walk begins to shift immediately. Then, once again, the Spirit lovingly tells me “Well done.”

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Edited by Rhonda McLearen

Hush Child

2010-12-23T11:25:00.000-08:00

This is a story of a life with an alcoholic father. It is a combination of many womens’ stories. It is more frequent than we like to admit. My friend Rhonda and I worked on this together. We consider it the first of many memories coming from many women’s lives. We will continue to share these stories as time permits… Please read them and comment.

"Hush Child, or We’ll All Be Killed"

DEEANNNAAA! BAM! BAM! BAM!! OPEN THIS DOOR!!!!

Suddenly the tranquility of the afternoon at my grandparents' house erupts into a nightmare again. My father begins to beat his mother's front door violently with his. I believe the whole thing is, at any minute, about to come crashing in he is striking it so hard. All of us - my whole family, brothers, sister, mother - petrified inside. My grandparents run wildly, securing additional doors and windows to prevent another way in. A familiar drill. Familiar, but no less terrifying.“He’s drunk again” the grown ones whisper. He’s drunk again. Oh God…

BITCH!!!!! SLUT!!!!!!! WHORE!!!!!!! WHO HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING BEHIND MY BACK!!!!!!!

My three tender years of experience cannot understand what "Johnnie’s drunk again" means really. What I do understand is that Daddy being "drunk again" means violence. It means my mother being mercilessly beaten for imagined crimes against him. It means police and hospitals; and oceans and oceans of tears. In the aftermath comes the strange silence where no one speaks of it. All pretending the nightmare events of "Johnnie being drunk again" never occur. Daddy himself sheepish, or disappearing all together. Mother battered, bruised, weeping, and the family gathered in strange silent vigil.

BAM! BAM! … DDDDEEEEEEAAAAAANNNNAAA!!! YOU BITCH!!!! BAM! BAM!!BAM!!! I HATE YOU, YOU BITCH!!! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!!!!!!

“He’s got a gun!” my grandfather shouts from the door. “Johnnie!” my brave Papa shouts, “put that gun away! I’m calling the police! You aint comin’ in here drunk!”

FUCK HER!!!! I AM GOING TO KILL THAT BITCH!!!!! BAM! BAM!! BAM!!!

I wet my pants. I begin to scream. My Grand-Mama grabs me up and whisks me to a closet under the stairs. She crawls to the very back with me and covers us with blankets in the pitch black. “No matter what, Lucy, you stay here. Don’t you move” she commands me. “Grand-Mama loves you. You stay here no matter what happens. Hush child, or we’ll all be killed”.

DEAAANNNNAAAA!!! BITCH!!! YOU SLUT!!!! YOU COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW OR I’LL KILL EVERYBODY!!! BAM! BAM! BAM!!!!!

Grand-Mama tries to remove me from her arms so she can leave to help, but I cling to her, deeply afraid. The blackness of the closet eats away at my sanity. Her breath comes fast and hard. I could smell the terror on her skin, in her sweat. Rivers of it ran off her trembling body. Rivers of sweat ran off mine. I hear her fright in her quavering, unreal voice. I hear mine in my own helpless whimpering. There is more shouting from my father … more hammering at the door, more filthy yelling from the yard, straight into my Mama’s heart.

DEEEAAANNNAAA!!! BITCH!!! YOU SLUT!!!!I AM COMING IN THERE AND I AM GOING TO BEAT THE CRAP OUT IF YOU!!! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!!! BAM! BAM! BAM!!!!!

BAM!!! BAMBAMMBAMBAMMMBAAAAMMMM!!!!!!!!!

BIIIIIIITTTTTTTTCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I bury my head deep into my grandmother’s breast in the darkness. We cling together, she and I, lost in fear. The frantic running of feet up the stairs. My Mama? My brothers and sister? Were they going to hide like me and my Grand-Mama? My Papa, was he hiding them safely away, as I was hidden? Would he stay with them and keep them safe? Why did Daddy do this? I weep silently remembering my Grand-Mama’s warning. I listen intently to all the terrible noises. I will not make a sound so Grand-Mama will not be killed. So my family will not be killed.

BAMMMMBAMMMBBBBAAAMMMM!!! DEEEEAAAANNNNNNNNNAAAA! COME OUT HERE YOU BITCH SO I CAN SHOOT YOUR STUPID HEAD OFFFFF!!!!!!!!

Silently tears flow from my Grand-Mama heart onto my head, they Baptise me in her pain. They stream down my face mixing with my own. Our fear, our pain, our love is one. She is me and I am her and I can’t separate the two of us. My heart/her heart hammering in my chest, my breath/her breath is too fast …We are nauseated, we are dizzy, we are petrified. Sirens wail coming closer and closer.

BITCH!!!! BITCH!!! BAM!!!!!! BAMMMM!!!!! BAM!!! BAM!!!!! BAMMMM!

CRACK!!!!

HE’S INSIDE!!!!! HE IS INSIDE!!!!!

Terrified screams erupt from deep within the house!!! Is it my mother? Is it my sister? Is it all of us? Someone is being killed! I begin to scream hysterically in response. "He is killing us! Heiskillingusheiskillingus!!!" My mind is lost in the overwhelming fear. My head is spinning out of control and suddenly all goes blank.

I wake in my grandmother’s bed to the smells of dinner. I hear the hushed voices of my family. It’s over I thought, we are all here, all safe now. Was it real? Was it a dream? It didn’t matter, because in my family, we don’t speak of it. Don’t remember it. IT isn’t real if we don’t acknowledge it. He has not killed us …… Hush child, or we’ll all be killed.

Or maybe we are already dead.

Barbara Rhyne-Tucker (writer)

Rhonda McLearen (editor)

http://janeproject.blogspot.com/2009/07/hush-child-or-well-all-be-killed.html

A Woman's Way Through the Twelve Steps

2010-12-23T10:30:00.000-08:00

A Woman's Way Through the Twelve Steps

“A Woman’s Way Through the Twelve Steps”

Essay: Describe Myself as Sane

Step Two

“Came to Believe That a Power Greater Than Ourselves Could Restore Us to Sanity”

The question is “When you think of yourself as “restored to sanity” what picture of yourself comes to mind?

There are several view points from which I could approach this question. From what perception am I taking this snap-shot? Is it a physical vision of my future and my station in it? Or is it a state of being or an approach to life? Is it asking how do I look to others or a dissertation of my desired future worldly successes? Is it a feeling? Is it self-love? Is it what I offer to others? Is it all these things?

This brings me to the first part of the second step “Came to believe that a power greater than myself ”My first inclination is to be defensive (imagine that!) and argue I do not need to come to believe, I already do. The challenge here is to admit that although I believe I do not continue “to believe” on a daily basis. My God declares I AM and he not simply who I wish Him to be. I do not have a God-du-jour, God-in-a-box, Santa-God or God-as-I-See-Him (which is only me playing God again!) or my favorite, The-God-Of-My-Own-Understanding (isn’t “my own understanding” how I ended up doing this work book in the first place?). Mine is the One True God. My God declares I AM and he is not simply who I wish Him to be. Only when I can embrace the truth on a daily basis will I allow God to kill that old man habit of only “believing” after some self-inflicted catastrophe levels me. To Yahweh Elohim I must turn. To Him I must trade my will for His.

Here’s the second part of step two: “could restore us”. I know that God could restore me. But I am not since I have never been sane…to restore me, to return to me a grant me my previous condition is still casting me into insanity. I have always been insane. I will need to reword this to “could give me”.....there.....now that make sense to me.

“What is “sanity”? It is defined as “the state of being sane; soundness of mind, good judgment, reason, rationality, sensibility, reasonableness”. I am asking myself “How will I know when I have it?” How will I know when I am ‘in the state of being sane? See this is always the problem, when I am in my insanity I don’t feel insane! It is only after the fact, when things are once again quiet that I look back and say “boy was that crazy!”, or perhaps better put “boy, am I crazy!” Even though I do not always recognize when I am shifting from the world of sanity into the desperations of insanity I know I must be able to discern these changes. In my case, my very life depends on it.

Sanity some-times me when I some-time God. Mine is a spiritual malady so I must look to very core of my being. God is my creator and it is from him that I am. Every creation flows from the heart of The Creator. All expressions of my life, everything it bears, spiritual, mental, psychological, relational and physical all begin here and my inward worth and outward expressions all come from this. My usefulness to God, myself and others all begins here.

The question is “When you think of yourself as “restored to sanity” what picture of yourself comes to mind? : For me I guess it is when I willing turn to God on a daily basis and allow Him to reveal areas in which I am operating out of my insanity and letting Him teach me His ways.

Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

http://janeproject.blogspot.com/2009/07/woman-way-through-twelve-steps.html

I Am Your Lover

2010-12-23T09:53:00.000-08:00

I am your wife, My Love

The isha of you, my ish,

My adam, my mate, my love, My Love

Your rib my source, My Love

Bone of your bone, My Love, am I

Flesh of your flesh, My Love

I am yours and not my own

Whose name I bear, My Love

Yet, here I am alone, My Love

Trapped in my love, my life

Bound in promise to you alone,

To you alone, My Life

My life, My Love

Is to yours, My Love

My love for you, My Life

Tell me what will I be, My Love

Now that you have taken flight

*ish – Hebrew for Man

**isha – Hebrew for Woman

Written by Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

http://janeproject.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-am-your-lover.html