The Tea Cup Minister

I have inadvertently started a ministry at my house.  I have lots of other ministry projects going simultaneously so taking on any new endeavors was not what I was looking for.  All that being said and the fact that my plans seem to be upended by God pretty regularly these days, I have found myself running a healthy ministry with people routinely taking advantage of what I have to offer, a cup of tea and a listening ear.

It all started with two relatives who were at a discourse.  They decided after years of a cold war of sorts that it was time to sit down at the negotiation table and diplomatically mend fences.  Every Wednesday at about the same time, I'd start the kettle.  Sometimes one would show, sometimes neither but I remained faithful to my being available with a ready cup of hot tea for whomever sat down.  Over time, the routine and the mediation has started heading things in the right direction.  To God, for that one I am grateful.

Angels must have gotten the word out about my success because more people started happening by.  They'd shrug off their coats and drop their handbags and I'd ask, "care for a spot?" as I held up the cold kettle over the stove.  Most nodded in agreement, some asked for coffee but everyone took a seat at my dining room table and I'd follow suit after I set up cups and bags next to the stove to await hot water.  The anticipation of tea and my staring blankly at the person in front of me seemed to start the conversation rolling.  People would tell me that they just stopped in to say "hi" but they end up saying a whole lot more by the time the tea bag was cold on the spoon in front of them.  I was happy to listen and share my views when the need called for.  Sometimes it was a lively conversation of the bible, those are the ones I love the most.  God is always a splendid and timely topic at my table.  A good God chat can go on for hours around here.

I must have been doing something right because the ones who happened by came back again.  They'd come and I'd fire up the stove, no need to ask.  I knew what we'd be doing.  I'd make small talk while I got out my supplies and we settle in again for a spell.  Somehow my daughter always seemed to be perfectly enthralled in her own thing as soon as someone came in.  You'd hardly know she was there.  Must be those angels again.  They keep my otherwise rambunctious pre-schooler occupied during my ministering time.

I love the tea times with friends and family. I get ministering too.  Just caring enough to come by and entrust me with their thoughts and trials says a lot about how much they value our relationship.  Now, when I got to the store, I stock up on tea supplies.  I have a bunch of different kinds now.   I think I'll spring for some nicer cups.  I have been using plain old coffee mugs.  I think the new tea cups with spark a fun start to the conversations and let my friends know that I find our tea time special too.  In a world that is ever revolving around the Internet and social networking, it is nice to have people who treasure the art of the in-person conversation like I do.

The Climb and The Accomplishments

An objective lesson on life that I got from running on the treadmill today:

Everyone has a weight that they want to be at.  It is seldom the one that is currently being displayed on their scale.  Like most people my age, somewhere around 40, losing weight has suddenly become a battle to maintain my ground more than an occasional skirmish that usually ends with some temporary adjustments that need to be made for me to obtain a win.

I like to run.  Well, I like the results of running.  When I first started running again last year after a 6 year hiatus, it was an accomplishment to just get on the treadmill.  My inner whining and subsequent negotiation to talk myself out of running would start as soon as the gym sensor beeped when I held up my membership tag on my key chain.  I'd start right in with lots of reasons why running today wasn't good.  I had to be careful of my knees, I didn't have enough time, I ran yesterday, I should try some other equipment too.  Lots of reasons not to run but the real one was that of all the other exercises that I'd encounter that day, running would require the most effort.

When you are new at something, it does require a lot.  I'd get on the machine and punch in my numbers.  I always get a twinge of resentment that it has the audacity to ask for my weight and age.  The only pay off for me being honest is that I get a more accurate read out of what my actual calorie burn is at the end of my run.  I am into numbers so having that one is the prize worth suffering through having to put where I am at.  During this time, I'd huff and my inner negotiator would chime in on whether or not we really need to run the whole half hour. Maybe I was too optimistic about the intensity.  These questions would go around until I hit about a mile into it and then I could relax a little more into the music and think about things.

I have been making progress with the running.  I can run 4 miles and I have lost almost 25 lbs since I started last year.  I noticed that as my weight went down, my calorie burn per mile went down as well.  It is simple science, really.  My body requires less calories to move now that I am smaller, but I am also eating the same amount of calories.  The fix to that is also elementary, I need kick the intensity up again.

Today I decided to increase my speed.  Only one tenth of a mile but you'd have thought I threw an extra 5 miles on the count today.  The exertion, while noted, wasn't impossible.  I think it was made worse by the fact that regardless of how my body felt, my mind knew it was going to be harder.  With that it woke up the inner negotiator to try to solve the problem of Britt's optimism in wanting to reach further toward her goals.

The usual inner monologue was squashed by a memory.  I remembered the time I climbed Mount Washington.  The route we took from base to summit was Tuckerman's Ravine.  I went on that hike with a bunch of friends.  Some new hikers, like me, and some well versed.  The first 1/3 of the hike was markedly steeper than I envisioned.  I was thinking it would be a gradual grade, stopping to survey and pick flowers to stick in the side of my ball cap.  It was more like a 40 degree angle with boulders to find footing on and step up.  No matter, I was grateful for the workout.  I found distraction in my natural competitiveness and challenged and encouraged my friends as I climbed along side them.  We made our first landing and I was satisfied with my performance. We stopped for water and I took notice of a beautiful waterfall cascading down the rocky mountain face in the distance.  My heart quickened at how breathtaking the view would be when we got closer to the water.  Little did I know that I would be basically hiking through it in less than an hour.   It was still picturesque.  It was an awesome experience to see the water flowing right next to me.  It was a trip to look down a waterfall up close and personal knowing that if I wasn't deliberate with my steps that I could be at the bottom of it in seconds.  I still managed to find the beauty and embrace the work.  My spirit was willing to see it through.

Imagine my surprise when we made our second landing and I looked up at the last 1/3 to see that what stood between me and the summit was nothing short of an all out rock climbing experience.  The hiking was over.  Time to use all 4 extremities and meat this thing out once and for all.  I was tired, hungry and  every bit completely disillusioned as to what hiking was all about.  I gritted my teeth, grunted, pulled, sweated and willed myself up that rock wall until at last, I saw the most amazing site that day.  The gift shop, complete with a bathroom and real toilet paper.

Yes, once I left the gift shop, I stood on the edge and reviewed my travels. I was astonished at what I had done.  I couldn't get over the fact that I had climbed an honest to goodness mountain.  How many people can say that?

Once my mind finished the movie of my climb, as I ran I related it to my life. There have been times where I have been comfortable but unsatisfied with where I was at.  To reach further required an expense of energy and effort.  It felt hard and clumsy at first but once I continued to endure, it got easier and more rhythmic.  How many times, I have wanted something but didn't want to do the work to get to the glory on the other side?  Don't we do that?  Picture the end of the journey and want to transport ourselves to the destination. Anything worth doing is going to take a piece of you with it.  What you need to ask is easy.  Is it worth it?

The First Rule of Cool

Awakening from sleep, yet another start of the week.  The harassing noise of the alarm clock jars my comfort and rallies me quickly to silence the piercing buzz.  Semi-coordinated, I scuff down the hall to the bathroom for my lava hot shower in order to come to.  The light sting to my skin lets me know that I have the optimum temperature as I stand under the water.  I close my eyes and soap up, pondering my schedule.  As I shut the water and throw back the curtain, I relish the cool waves that wash over me as I reach to find my towel on the rack.  I wrap my over-processed, long black hair in my towel and with a flip and a toss, my turban positions itself firmly on top of my head.

I find my reflection after a wipe with my hand over the mirror.  My shoulders let down as I stare at my blemished face.  Just once, God, could I have nice skin?  Why does my complexion seem to always know where to position a red spot that will distract me from socializing for the week?  I roll my eyes and prepare to primp.  I'll have to do the best I can to make this mess look like something I can live with.  My makeup becomes a mask that I can hide behind.  I feel comfortable now that it is on.  No one can see me.

Next on my list is my hair.  Not to be outdone by any other Heavy Metal Princess, I delight in my home-dyed mane.  Black as pitch.  It is the bane of my mother's existence but it is my jeweled crown.   I need at least 45 minutes to comb, dry upside down, spray, tease, curl, tease some more and then solidify in place with at least a half a can of Aqua Net hair spray.  Once I am satisfied that it is high enough and has no chance of moving or listing in any way, I weakly smile and leave the bathroom.

Last is my costume.  I need to dress the part.  Leopard skin jeans or the ripped ones, maybe a concert t-shirt, lots of studded belts and my favorite, cowboy boots with chains and spurs to complete my look.  I want to look like I walked out of a video on MTV.  If I can't be pretty, then I can be shocking to look at. Either way, I have your attention.  I am so uncomfortable with my appearance that it is easier to look like a freak than a pudgy, ugly girl who tried too hard to look like a homecoming queen.  I am in my garb.  One last fluff of the hair and some hula-hoop sized earrings and it is out the door for me.  No breakfast, I am fat enough as it is.  Coffee and a cigarette will be my only sustenance.

Settling in to my moss green '78 Chevy Nova, the Love Pig,  I make my route to pick up all of my friends that would gladly take a seat in my beater than face ridicule for being over 16 and still taking the bus.  After I have filled my car to the brim, we pull into the parking lot.  It looks like a parade as most of the upper class makes its way from the parking lot, across the green of the town square and into the high school.  Rockers, Jocks, Nerds, New Wavers, and of course the cool kids.  As they walk by, I smooth my clothes and shake my head.  They look my way and my eyes cast down.  I'd rather not see their look of disapproval.  At least no one makes fun of me, to my face anyway.

That was my academic career from '86 to '90.  Every day a Ground Hog Day experience.  Nothing ever changed.  I longed to suddenly become one of the cool kids but it never happened.  I chalked it up to it just being my station in life.  I was nothing special. I was just a sight.  Being named 'Class Individualist' was the highlight of my time there.  I was also noted in the yearbook for my 4'x6' self portrait that to my horror, Miss Lee, my art teacher, proudly displayed in the front hall of the school.  I would have had an easier time if she asked me to strip naked and greet everyone who came in the door.

Years later with the birth of Facebook, I'd make online friends with some of the cool kids.  You know, the ones who always had it all together, got invited to the parties at all the cool kid houses.  Turns out, they didn't live the good life I thought they did.  All those feelings of isolation, rejection, feeling different, like an outsider, they felt all those things too.  That's weird. I thought it was just me.  After I regained my composure from this revelation, I made my peace with the fact that maybe most teenagers just felt like that even if they were cool.

Days ago, I ran into someone from high school.  She was alight with enthusiasm to see me again.  She gushed over and a smile covered her face as she chirped questions and danced in place as I answered.  I kept talking and politely asking about her life, trying to figure out who she was. She looked familiar but I couldn't place how she would have known me.  My mind was a cavern of vague as I grasped at any solid memory.  A conversation, a class,  maybe homeroom or study hall?  Nothing.  I asked a friend of mine about her and she couldn't recall either.  I was ready to end the call when she uttered these words, "She probably just idolized you.  We all did.  You were so cool.  I was so jealous of you."  In my complete disbelief I laughed out loud.  I thanked her for flattering me as I gasped for air but she pressed on with confession.  "I was, I was cool?  Me?"  She seemed to irritate, "Yes, we all thought you were."

Cool is in the eye of the beholder it seems.  Like everyone is trying to attain some status that just never can be found.  All the cool kids were just doing their damnedest trying to live up to the coolness of other cool kids.  A relentless circle of nothingness and eternal frustration especially for the hormonally challenged teenager.

The number #1 rule of Cool is there is no cool.

The Gift

I want you to picture someone who loves you more than anyone else in the whole wide world.  Close your eyes and think about that person. Get a good feel for their face.  They are smiling at you with tenderness and affection.  Their eyes are fixed on you.  They are walking towards you slowly and deliberately with a gift.  With outstretched hands, they are holding this gift out to you.  It is beautifully and carefully wrapped with a large ribbon surrounding the package, fastened in place with a large bow on top of the box.  They are standing now with their gift extended out to you.  All that is required of you is to take it.  I want you to sit with that thought in your mind for just a minute.  Does it make you feel good to think about? 

It's not your birthday, it's not Christmas.  The present is simply because they love you and they want you to know how much.  You did nothing to deserve it at all, they just want to give it to you. They want to experience the joy in seeing you unwrap your special gift.  

You have to reach out for the box in order to unwrap it, don't you?  You need to take it from their hands.  The gift is not the wrapping of course, although it is pretty to look at.  You could stand there with your loved one and just take in the moment but sooner or later you have to take your present from their hands.  It really isn't yours until you receive it.  What is it like to unwrap a special present?  Do you get excited?  Do you thank the giver?  Do you tear open the package with urgent anticipation?

I want you to picture again that loving smile with the gift out in front of you, waiting for you to take it.  Now I want you to focus on their face while you look into their eyes and slap the gift out of their hands, sending it to the floor.  I want you to conjure up that feeling you get just before you send something flying.  Next I want you to envision pushing them to the floor.  What do you think the look on their face would be now? 
What would their reaction be?  Do you think they would be hurt?  What did they do to deserve such treatment? 

Quite a colorful exercise.  The only reason for their wanting to give was simply out of love for you and to see the joy that comes when you receive.  Why would you send their present hurling and them to the floor in rejection?  Do people actually do things like that?  You'd probably think that someone was crazy for doing something so cruel. 

People do it every day.  On any given hour, thousands and thousands of people will stand in front of the One who loves them more than anyone ever will.  They will see Him standing there with outstretched hands, the most precious gift they could ever receive and they it away like it was garbage.  They will tell Him that His present is foolish, stupid and not worth opening.  He will say, "I love you" and they will laugh in His face. 

The next time He comes to you with His gift, I'd like you to ask yourself what the risk is in just simply receiving it. 

God's Macaroni Necklace

"Here, Mama!"

She shoved a rattling string of wooden beads in my face with a beaming smile and gripping fist.  Her eyes danced with pride as she waiting for my reaction. 

"Oh, Honey!  It's absolutely beautiful! Did you make this for me?"

"Uh huh!"

I reached for the necklace and she released her clutch, dropping it into my open hands.  A long necklace of beads and painted wood butterflies as big as silver dollars lay in a pile before me in my palms.  The ornaments were polka-dotted and colored in every bright pastel hue you can think of.  She waited beside me as I stood up to put it over my head and glance into the mirror over the buffet in my dining room.  It looked more like a lei than a necklace.  I smoothed my hands over the butterflies.

"It's really nice, Honey!"

"Are you go to wear it to church?"

I am team teaching a bible study on Tuesday mornings until January.  We were readying ourselves to head out the door when she handed me my surprise.  I hadn't considered that a lei of clanking butterflies would be perfect with my carefully selected outfit. 

"Oh, um.  Well, of course. Yes, I will wear it to church."

I left it on and hoped that I would remember to remove it after I dropped my daughter off at the babysitting room in the building but I forgot about it in the chaos of setting my stuff down on a table and trying to find the child care provider so I could leave Carli to play.  I finally got her settled so I could set up for the lcass when I found one of my teachmates in the study room.  We were reviewing what the morning would be like when I noticed that she kept glancing at my blouse.  It took about 4 times for me to get what was distracting her.  It was my butterflies.  I grasped the beads when I figured it out, chuckled and told her about my gift that morning.  We had a laugh and she went on to tell me about a scarf that her daughter had knit for her in junior high school.

"You don't know how many mornings I'd leave that on just long enough to head out the door and into my car to change into another one."

"I forgot about my necklace.  I didn't want to hurt Carli's feelings."

As I said that I started thinking about what would happen if I'd made a macaroni necklace for God.  I remembered making one for my mom when I was in Kindergarten.  It was an elbow and penne macaroni necklace that was spray painted silver by the teacher.  I was so proud of that necklace.  I couldn't wait for her to wear it.  I am sure she had many of the same thoughts I had about my butterfly one. 

Compared to God's gifts to us, our gifts to Him are like macaroni necklaces.  His gifts are perfect, valuable and hand selected for us.  Our gifts are primitive, easily duplicated and sometimes clumsy.  He loves everyone.  He delights in our efforts to love Him back, just like we do with our children.  His love is perfect though.  I believe He does wear our macaroni necklaces with great pride.  I believe He is eager to show them off to the angels and say, "Look, see what my precious one made for me today."

The Little Me

It's Monday morning.  I roll over with a groan and stretch to the sound of my chirpy pre-schooler who has formally announced the time and is already firing questions at me about our day.  I try to delay the answering in hopes that she will slow down and crawl under the covers for a few more precious minutes of rest.  Like most days, she sits beside me and refuses my unspoken offer of blankets, pushing them away and asking me, "Mama, can we get up now?"

I force my rising and head for the coffee maker.  A couple of hits of my favorite drug and I can try to fien an equal excitement about the day.  The beginning of the week always holds a list of 'To Do's.  Today I don't want to do any of them.  I homeschool my daughter now and though I know there is a lesson scheduled for Monday I am already negotiating how I can do something else by 9:00 AM.  Monday mornings always include the gym.  I need my exercise.  Trust me, the world is a safer place because I work out.  By 10:00 AM I am convinced that I am over tired and under ambitious. 

Against my will, I dress and head for the 'Y' with a crying child who doesn't want to play with the other kids in the playroom while I do my workout.  "Stay home!" she yells as she bounces up and down, shaking her hands and scrunching her face.  I have to admit, it's compelling when normally it is an annoyance.  She settles as we pull into the parking space and I walk her in and down to the babysitting area.  She doesn't even toss back a glance once she sees all of her playmates busying about the toys.  I am still wishing she talked me into her agenda earlier but I am here now so I head to the fitness area.  It's treadmill day.  I don't want to run but I make myself even though I want to hit the stop button about 20 times in the first ten minutes. 

With every step, an ongoing war.  The battlefield is my mind.  The need to discipline myself versus giving in to the desires of the day.  I recalled a buzz word as this went on that I haven't heard since the early 90's.  I remember it very clearly.  It was on the lips of every psychologist and in the discussions of many talk show hosts.  The topic was the Inner Child.  I had a therapist who spent hours with me, helping me to first identify the voice of my inner child, discover what she lacked, and then how to help her.  We spent a lot of time with my eyes closed, picturing what she looked like and how she felt.  Most of my sessions were about her.  This delicate creature within, so damaged.  I had to be careful not to make her worse, I had to tell her that I loved her and that she was safe.  I was even instructed to sit quietly for a half hour every day, give myself a hug, say 'I love you' and see her in my mind surrounded by soft, warming yellow light.  What ever became of her?  I haven't seen her in so long.

She is still there. Her agenda usually doesn't include effort.  She'd rather go willy-nilly, avoiding anything that has to do with work or sacrifice.  I made a french toast breakfast this morning with egg whites.  She wanted eggs, sugar and cinnamon in the mix.  I made two slices, she wanted three and with extra syrup.  I made her have one tablespoon.  She didn't want to go the gym and do penance for any misuse of calories from the weekend, I ignored her whining and got into the car.

I used to spend so much time being careful not to upset her.  I invested so much in making her happy, thinking that if she was that I would be too.  Now, instead of coddling her every whim and weighing it against what I would like to do, I just say, "Get moving!"  Turns out that my inner child needed the one thing everyone told me never give her, a simple spanking. 

Please Accept This Blessing

A day at Wingaersheek Beach last week proved enlightening.  Carli had successfully worn me down about going.  It isn't that I don't like the beach.  I just have a different idea about what to do there than an active 4 year old girl.  Carli squeals and hops toward the water as soon as we put our things down.  She delights in the surf with a beaming joy, begging her reluctant mom with "C'mon Mama, c'mon! Come in with me!".  My aching toes and ankles shock in the frigid water.  She is pulling me like a dog who doesn't know how to walk on a leash with her little arm dragging me further in.  We will do this about 10 times.  We can't just stay in.  We have to leave as soon as we get numb and go play in the sand for 15 minutes and then run back to the water again.  Occasionally this mantra is interrupted by chasing seagulls while yelling 'boo!'.  To Carli, this proves to be hysterical.  She can barely keep her running pace from the laughter.  I am running out of steam about a 1/2 hr into our trip.

My idea of the beach is to park myself in my sand chair, fix it to a slight recline and dig my heels in the sand until it feels comfortable and stay there.  I like to bring a stack of magazines that I have no time for at home and leisurely flip as I either redecorate my home or put together a haute couture wardrobe for the upcoming season all from the laziness of the shore while listening to the hum of fellow beach goers and the slap of the ocean waves.  There is little reason to leave my station.  Imagine my distress when my little baby grew to walk then run and didn't consider the wishes of her mother while visiting the beach.  If I want to read a magazine these days, I have to get used to reading it in 5 minute increments and only when Carli is satisfied to dig by herself for a spell.  No, my fond summer respite has become a mission to corral someone who can't swim and is too friendly to not want to wander off with whomever pays attention to her. 

I endure it because she likes it.  We get to be together and I watch my child enjoy herself even if it means that I have to run around and try to keep up with her while I opine for my chair.  Wingaersheek Beach was a first time trip for Carli.  I was happy to find showers, bathrooms and  a snack shack so close to the shore and Carli was elated to find a sign that she could recognize, a picture of an ice cream. 

"Ice cream, Mama!" she sang out as I held her little hand in my right and tried to hold and balance everything else with my left. 

"Yup, later.  Okay?", I tried to reassure her that it was coming but not right now. 

Who doesn't like a frozen treat after a day at the beach?  I couldn't blame her.  I just didn't want to indulge her at 10 in the morning.  We had to visit the rest room two times and each time I heard the same thing, "Can I get an ice cream, Mama?". 

It came time for lunch which we ate at the snack shack.  I didn't bring much for myself and I knew if I was going to buy lunch for me, I'd need to get some for her. She would not be happy with Goldfish and cut up Smart Dogs while watching mom eat something that came in a cardboard box and wax paper.  We sidled up to the window with a smiling face peering out and placed our order.  The cost of our lunches, most of hers of which I tossed in the garbage, cost about as much as the interest on the national debt.  Lunch plus the cost of parking took all but a dollar out of my wallet.  No worries, ice cream would still be had.  I just would use my debit card.

I announced that we'd get ice creams when we were leaving.  No need to get them now, we just ate.  When the beach ran it's course with Carli after many sessions of dragging mom into the water, chasing the poor water birds, digging and seashell hunts, she announced that it was time to go home.  I agreed.  I was exhausted.  We packed up and made our way to the snack shack, discussing what she wanted before we could even see the building.  We returned to the ordering window and my heart sank as I read the sign, "Credit Card Purchases -$10 Minimum Requirement".  I certainly wasn't going to buy 10 dollars worth of stuff for a 2 dollar ice cream.  I looked down at my wide-eyed little girl and tried to gently explain the situation. 

"Honey, Mama doesn't have any cash on her and the man won't let Mama buy the ice cream with her debit card."

Sadness and confusion covered her face and her smile disappeared as she tried to take in what I said.  I felt so terrible that I was doing to have to disappoint her.  My mind ran with remorse over not just paying for lunch with the debit card and leaving more cash in my wallet. I thought of how foolish it was of me not to check beforehand.  I also didn't want her to start crying.  I tried to explain again and smooth it over with a promise to get ice cream somewhere else.  She didn't want to go elsewhere, she wanted the treat I had been promising her all day and she wanted it at the beach.  As I continued to reassure her a woman came up to me and held out her hand. 

"Here, just take this." she smiled and stuck out 2 dollars and 50 cents in my direction.

I hesitated.   I was so touched by her generosity and strangely ashamed to take it from her.  She stuck her hand out again and I took the money from her grasp slowly, thanking her with a sincere quiet humility.  I ordered Carli's ice cream and took it back to our spot for her to enjoy.  The waves of shame still washed over me as I watched her eat it.  I felt silly for feeling that way.  I didn't do anything wrong and I wasn't a charity case and even if I was, couldn't I allow someone to bless my daughter? 

This woman had two children with her.  She understood what it was like to let a little one down.  She wanted to save the day and I almost didn't want her to.  I had forgotten in that moment what a gift it is to bless other people, especially when the blessing is anonymous.  As I reflected on what had happened, I realized what a gift I had given her by allowing her to bless my daughter.  The times I have bestowed this on others were the moments of the greatest joy.  There was a much bigger gift here than just a 2 dollar ice cream.  I connected with another human being in love. To me, that is worth not having enough money in my wallet.  Who ever you are, Ma'am, thank you. 

Standing True

Hatred.  The word is like a punch in the face.  The very diction has a poignant hiss.  When I've heard the word said, I notice that there seems to be well placed emphasis on the sound of the first letter.  It's like the speaker wants to you to listen up and take notice of what's coming.  No one ever asks what it means.  It always leaves me with a slimy feeling in my spirit to hear the word spoken.

I've been on both sides of the fence.  Lately, it's me feeling the sting.  Not an overwhelming blow that takes you out in one round but a constant stream of short little snaps.  Just when you think that last one stopped smarting it comes again. Snap!  I wish it would stop but it's not going to.  It might even get worse.  You see, I've lived my life pretty harmoniously with most people all my life.  I wanted to blend, fit in.  Sure, I had this thing that I knew deep down inside me.  I told a few people about it and they promised not to judge.  They seemed to be fine with it as long as I never talked about it. I would make them feel uncomfortable, they claimed.  By seeking to win their approval, I agreed.  I could try to live a normal life and forget about what I knew about me.  That nagging, that longing to just be me.  I hid it for so long.  I thought, no one would like me if they knew and once you make a statement like that publicly, well you'd better start living up to it.  No, best not to rock the boat. Besides, what would people think?

The truth about me almost got forgotten for a little while.  I did such a good job of blending in that I even forgot what I knew about me.  You can get good at keeping secrets for a while. Some lies can go on for so long that even you can start to believe them.  Then I thought, I could live two lives.  Lots of people do it.  There could be the me that everyone sees and then the me that only certain people see.  I could do that.  What would it hurt?  It would be better than just keeping it all inside.  I could have my little outlet and then I could go back to the me that the world sees and everyone would be happy, except me.  What if the little crowd of people who knew the real me saw me out with the rest of the world acting like them?  What would I say?  Could I tell my little crowd who I was on the outside?  Certainly not.  They would be upset with me. They'd tell me that I really wasn't like them if I had to hide so I just kept the outside me to myself with my little crowd and hoped that the two would never mix.  I thought it would be easy but it started getting really complicated. 

There came a day of reckoning between the two.  I decided that I couldn't go on pretending to be something I was not. I was tired of feeling ashamed of living two lives and never feeling complete.  It's funny, when you have a day like that you all of the sudden don't care what people think any more.  You just want to be you.  You don't care who knows you or what they say about you. You just want to be you and have everyone love you for who you are or go away quietly. 

I tell everyone about who I am now.  I am freer than I've ever been. I've never known joy and peace like I do now.  I am loved, wanted, secure and protected.  I am whole now.  It isn't without it's price though.  I had plenty of friends, family even, who told me they loved me for who I am.  I believed them. I believe that they almost think that it's true, but they don't.  They tell me they accept who I am but then go on and make fun of people just like me.  They make jokes, post cartoons making fun of who I am.  They criticize what I stand for and what I love about who I am.  They tell me that I am okay, it is just the others like me that they don't like.  Why am I special?  Snap!  It stings.  Every mention, sneer, jab, joke, sarcastic comment hurts a little at a time.  Snap!  I try to stand up for myself and all I get is that they are sorry to offend but they don't stop. They want people like me to feel bad about who we are. It's not right, it's not fair but if I want to stand true I am going to have to take a few hits.  It's worth it.  Being content with who I am is a great payment for the pain. 

People who claim that I'm a hater are the ones who hurl the worse things at me. No one wants to have parades to make me feel good about my life decision.  You can say whatever you want about me but make sure you get it right when you call me names.  I am not a bible thumper, a holy roller or a religious nut.  I am a Jesus Freak and I'm proud. 

Forget About Happy

If ever there was a word in the English language that I would like to eradicate from the dictionary, publications and speech it is the word 'happy'.  This word is shear misery dipped in chocolate.  It looks wonderfully appealing from the outside. Who doesn't want some happy?  Everyone is trying to get some, why not you?  There is even a right in the U.S. called the 'Pursuit of Happiness'.  Even our government wants you to have some.  So much so that they made it part of ensuring you'd get some, if you went after it. 

I spent a lot of time hunting it down.  I looked for it in relationships.  They always started off well and I felt happy.  I thought that this was happy then and I settled into thinking I'd found some. It always diminished though.  I didn't feel as happy as I did initially.  I started to think that happy went bad after a while.  I concluded that happiness was not found in relationships.  I moved on.

Disappointed that it was not to be found in another person, I turned my attentions to stuff.  Stuff could surely make me happy.  The commercials always had people on them that looked blissfully happy for having their wares.  I supposed that stuff would give me that happy edge that I was looking for.  I started to buy stuff.  Lots of stuff.  Clothes, jewelry, trips, cars, spa trips but nothing made me happy for very long.  In fact, the more I tried to buy happy, the more stressed out I got.  You can't find it in the mall.  Not to mention, the rub of having to get your credit card bill in the mail to pay for the stuff that didn't make you happy.  Talk about total unhappiness. 

Someone tried to convince me that happy was just a thought away.  I could make myself happy just by making up my mind to be.  Sounded easy enough. Just think happy.  Say, "today I am happy".  Focus on happy thoughts and immediately dismiss the thoughts that make you unhappy.  I started out with the best of intentions but when you aren't happy, trying to think yourself happy just makes you frustrated.  I couldn't buy happy and I couldn't think myself happy for free.  I kept trying.

All the times I had a glimpse of happy only to see it go away so easily.  Maybe you need to pursue it because it keeps leaving.  Is that how you keep it, you run after it?  Maybe happy likes to play games.  Maybe that is what makes happy feel happy by making you cranky.  I don't want happy any more if that is how happy wants to treat me.  I give up.

I've got a new thing.  It started a year and a half ago.  It's called joy.  It's way better than happy.  I love joy because it usually brings it's best friend, peace.  This whole time, peace was just waiting for me to give up looking for happy and come find joy.  The good news is that peace does not come from anyone one person.  You can't buy joy because it isn't for sale.  There is no need to run after it because it doesn't leave you unless you want it to go away.  There is only one way to find it.  Stop running, be quiet and ask God the joy that can only be found in Him. 

I'm Stuck

"Dad, I'm stuck!", drew my attention to the left on the playground as I was pushing my squealing daughter on the swings.  My mother's instinct to attend to the needs of a child and tendency to be nosey, even if it is just visual, drew me in the direction of what I heard.  My eyes found the little boy that I heard perched on top of a large jungle gym made out of a maze of ropes and pulleys anchored to large wooden poles.  He looked like a cricket with a baseball cap sitting on top of the world's largest ball of twine. 

His father called out to him from across the playground as he started walking toward him.  "Just start climbing down, son."  Even as the words came out, the little boy started shifting back and forth on his perch, holding on for dear life.

"I can't.  I'm stuck."  My heart rate picked up as I watched him.  The more his father yelled out to him to just come down the more he seemed to dig his feet into the ropes he was standing on.  It was as if he was frozen in place.  His father stood at the bottom, looking up and him and shading his eyes from the son as he tried to coach his son down from the top of the jungle gym.

"Just put your foot over there and grasp on to that rope and climb down!"

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. You got up there and now you can get yourself back down."

"I can't."

"Son, why can't you?"

"I'm scared."

Isn't that it with most things we are paralyzed by?  I don't know how many times we remain stuck in the same place, same relationships, same job, same situations.   When the pace of my heart quickened as I listened to the little boy tell his dad that he was stuck, I wasn't worried about his safety.  My body was remembering what that kind of anxiety feels like and responded.  It was familiar. 

I remember one relationship I was in that made me miserable.  I lamented to my friends often about how unhappy this person made me.  I didn't see any hope for a happy future with him.  Despite the tension of misery followed by gifts and promises to be better from now on, nothing changed.  I knew it was not going to but I continued to play the game.  On more than five occasions, friends told me to end the relationship.  Just leave him.  I couldn't.  I had reasons, I had excuses.  We shared a house, we shared bills.  What about our friends?  What about the dog?  No, our lives were too intertwined.  It wasn't that though.  None of the reasons were valid.  I wasn't imprisoned by this situation.  I was afraid to change it. 

Fear of change seems to be something most people suffer from.  I am no different.  Change equals new and feels scary.  I know.  I am learning too but I feel as though my life has changed so much in the last two years that maybe I am just getting desensitized to it.  Maybe it just takes climbing the jungle gyms of life enough times to know that we can do it without falling.  Hands and feet could slip.  Maybe our baseball cap falls to the ground as we make your way up or down but we can pick it up later.   We see other people climbing on the same jungle gym too, they seem okay but when it comes to us we can envision cataclysmic disaster in an instant.  In an effort to avoid calamity we don't move.  I know I've made mistakes, big ones too but I'm still here to tell you about them.  Funny thing is, the more we fall down, the better we get at climbing. 

The Pretty Girl

"Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain...." Proverbs 31:30

All I ever wanted, every summer of my high school years, was to return to school in the fall thin, pretty and cooler than I was last year.  I would watch MTV videos and flip through Seventeen magazine or the occasional Cosmo and pour over the fashions that were overwhelmingly adorable on girls built like surfboards.  I was a little more, as the current term is, curvy.  I would be less politically correct to say that I was pudgy.  As if that weren't enough, I had a wonderful case of acne that sent me crying into my room on many occasions.  It probably would have served me better to be a wallflower in those times but my exuberant personality didn't allow for that.  Instead, I became an eccentric metal chick.  I was proud of my leopard skin jeans, cowboy boots with spurs and lion mane of jet black hair.  If I couldn't be the homecoming queen, I'd still stand out.  I was voted Class Individualist in my senior year.  A title I was proud of. 

My rotund physique disappeared some time later along with the acne but the self-esteem didn't improve.  I always wanted attention from boys but when I did finally win some I felt awkward and under confident.  I wished I could be more like some of my friends. They seemed to have a new guy every other week.  Me?  I was the funny girl that all the boys seemed to think of more like a kid sister. Don't get me wrong, it had it's perks.  For one, I was heavy into the music scene in Boston.  I was on guest lists without any strings attached and I wasn't referred to as a groupie.  I was one of the cool girls but not one of the pretty ones you ask out on dates.  I tried to learn to accept my lot. 

I have been looking back at all of this over the last few days because now I am what I always wanted to be and to be honest, it isn't what I thought it would be. I am an attractive woman, especially for a person near 40.  My looks have come into their own and I dress for my age with a unique flair. I am comfortable with me.  What rubs me the wrong way is that seems to be what people notice about me first.  I am also a very intelligent person.  My mind overflows with ideas and creativity, literally every day.  It pours out of me.  If there is any one word that people use to describe their experience with me, it's inspiring.  I am humbled by that title.  I don't do anything to achieve it other than share the life the God has given me with other people.  I am more than just a pretty face.  When I was younger, that is all that I wanted to be.  It's funny how I've been given what I always longed for in my naive years and God has shown me that it isn't the be all, end all of everything.  Certainly my beauty is a gift but I love the other gifts so much more.  The grass is not greener on the other side of the fence and to be sure, it still has weeds and needs to be mowed. 

Alone Isn't Lonely

I have the unique experience of seeing both sides of a fence.  When I was in my late twenties, I longed for a mate.  I tired of dating and the start-and-stop interruptions in my life.  I opined for a steady constant.  Someone who would be there through thick and thin and love me like no one else, no matter what.  I wanted someone to make me feel good about myself.  I would hear of engagements and sigh in my season of life.  Would it ever happen for me?  I wanted to see what it would be like when "the two shall become one".

It did.  I met a smiley, talkative and handsome man.  He paid more attention to me than anyone I could remember.  He told me on our first date that I was beautiful and then he added, "I bet you hear that all the time.", I laughed and blushed.  Six months later, we were engaged.  I was so happy. I wanted everyone to have what I had.  I would pray for my friends by name, asking God to give them the same wonderful gift He gave me.  We both looked forward to our wedding and all the trappings that a match made in heaven should have.  Could life actually be any better than this?

I suppose it could, but the fairy tale failed for yet another couple.  We didn't complete each other even though we had each other at 'Hello', literally.  The fantasy of him filling in all the holes of my insecurities was a delusion of grandeur.  He didn't cure them, he exposed them unwittingly.  Every time he failed to meet my unspoken expectations I raled at his insensitivity.  He was selfish.  Me?  Well, he just didn't appreciate me enough. 

I was sold a bill of goods like so many women before me.  Hollywood loves to paint an image of our other half being able to anticipate and meet every need almost with telepathic intuition.  Flowers show up at the end of disasterous day at work, complete with take-out and a candlelit dining room.  How ever did he know? 

He doesn't.  No person should ever be subject to being your sole source of happiness.  The expectation is, for all intent and purpose, emotional abuse. Granted, I am looking in the rearview mirror but that also gives me incredible wisdom to warn those before it's too late to avoid the potholes.  It's no one's job to make me happy.  I either am or I am not.  You'd be amazed at how easy a happy life can be.  It's as easy as making your mind up to be.  It is as simple as staying focused on being grateful.  It is as merciful as being as quick to forgive as you'd like to be forgiven.  It's that elementary and it's doable.  It takes deliberate practice.  Just like any start of a new routine.  You need to give it time and consistency before it becomes habit but it is worth sticking with for your sanity and the health of your relationship.  If you have issues in your life that stand in the way of peace, get help.  Don't look to your poor spouse to be the salve for your wounds.  That's God's job. Never elevate anyone in your life to the status of God. You'll always be sorely disappointed. 

I have had a great opportunity, with my husband's passing, to look over my own shortcomings with soul searching and prayer.  I wanted to make no provision to fall into the same patterns I've had before in letting someone else determine my state of mind, good, bad or otherwise.  They were, at times, hard to look at. I had to come to terms with some emotional patterns in my life that caused pain in my relationships with others.  One of them was anger.  I became frustrated with people easily and anger always followed.  I would feel justified in my emotional response because they should know better.  In all of this, I seldom was able to effectively or proactively communicate what my needs were in the first place.  I would sour when they weren't met. This was true especially of my relationship with my husband. 

Great peace came when I realized that in my making amends with behaviors past and asking God to bind my broken ways that I felt a tranquility and ease with people that I hadn't before.  As I sought recovery from my old ways, healing came.  The patterns slowed and then stopped.  I was able to state what I needed and see what the response would be instead of silently and anxiously awaiting outcomes.  I was less anxious with others so I didn't stress as readily.  More patience came.  The more I could articulate, the more I could relax. 

Something else happened.  I didn't feel lonely.  I wasn't in any hurry to find another.  I felt whole on my own so I didn't have the need to go chasing after my next relationship.  There was no need to meet.  Sure, I do feel a little solitary sometimes but I am not feeling like I am missing out on any great thing like I did before.  I know it will happen again and when it does I suspect that I'll be in a much better place to say, "Hello".  The holes are filling in. 

As Sick As Your Secrets

Secrets, secrets, dirty little secrets.  Some are big, some are small, all are toxic.  The secrets I am talking about are the ones about you, not the ones you heard about someone else. That's a monologue for another time.  This is the stuff about you that you would rather no one know.  I've had those.  It started off as self-preservation under the disguise of "it's nobody's business".  It wasn't anyone's business. It was mine.  I had a certain image to maintain.  Doesn't everyone? 

My thoughts then moved to "no one would be better off knowing".  Who would it help anyway if people knew this about me?  So they'd know something I wasn't proud of, or they'd know something about my past, would it serve the relationship?   I was sure it wouldn't.

The final ring of Hell was in "no one can know this about me".  They'd lose respect for me. Maybe they wouldn't be my friend any more.  Maybe this was a professional secret and I'd lose my job or some clients.  People would form opinions about me that weren't true.  I couldn't stand to think about that.  I would daydream about having to constantly defend who I really was if people would know this "thing" about me.  No, everyone would be better if they just didn't know, including me.

Keeping secrets taught me to hide in shame about who I was and what was true about me.  Keeping secrets means I need to lie or to omit things about me so others can maintain the impression I want to give them. One that usually isn't true.

When I want to keep secrets I have downgraded my personal value in favor of another person.  I tell myself that I am not good enough the way that I am. I tell myself that the person in my life that I am hiding things from wouldn't find me worthwhile or better still, they are not trustworthy.  Is that really what I want to show my friends and family, that they can't be trusted with loving me? 

In the times where I have shared deep secrets, aside from one, I was given nothing but acceptance in return and lamenting that I hadn't allowed them to share in my burden.  Friends want to feel needed and useful. I know I do. By not sharing what was going on with me or the things I have experienced, I demonstrated that our friendship couldn't be useful in times of trouble. That hurts to hear. 

When we are in hiding from the truth, it corrodes like battery acid on our well-being.  Secrets never heal, only the truth does.  To come out in the open is to unlock a cell in solitary confinement.  Most of all, we get to be free of  the shackles of shame. 

Accidentally On Purpose

I sat across a tiny table in a bustling Starbucks with a friend of mine one evening as we critiqued each other’s writing submissions for our Writer’s Group. As there were but two of us, the comments on the samples were brief and the conversations about all things personal and heavy filled our time.

The genesis of my introduction to Sheila would seem to be as ordinary as any other to the untrained mind. Wanting to be part of a group of people who called themselves writers so I could feel more of the part was exciting to me. I perused MeetUp.com with high hopes. I wanted a group that would feel close and friendly, like getting together with study partners in college from your favorite class. Living in the suburbs of Boston, I tried to steer away from the stuffiness of the Ivy Leaguers of Cambridge. I thought I’d found my ideal group and eagerly punched my information into the screen marked ‘Tell Us About Yourself”. I did. I told them I was a Christian writer working on my first book. No response. Well, they are busy I supposed. Maybe they didn’t get my email. I told them about myself again. Once more, I heard the hollow silence of no reply. I had told them the one thing they didn’t want to hear. I was a Christian and I was working on my first book.

After I shook loose the shackles of ‘Not Good Enough’ I searched again for another group, coming to Greater Boston Writers Group. I was a little hesitant on my first meeting to tell them about myself. I feared rejection. Too late to back out now, I told another set of blank faces that I was a Christian writing her first book and I had no idea in the world what I was doing from the perspective of knowing anything about the Publishing world. They decided I would be okay. I could stay.

After review of my second chapter one night, Sheila took offense to my references to God. She thought maybe my convictions would offend the masses. I told her it would stay. I stood my ground, not looking up from my copy of the chapter and everyone else got the hint and no one ever brought up the God thing again.

The months went on, sometimes my chapters would make the time constraints for review and sometimes they wouldn’t, but Sheila started to chat me up one night about God and why I could be so honest in my writing about myself because in some cases in my book, I am the villain and sometimes the hero. She wondered why I would choose to bleed on the pages so readily. We had a nice long conversation in the pouring rain outside our coffee shop meeting place, an offbeat hipster little joint outside Harvard Square. She then told me that life was an accident. I didn’t rebut. I decided to see where that would go.

The group has all but fallen apart, the leader took some time off from the meetings and everyone else that went seems to be on his vacation schedule, save Sheila and me. The first time we arrived to find ourselves the only attendees, we relaxed and she got into her critique of my chapter submission. We had an epic conversation about God and who He was in her life, what she thought He was and what she was learning from reading about my experiences with Him. I mostly just listened and interjected when I had a real-life experience I could share.

The last time we met, it was just my friend and I. We decided to meet closer to home since we live in adjacent towns. It was an easy commute for us and we had lots of time. I think we talked about the writing for 15 minutes, God got about an hour and a half. Instead of life being an accident we marveled at how beautifully God weaves the seemingly insignificant details of our lives into a beautiful tapestry of wonderful blessings.

Since our first meeting, Sheila has worked through some misgivings about God. I got to share my faith and do what I want to do for the rest of my life, to tell everyone about my God experience. We have both gained a very meaningful and intimate friendship. I’d like to thank the first writing group for not taking a chance on a Christian working on her first of six books.

The Gift of Celibacy

Galatians 5:24 -"Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the sinful nature with its passions and desires" Zondervan NIV Study Bible

It might surprise you to know that in some Christian homes, the topic of sex comes up pretty often. When I was in my early teens, my mother brought it up constantly. It was usually an uncomfortable, passionate speech she'd make to her embarrassed young daughter about '"God is always watching" and that it was wrong. If I got anything right out of all of the impromptu warnings of chastity is was that sex was immoral, dirty and most assuredly high on God's list awful things. This did not however, keep me from abstaining from anything. The rebellious curiousity took over sooner or later and I decided to taste what was forbidden fruit. Of course, as is always the case, there were consequences. There always is when we seek to disobey.

Some years later, I got married. When we decided to marry we also decided to wait. This time I would get it right. I was confident that I'd be rewarded for my decision to obey. My fiance and I remained committed and as soon as the last guest left our reception we planned to cash in on what we were missing. I ended my time in the desert with a wonderful man and I slept well knowing I had him by my side and the single life was over. Wrong.

Just shy of 5 years after 'I Do', I buried my husband. The Single Life, Part 2. Now, I was a Widow. This created an interesting problem. As a wife, I was sexually active. Now, I was finding myself dizzy with confusion as to what God expected of me, sexually speaking. I broke the seal. Now what? Was I to be some spiritual eunuch and forsake all of the drives that I would naturally have, suddenly being alone? I read and I read. I read articles on sexuality in the Christian realm from every magazine article I could find on the internet. Some said masturbation was fine, some not. I couldn't even find the word in the bible to reference. Why would God be silent on such a big deal? Was was He so pointed on somethings and not on this? The lack of direction on the one hand made me feel confident that I could approach it with reckless abandon. At times, I felt ashamed to even think about satisifying my urges. Was it because of the endless messages that I received growing up that left me guilty and afraid to give in?

The answer came for me as I was pursuing something else. After a brief and horrendous relationship, early on in my Widowhood, I had come to ask God to reveal Himself to me. I mean, really make Himself known. He did. This encounter with God sparked a great pursuit of wanting to know as much as I could about Him and how He felt about me. I wanted to draw as near as possible. I often thought of Mary Magdalene sitting at His feet just to be near Him. I wanted to take every opportunity to find Him. I became aware of something in the middle of all of this. I didn't have any of the sexual urges I had before. I had been given a gift. The gift of Celibacy.

It would have appeared to me in days past that 'gift' and 'celibacy' didn't belong in the same sentence. I likened it to being put on a water and iceberg lettuce diet. It was about as appetizing and satisfying as far as I was concerned. Now that I had this gift, I wanted to find out what the bible had to say about it. Surely there had to be something? I found a verse that I think speaks to this very topic and answers the question of how did I come to find that this time of my life would be a thing to treasure.

Galatians 5:16 - "So I say, live by the Spirit and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature." Zondervan NIV Study Bible

There is something that needs to be said about gratifying the flesh. Whether we satisfy our cravings of the flesh through smoking, drinking, overeating and also masturbation we are still making a decision to satisfy ourselves and phyiscal desires over our pursuit of God. The key is, to not have to be at war with the urges in the first place. It was very difficult to think of abstention when I was focused on me. I struggled with the right answer because I wanted to scratch my itch. When I became greatly focused on God and following after Him, it wasn't even an issue that came up on my radar.

God, in His grace, rewards us for our devotion. A life fully given to Him, lives to hear and obey the Spirit and doesn't seek after it's own. There is so much peace in being free to pursue God and to fulfill all of the wonderful things He has planned for me without being weighed down by guilty pleasures. I think that is what He wanted for me all along. I get up in the morning excited for my day, looking for what roads He will take me down. I pine not for what I am missing.

Excerpt from Chapter 8 of My Book, 'His Song'

I felt fluttery as I made my way out of the little plane on the tarmac of the tiny airport of Key West. A text message came in as soon as I turned my phone on. I was scrambling to get it to power up and gather my things in a plane no bigger than a walk-in closet. Cases, elbows, sunhats were seemingly tossed in mid air as passengers negotiated each other and their stuff in an effort to disembark. "I think I saw you land". He saw me on his trip to meet me, it was in fact my plane. He would be arriving via bus to the airport to meet me and my stomach was restless as I fussed with my hair and makeup in the mirror in the bite-sized women's room next to the only luggage carousel this Arrivals room had to offer. It was as large as the top floor of a raised ranch home. I was rushing to be ready and presentable as he arrived. The funny thing is, in exactly those kinds of situations if I had a hair and makeup team at my side, I'd never think I looked stunning enough. Being stuffed into a coach seat all day wasn't going to help me find satisfaction with my looks. I gave up mid tussle before I worked myself up into a frenzy.

As I exited the bathroom, the carousel was slowly spinning black suit cases so I lined up along side my plane mates to find mine. It is a miracle that anyone gets their luggage considering most of the free world has only black suit cases. How I haven't mistakenly gone to a hotel on one trip with someone else's clothes is beyond me but I am extra careful to quadruple check tags and stickers before I leave with the case towing behind me. I found mine surprisingly fast and oriented myself to the exit.

I needed to get a cab for us so I was waiting outside near the line for passengers to hail transportation. I was pretending to be entranced by my cell phone and busy on the internet, purposefully not looking up to see him coming. In minutes, I heard his voice. I gazed over as if I was only half interested to see him walking toward me with a lazy, happy grin. He was tanned and casual. His hair was a little windblown which worked for him with sunglasses worn on his face like he was born with them. I didn't know how to approach him. Should I hug him? Kiss him? I quickly made the decision to let him lead. He quietly said hello and leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Hi, Ma'am", it seemed to seep out of his mouth like he forgot it was in there. I was comforted by the greeting. My face was starting to twitch from too much smiling. We made our way to the cab line. It stretched for several cars. Mostly bright pink taxis of different shapes and sizes. To me the taxis looked like flamingos waiting in line for a snack from the zookeeper. As we stood in line, we made the usual small talk you have when you greet someone at the airport.

"How was the trip?", he broke the awkward first start of the conversation.

"Good, not too long. Uneventful really".

I always say 'uneventful' when anyone asks me about traveling. I think it just sums it up. Besides, is being in and out of airports all day ever really a good time? We got into our flamingo car and I told the half paying attention driver where we were going. Elizabeth St. I have stayed in bed and breakfasts before, all of them drastically different than each other so while I got the concept, I had no idea what to expect. This one had a pool, I probably wouldn't be in it, but it was there. I was sure it wouldn't be as nice as the one The Chef suggested but that one was unavailable for when I wanted it and also it was the most expensive one on the island. I was a little off put by the suggestion, considering its expense and the fact that The Chef would not be contributing to the room cost either. He had quit his job weeks before on a whim after a dispute with the restaurant owner he was working for. I remember him telling me this over the phone as I was standing on a street corner outside my office building trying to locate my boss who'd be pulling up on the side of the road to take me to a meeting. I was craning my neck down the street to see if I could make out his silver Saab sedan and trying to pay attention to what The Chef was saying as he relayed the chain of events and the conversation he'd had with the restaurant owner earlier that day. He sounded almost giddy.

"We never got along", he said. "She was always on me about things, nothing was ever good enough", he trailed a little but I waited for him to continue. "She told me that I'd need to take a two dollar an hour pay cut and I told her good bye".

"Oh, but what about supporting yourself and your child support?"


He had a daughter from his former marriage that he would often lament about child support over the phone to me and also his torment that he couldn't see her as often as he wanted to. According to him, his ex-wife was a very demanding and unforgiving woman who was unwavering in what she required of him. I felt alighted with fear for him over having to convey this story to her because in my estimation, she'd still want her support or else.

"I can get a job in a matter of days".

There was a hint of condescending in his tone as he went on to assure me that he was well known and also well desired at the restaurants in his area. He didn't give the fact that he was out of work a second thought and neither should I. I was feeling as he was talking that he was being a bit immature in his response to his former boss and quite irresponsible with his finances but then again, I wasn't being affected by it so why was I so concerned? Now I was. The cab pulled up to our bed and breakfast. We both got out of our respected doors and the driver made his way to the trunk to retrieve our bags. As the bags came out, The Chefs hands went into his pockets, and stayed there. I paid our fare and tipped the driver who didn't even look me in the face or speak a word the entire time we were with him, but I always tip. It's just the right and expected thing to do, even if the service is mediocre to terrible. I felt a little slighted by The Chef not even attempting to pay for the cab but then I decided that he probably didn't have much money so I shouldn't expect much in the way of monetary contribution to the weekend. I signed up for it. I knew what I was coming down to.

Emotional Hijacking

Come to me all who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest -Matthew 11:28

The sound of the dripping from the roof and the dullness of the light in the room as I awoke was a disappointing realization that it was raining outside. I had heard a comment from a friend that it was going to be rainy all weekend but I dismissed the news as only one report and in New England, weather forecasts are more of an opinion than a predictable fact.

With a groaning sigh that she was correct, I turned from one side to another and was greeted by my beaming, tweeting 4 year old, "Good Morning, Mama!"

She brings the sunshine where there is none normally but I was not in the mood to have my disposition changed before coffee. "Good Morning, Honey."

I rolled out and stood up, shuffling to my Keurig to make an emergency cup of coffee. My three cups failed to produce any lift in my personality. I had promised Carli the night before that we'd go out for breakfast so I showered, dressed, got her together and we went to a sweet little local diner for a mouse-shaped pancake. After a year and a half, we finally ate and paid the bill. I was not any better for having to wait so long for a simple morning meal and I was furthered in my downward spiral by the day ahead of errands and house cleaning.

With a huff, I drove us to the grocery store. Normally Carli and I have a great time of grocery shopping. She stands up underneath me on the bottom rack of the cart and hooks her arms around mine. She goes on and on talking to me while we cruise up and down the aisles and she tells me what we need on her list. Today I just wanted to get it done.

My day didn't change much. I had to clean the house and Carli wanted to play and spend time with me. I was irritated. I became further annoyed by my attitude. What was with me? I seemed so intolerant of anything derailing my mission for total house cleanliness. It did finally get done but not without yelling and a low lying headache.

After Carli went to bed, I did my kickboxing workout and headed for the shower. There can be nothing so refreshing as a nice shower after a good sweat. I reflected on my day. My jaw felt tight, my neck stiff. Why was I so tense? Was I angry? No. Lonely? No. Did I feel like I was missing out on something? No. The answer froze me for a moment as the hot water rolled off my back. I was worried.

Worry is the single worst day ruiner there is next to being hungover. I couldn't have told you all day what the problem was but taking out some aggression in punching the air and kicking the wind got my defenses down enough to see it. I am not anxious for anything that is actually going on in my life. There is no crisis, no bad news of any note. I am worried about the future. Worried that I don't have any income coming in, worried about Carli's schooling, worried about my book, worried about my t-shirt business. I have great things going and things that can produce a lot of wealth and an eleviation to my concerns for my daughter's schooling. I have no idea what the future holds but I know one thing, I can do nothing to change it. The future is His to know and His alone. I have to trust that He loves me more than my own mother and His will is stronger than anything that could try to come against me.

In taking on worry, I walked away from the love and trust I have in God. I decided that I needed to handle and figure things out, not give them to Him and trust in His goodness. Since when do I have the power to manipulate all things? Hasn't happened yet. So why worry? I had to say I was sorry. Even if my roof comes off tonight while I sleep, He'll still provide a solution. The only thing I gained was a wasted day of grousing went I could have been making the most of a dreary day with my Little Sunshine.

An Excerpt From Chapter 4 of My Book, 'His Song'

I was startled awake by the sound of my daughter crying as she had just woken from her nap. My excess grogginess and inability to snap to attention told me that we had been sleeping for a long time. I scanned the room for the clock. We had slept three and a half hours! I rallied to my feet and walked down the hallway to Carli's room. I rousted her from her bed and carried her out to the living room. I made my way to the love seat again and as I set her down on her feet I noticed she had a piece of lollipop in her hair from the treat I gave her after church. My sleepy brain was searching for information on sticky lollipop from hair removal instructions. I knew that peanut butter would take gum out but does it do the same for lollipops? As I was looking at the sticky lock of hair I heard a car pull into the driveway. I could see the driveway in full view from my bay window. It was just a police cruiser. I am the last house on my street in my town so turning around in my driveway was a usual occurrence, especially for the police who routinely patrolled my rural street in search of speeders. I turned my attention to the sticky situation my daughter was in briefly when I heard a car door shut. The officer was making his way down my walkway toward my door. I was still unfazed as I let go of Carli's hair and headed to greet him. A pair of officers had shown up unexpectedly at night the week before asking if we had dialed 911, thinking they were in the next town. I had assumed this visit would be a repeat of last week and opened the door with a smile and greeted the officer.

"Are you Brittany Hudson?" the officer asked in a purposeful voice.

"Yes, I am" my tone reflected inquisitiveness.

"May I come in?" he asked, of course also letting me know that not coming in really wasn't an option.

"Of course"

Now my heart was racing. I made my way out of the door way and into my living room. Standing in between my living room and my kitchen island I turned to face him. All I could think of was "What did I do? I was in church all morning!". He faced me and paused for what seems to be a decade. He also put his hand over his gun and for a second I thought I was about to be arrested. Was he really going to arrest me in my own home in front of my toddler? His voice lowered as he remained like a statue with his full attention toward me. He zeroed in like a laser on my face. Now I was scared. What was going on?

"I have some news. It's bad, it's really bad" I could almost barely hear him, he got so quiet.

My mind went to Greg possibly on his way home from Maine. Had he been in a serious accident?

I could only focus on that for a split second when his third sentence came, "Your husband passed away this afternoon" .

I don't think I have the resources to try to describe how those words felt and really be able to bring some justice to the emotions behind them. I felt like an avalanche of snow had just covered my body. My mind sounded like an ocean wave as I reeled and tried to digest the information. I felt like I was going to pass out so I told him I needed to sit down. I made my way to the couch and plunked down. I tried to speak, I had questions but I was so overcome all I could do was wail and sob. I lost fifteen minutes of time. Who was there, what was said or where Carli was, I really don't know. I vaguely remember her standing in the middle of the living room staring at the two of us, having no idea how much her life had just changed since this morning.

My mind broke of its chaos for a moment and I stopped crying. I had to call someone. It occurred to me that I needed someone there. I announced to the officer that I needed to make a phone call and walked over to my kitchen island to get to my cell phone. I really wanted to reach out to someone but my mind had begun racing again and I couldn't focus on a single name or face of anyone I needed to talk to. I instinctively dialed my parents' number. My dad picked up and so did my emotions. I relayed the information to him between sobs and he announced that he would be right over. He didn't even say good bye before he hung up. I was relieved that he was on the way but it would take him an hour to get to me. My mother was much farther away, visiting a friend so I wasn't sure when she'd be arriving so I frantically thought of someone else to call. I needed someone, anyone, to be there with me. I didn't want to be alone. Who was nearby? Who was home? My brain could not complete a thought pattern no matter how hard I tried to focus. I was frustrated by my own inability to think clearly. I dialed my supervisor from work as she lived right down the street but she didn't answer. I looked at the clock and realized it was time for evening services at my church so no one from church would be home. I called my pastor's home anyway and left a message knowing he would call back as soon as he was able. I had to sit tight and wait for my dad to come.

I looked at this poor officer standing frozen in front of my kitchen island. I somberly announced that the only person I could get a hold of was an hour away. He asked if there was anyone else at all that I could reach out to, there wasn't any that I could think of. He radioed to his dispatch from the microphone on his shoulder that he'd be staying until someone arrived to be with me. I was so grateful for his generosity, the idea of sitting by myself was one of the most dreadful and agonizing things I could think of doing. We looked at each other silently for a brief moment and then I spoke.

"Thank you for being here. I really need someone here". I am sure he could hear the desperation in my voice amongst the steady stream of tears.

"This is one of the hardest things there is to do in this job. I've only had to tell a young wife this once before in my sixteen years on the force."

Hearing this made me humanize him. I didn't think of how difficult this must be for him to interrupt a woman and her sweet little toddler on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, to bring information that would shatter her life forever. The weight of it must have been incredible even for the two mile drive from the police station to my home. I took him in. He was less than average height, very dark hair and dark eyes. He had a kind face. He didn't look like he'd been out of the academy more than a few years, let alone sixteen. He informed me that he had a wife and two children of his own and that he only lived a couple of miles from me. The information was comforting even if it seemed a bit random and out of place. He wanted to let me know that he was a real person too, not just a uniform.

"Didn't someone call you?" he asked.

I looked at my cell phone call list and checked for a voicemail but there was nothing there. I also went to my home phone but no calls had come in while I was sleeping and no indication of a message there either.

"No, nothing" I reported. "I've been home all afternoon too".

"Would you want to call me? I now looked at him with my eyebrows raised.

"No" was all he said.

"Me neither" I said. "No one was supposed to call me. You are a God appointment. You were supposed to be here". I held confidence in my voice.

"I can't imagine getting this news over the phone here by yourself" he added. "I am glad I can be here with you".

He turned his mind and attentions to my little girl who had been quiet this whole time and had been fixed on him and his uniform. I had suddenly realized that Carli had been there amongst all this without a peep. Even in her little mind, she must have felt the gravity of the situation.
He smiled down at her brightly and said "Hi there!"

Carli smiled a little but she was confused. I walked around him and picked her up so she could get a better look at him and know that he was "okay". I instructed her to say hello back and the three of us talked about the police and how they help people. I told her that this nice police officer was here to help us and that if she ever needed help to find someone who had clothes on just like him. He also let me know during that time that since the department had known what happened and since I lived in a more remote area of town on a big, secluded plot of land, that they would be spending extra time patrolling the neighborhood and to call if there was any reason that I wanted them there. That was such a blessing to here. I really didn't like being home alone with Carli, even just overnight. It was too quiet. I knew he'd refuse, but I offered him a drink or to sit down. As I thought, he politely declined. He spent a whole hour on his feet waiting for a friend or family member of mine to arrive. I was feeling very indebted to him for that.

As I walked Carli toward the living room to sit down I saw my dad pull up his truck in front of the house. I sighed with relief to see someone that I loved finally come to my rescue. The truck lurched as he quickly came to a stop. Not bothering to walk around my post and rail fence to the walkway he hopped over it and ran to my door which by now I had come to and opened for him. He grabbed me into a big bear hug and he reached the top of the stairs. He practically ran into me, squeezing as he was softly crying and telling me how sorry he was. We embraced for a moment and he gathered himself together emotionally and broke away toward the inside of the house. I followed him in and the police officer who had so dutifully stayed with me once again expressed his condolences and left silently. My dad had asked me what happened but I only had scattered details at that time. I was still awaiting some kind of word from one of his friends that he was away with. What I knew is that he had been found by some passers by on the road. He was face down and his friend's dog was with him. He had been out walking Steve's dog. I knew what that meant. He had had a heart attack.

My heart skipped as I thought of his two friends, Steve and Rick. I imagined what it must have been like to have this all take place while they were away, especially on a weekend away to bond and help each other through some difficult times. I wondered if they didn't want to call or where they afraid to tell me what had happened. I really wanted to hear from them, to tell them it was okay and that I was so sorry they had to go through this. I ached for their pain too. As much as I needed comfort, I wanted to comfort them all the more. I wished I had a number to reach them at to call but I didn't even know what town they were in to call information. I just had to wait until one of them called.

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another" Proverbs 27:17.

Everyone needs an honest friend. One good one who isn't afraid to tell you like it is. Gratefully, I have a few. One of them is my dear friend, Courtney. Interestingly enough, she used to be one of my clients when I was in Technology Sales. She worked for my largest account. Somehow she and I unwittingly got into a conversation about her husband being a pastor at a well known church in the area one day. I revealed that I was a Christian. We formed a bond based on our faith that no one would understand unless you are one of us.

We grew to spend equal time discussing business and matters spiritual during our phone conversations when I'd call on her. I left my company and she left hers. We traded information and pledged to stay connected, we both made good on that promise. Everyone should have someone in their life they know will follow through. It is such a blessing when you realize who those people are in your life. Cherish them.

When my husband died, she came to visit me. It was a long drive for her and she left a husband and two small boys at home to come be with me during an overwhelmingly difficult time in my life. She recognized a need to show up as my friend when I was too weak to articulate my desire to see her. I never forgot that. Everyone should have someone in their life that anticipates your needs when you are too weary to know what they are yourself. Return the favor.

Since then I have, as no one should be surprised, had several ups and downs in my recovery process from this ordeal. She has dutifully listened to me during our times on the phone and in person, trying to understand me and respond with the most thoughtful and earnest assessments and advice that she can derive from my sharing. I hope I have done that for her at least more than once. Everyone should have someone in their life who listens to you. Don't over do it.

Recently she came to see my new house. I was very excited to show her the modest, cottage style home I had been renovating since the winter. It is finally at a place in the finishing where I am willing to let people come see it. Walls are painted, furniture is in and window dressings hung. Just a few things needed to complete its makeover. She is my friend so I knew she'd be happy to overlook the few minor details. We wandered into rooms and up the stairs to the top floor where my daughter's room, a tiny bathroom and my office are. I gushed over my daughter's room. It is my favorite. The walls are sky blue, at the request of my four year old, with white furniture and curtains. The accent colors are bright pink, green and yellow. I know it sounds garish but it works beautifully. We turned tail and walked into my office. I picked a spa palette pastel aqua color the paint sample referred to as 'Sea Glass' with my dark walnut futon for extra sleeping space, and a few white lamps and candles.

I was in the middle of winding down my tour when her head dropped to the floor. She pointed to my iMac and printer sitting on the floor and papers strewn around in a semi-circle. "Why don't you have a desk?" she asked in a matter-of-fact tone. I wanted to make light of it but she continued, "You need a desk". Her insistence gave pause to what I wasn't able to bring myself to consider. I was deliberately, yet subconsciously not making the purchase. Courtney is a career consultant. Her job is to identify road blocks in someone's career and assist in transitioning from one to the next. In short, she has heard all the excuses people will give to tell her how and why they can't succeed. I knew I would not be glossing over this conversation with her. "Mental block." I uttered. "Why?" "Because if I buy a desk and set up my office then I really am working for myself and writing actually is what I do now." she had helped me break through. "Buy a desk.", she ended the conversation and we went downstairs. There was nothing else to discuss. If I wanted to make the commitment to my new career then I had to follow through on making it happen. One of those things is getting all the right tools to do the job well.

Courtney was not afraid to tackle the subject and she loves me enough to not let me go when she knows I need to talk about something. As I write, I am sitting at my brand new, dark walnut, simple writing desk, in a funky fabric covered dining room chair I thought would be perfect for my writing space. The finishing touch is my brushed nickel desk lamp to highlight my keyboard so I can type at night. I feel like a big girl now.

Everyone needs someone in their life who is not afraid to love you enough to be honest. Find out who that person is for you and never let them go.

Ode to Maw

"If it's not one thing, it's your mother" - Anita Renfroe

"I don't think I deserve this card" is what my mother had to say about the words that graced the cover of her Mother's Day card yesterday. My overly excited pre-schooler was jumping up and down in the kitchen when Mom came over for a visit last night "We bought you a present, Nana! We bought you a present!". It became apparent to us both that Carli was not going to let this go without bursting either at the seams with anticipation or in tears at the decline to open. I handed my mother the gift. She opened her card, read it and set it down. Next, the box which my daughter all but tore out of her hand trying to open it for her. With some coaching and patience, Carli helped her get the ribbon off. It may have been a little too likely to predict that we had selected for her yet another Pandora charm for her bracelet. It was a pretty spacer with Carli's birthstones all around it. I thought it would add some sparkle and color. She put it on the bracelet immediately. When the charm was fastened and bracelet repositioned she picked up the card again and those words spilled out.

I never expected that and I grappled with how to respond. The card referred to the caring, love and patience of some of my favorite female bible characters. The only thing I could come up with was "you do in your own way" I felt like my response was a little lackluster but when she made her statement my brain started conspiring for the exact marketing spin but I felt short. I haven't stopped thinking about it so without further delay, Mom, here is why you live up to the card.

My mother's heart could not have shown itself better than when my husband died. I had never been in a position to feel so vulnerable and stripped naked of everything mentally, emotionally and spritually as then. I needed so much but I couldn't articulate it. Mothers have an inate ability to read the unspoken in their children. My mom does this flawlessly. Instinctively, she stayed at my house for a week. She didn't ask, she didn't make any grand statements about being there for me, she just did. There was no display on her part. She often sat quietly and played in the spare bedroom with my daughter while I wandered, usually in my pajamas and unshowered, aimlessly about my house. I couldn't care for my daughter in those first days. I wanted to but I was too broken. She didn't ask me to talk, there was no wailing on my behalf. She was the continual presence that I could rely on during those darkest of days. When I returned to work, I was in great need of assistance in caring for my daughter when I had to stay late or was desperate for babysitting for those obscure holidays my day care seemed to always have off and at the worst possible times. My mother would drive over an hour to my house before dawn to make sure she could be there so I could head into the office. It pained me to ask her being so far away but she never gave it a thought. I didn't want to over step my welcome. I am still waiting for her to even give me a hint of that two years later. My mother's credentials for being caring are ones of genuineness and practicality not empty words.

The love of a mother was not something I could have possibly understood until I had my own child. The bond is indescribable and the need to protect is deep. As a single mother, I am often questioning instincts to protect versus my anxiety of over protection. As I have observed my mother, I see that it may be a healthy mix of both. My mom lamented my extra long vacation to Key West within months of my husband's departure. I felt like Humpty Dumpty scrambling to put the pieces back. She wanted to be the glue and I rebuffed her opportunities. We had many heated conversations during my time on my little, exclusive island in the keys. She visited a lot, 3 times in 10 months as a matter of fact, but her frequent visits helped me understand. She was like a mother hen trying to put her chicks under the cover of her wings. She had to see me and be with me to know that I was okay. If I had a bad day, she wanted to be there sitting next to me on the couch hugging me, not expressing thoughts and feelings over a cold phone line. She wanted to gather me and Carli close to her. Moms love to be there pick up the pieces no matter how messy it is. They want to be the first to kiss the boo-boo. My mom wanted to see physically that I was doing okay. I get that. I hate to be separated from Carli. I feel most comfortable when she is right in front of me. My mother's love is one of spending time and being present, not gifts and fluff.

Patience is a virtue. It's also part of the fruit of the Spirit. I have days where I have it and nights where I lament to my Creator that I fell short. My mother's patience is one that you would see is a thread of her life, rather than an observation of how she reacts to long lines at the grocery store. I have led an interesting life. It has been full of moments of great failure, terrible decisions and tremendous times of reinvention and miraculous achievement. My mom has been the one to not dwell on any of the negativity. I'd expect her to bring up some of my worst in moments where I think I deserved it but she never does. My mom is like God. When we confess our sins He is quick to forgive, forget and grant restoration. Mom is just like that. She has never held anything against me. She would rather focus on the things that make her feel good about me. She always writes in birthday cards and such that she is proud of me and she can't believe she gave birth to someone like me and it blows me away every time. I feel so undeserving. It makes my heart buckle with humility to read her sentiments. My mom's patience is one of the long-haul not necessarily the immediate situation. She exemplifies some of my favorite attributes of God.

Mom, you do reflect every word on that card. I just wanted you to know why. Happy Mother's Day. I love you so much and my gratitude transcends anything that I could write. Flawless? No. But you are the perfect mom for me.

"People want what you have but they don't want to go through what you went through to get it". - Joyce Meyer

The world is filled with people finding shortcuts to something more without having to do any work to achieve it. Fail proof 'get rich' books offer the solution to unlimited wealth. All you have to do is read and apply. The diet drink that transforms you to the body you've always dreamed of. All you have to do is charge your card for a small monthly fee and sip your way to slimmer hips and thighs in no time. You can undo years worth of unhealthy emotional damage if you just believe in yourself. It all sounds great. Why wouldn't it? I'd be the next in line for all of these if they delivered as promised. Do you know anyone who can testify to their validity besides the actors on the commercial?

If there were any one comment I hear more from my readers than anything else it is that I am an inspiration. It seems that people who have even heard of me offer my ears and eyes the same words of encouragement. I am not lifted by the sentiments though, I am terrified. Fear and trembling is my approach to what I have to teach. In my oft bumbling gaffes through life, I have been trained in great wisdom. My written lessons are merely a recount of experiences, nothing more. There is no school to attend, no magic pill, no instant solution. A mind formed by trial, has somehow made me attractive to others. To them, I have much to offer. I don't want to give them something more than I have. So dangerous is the law of attraction. Many have been given the gift of teaching but they get caught up in its power that they lose the lessons they've been given and reach for something more in order to keep the throngs in front of them. They forgot one thing. The audience is part of the gift. The giver can take it all away in the absence of acknowledgement and gratitude. Never elevate yourself higher than your station. Someone put you there and that is exactly where He wants you where it be weeks, years or hours. You are filling a purpose.

Were I to recount in a continuous chronological display all the trials I've overcome in my life in order to have what I've been given it would be a story too sad to read. The burden would drown the joy. No, the lessons digested in part and parcel are much easier to take in. Wisdom also brings discernment so I know this to be true. If you've ever read Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt you'd know what I am talking about. Mr. McCourt followed his first book up with an equally dismal sequel, " 'Tis". I read through the first and then half of the second before I shut the cover in discouragement and presented myself to my recommending mother to ask "does this guy's life ever get better? I can hardly stand to read on!" to which my dad piped up from across the room to say, "Sure, he became a bestselling author and millionaire". Lord, forbid it to be true of me. I desire something much more than fame or money. I want the ability to offer hope to the suffering and for others to see the evidence of peace in my life despite great circumstances. Discernment helps you hold your tongue when you need to and brings the courage to share the truth when you ought.

Yes, I have endured. No, I am not bitter. I've met rooms full of people and the irony is the ones who have suffered the least are the ones who complain the most. Wisdom brings levity. I don't get angry when they spew negativity. I chuckle to myself as if to say, 'if you only knew how bad it could be'. They want to know the shortcut to happiness. There isn't one. I submit you learn to be content in the situation not absent of it. We're it to not be so, there would be psychiatric facilities packed to the gills with victims instead of arenas full of attendees anxious to hear from overcomers. No one would be well enough to bring the message hope to those so in need of healing.

Enjoy your blessings, they number more than your trials. I've only learned to focus on them because I have been brought through so many of the latter. Some scratch their heads at how I still stand. I understand their wondering but I have a secret to share with you. I am grateful for every minute of pain. Dare I say, I would not be the person I am today without it. I have been given a gift to replace what has been lost in the turmoil that far outweighs what I've had to let go of. I wouldn't want it any other way. I count it great joy that I have the ability to see all this and write it down for you to read. May it renew your spirit and help you go on. You can't get what I have any other way than being brought through what I have. While I pray that you would be spared, I would like to offer you a by-product of lessons though. It's hope.