Author: Sandi Staton

My body has slowed down, but my busy brain never stops thinking, creating, writing, taking pictures of clouds and trees, and everything in between. I battle anxiety and depression that doesn't get better with age. That's why I write, why I spend time alone, why I walk, why I take pictures, why I never stop.

When Apologizing is like Eating Dirt

It was just an ordinary summer day when my brother Kenny and I were left home alone while our parents and youngest sibling were grocery shopping. Kenny was seven, and I was eight.

Long before video games, PlayStation, and iPhones, we actually had to sit and talk to each other or play pick-up sticks or ball and jacks or tinker toys or build cabins out of Lincoln Logs.

Well, that particular day, we wanted a little more excitement than that. We couldn’t go outside and play, and playing hide-and-seek in our tiny apartment was like looking for an elephant hiding under the bed.

While pacing the tiny living room floor, I glanced out the window and saw the landlord working in her flowerbed. For whatever reason, mom, and daddy didn’t like the landlords, so I didn’t like them either.

Suddenly, as if being poked with the devil’s pitchfork, I coaxed Kenny into doing something totally out of character for both of us. We raised the window, stuck out our pea-brain heads and yelled, “Hey, old lady Brummel! Hey, old lady Brummel!”

We lived quite a distance away, so I didn’t think she even heard us until she threw down her garden tools and stormed toward the apartment huffing and puffing and smoke pouring out of her ears.

Oh, no! She’s coming to chop off our arms and legs!

Like a cat with its tail on fire, Kenny ran downstairs and locked the door just in the nick of time before she started pounding on it and screaming like the big bad wolf, “Let me in! Let me in! I’m telling your parents when they get home!”

True to her word and to my horror, as soon as the car pulled into the driveway, the phone started ringing.

My mother was the warden at our house. A strict, religious warden that didn’t put up with nonsense and expected her brood to follow the rules or else. And that day “or else” meant that we march our little impudent behinds over to the landlord and apologize!

I’d rather have shoveled a pile of manure in the freezing cold stark naked.

Yes, she made me go, but I made her pay!

Like a bloody battle between the North and the South, I bawled and kicked and screamed as mom nearly yanked my arm out of the socket, pulling and dragging me across the field. By the time we got to the landlord’s house, mom needed a long nap and I needed a straight jacket.

I thought that if I danced around bawling and screaming long and hard enough, mom would give up and take me home. But, oh no! If it meant waiting for the rapture to take place, I was going to straighten up and apologize before I could even think about going home.

Like swallowing a ton of bricks, I finally choked up the words everyone was waiting to hear and never talked my brother into doing anything that stupid again.

But, I just remembered that other time when . . .

Take Up Your Mat and Walk Like a Boss

So, I’m paralyzed. Been this way since the car accident. I can’t walk. I can’t feed myself, bathe myself, even brush my own teeth. And this Man comes to me and asks, “Do you want to get well?”

And with a big, pearly white-toothed smile I say, “No. I’m good. I like people waiting on me hand and foot. I like using my handicap as a crutch. I like not having to do anything, prove anything, take responsibility for anything. I like people coddling me, making excuses for me, doing everything under the sun for me.

Of course, this ridiculous scenario is just fiction. I’m physically healthy. I can clean my own house, pull weeds from my flowerbeds, even walk around the block a few times.

But the man Jesus approached at the healing pool had been an invalid for thirty-eight years, and Jesus asked him, “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6) 

Why would Jesus ask such a question? Why would He even think that the man wouldn’t want to be healed? He was at the healing pool, wasn’t he?

As a snotty-nosed kid, and seeing the world through my over-sized rose-tinted glasses, I often wondered about that scripture. Then, when I grew up and those glasses got punched off my face, I saw the world and the people in it differently. I even saw myself differently.

Reality stinks. It rattles our brain and makes us see things about ourselves and others that we’d rather not. Don’t open my eyes, and I won’t have to see how many people use their long-time physical and emotional handicaps to bully and control others. Stick in a pair of earplugs and I won’t have to hear their never-ending moans and groans.

It’s funny how conversations often become a contest of who had the most surgeries or take the most pills or has the worst ailments or suffers the most pain.

Why do people do that?

As kids growing up, my brother and I had rheumatic fever, but Kenny’s was more severe than mine. He was sickly all the time, in and out of the hospital and pumped full of penicillin at the least sign of a cold. He cried a lot. Was coddled and babied a lot. And I felt ignored a lot.

Then, when I was in the third grade, I got deathly sick every day after lunch and laid my head on my desk trying not to throw up all over the floor. Finally, mom and daddy took me to the doctor to discover I had walking pneumonia.

Finally! I was one up on my brother and rubbed it in his face, boasting that I was the sickest, now, and it’s my turn to get all the attention!

But, Kenny wasn’t having it and argued that he was still the sickest. After dragging mom into it, she finally ended the contest by calling it a tie. We were both equally sick.

For many years I expected people to treat me with kid gloves because of my out-of-whack emotional disorders. I relied on others to do things for me that I was afraid of doing myself. I relied on my loved ones to protect and defend me, to be there for me, to boost my confidence, to validate and make excuses for me. And the more I relied on others, the more dependent I became.

Then, hearing my desperate cries at the healing pool one day, Jesus knelt beside me and whispered, “Do you want to get well?”

When the prison doors swung open, I just stood there gazing wide-eyed into the vastness of freedom. It was scary out there without my crutches —- those emotional handicaps I so desperately clung to for so long. The smell of freedom was alluring and sweet, but stepping into it was like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute.

I still rely on the love and support of my family, but I don’t expect them to sit and hold my hand twenty-four hours a day, not that I ever did. I don’t expect them to make up for everything I lost throughout my life. I don’t expect them to coddle and pamper me and agree with every single thing I do or say.

Just as God has set me free, I set others free. I know what it’s like to be bullied by someone else’s handicaps, and I’d rather cry alone in the coldest, darkest cave than to ever do that to the ones I love.

Freedom always comes at a cost, especially if you’ve been enslaved for a long, long time. In order to gain one thing you have to let go of another and another and another, whatever tattered rag you’re clinging to because it feels reliable and safe.

And as crazy as it seems, many people would rather lie around sucking on their emotional pacifiers than get off their pity pot and walk.

I don’t want to be one of those people. I want to get well. I want to be what I was created to be. I want to take up my mat and walk like a boss!

When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, He asked him, “Do you want to get well?” John 5:6

Devils in Disguise

The ER was the last place I wanted to be. Unless you’re half-dead, it can take hours before your name is called, and then you’re taken to a room where you sit and wait some more. That’s why I decided to go by ambulance. Made sense to me.

When we arrived at the ER, I was pleasantly surprised to see a smiling nurse standing beside a gurney waiting for me. Elated that my plan worked, I imagined being whisked away to a happy, sunshiny room and covered with a warm, fuzzy blanket. No waiting. No begging for pain relievers. No getting the brush-off like a bum on Skid Row.

And there’s my room. My cold and lonely little room, where I was wheeled on a bed of nails, writhing in pain and left to slowly freeze to death. Where are my people? My angels of mercy? My warm, fuzzy blanket? My PAINKILLERS?!!

My husband’s warm hands and sympathetic eyes were the only comforts in this desolate room. I’m grateful for him. I love him to death. He’s my best friend, my Knight in shining armor. But right now, I’d trade him in a heartbeat for a painkiller!

The minutes crawled by. Then an hour. Then another. Finally, a nurse came in, his smile brighter than his snow-white jacket, asking more questions than Judge Judy. “What’s your name? How old are you? Are you allergic to anything? On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain?”

Finally, the song and dance ended, and Mr. Sunshine shot out the door, promising to return with something for pain.

And I waited, and waited, and waited.

Pacing the floor, my husband opened the door, and across the hall, the nurse’s station was buzzing with important stuff, like drinking coffee and clowning around with their buddies! No wonder patients are put on hold for so long. But what do I know? I’m just a bag of bones with one foot in the grave, praying to be put out of my misery.

My husband is a patient, loving man, and would rather cut off his arm than confront anyone. But when he stormed out the door, I started praying.

I don’t know what he said, and I don’t care, but within seconds, a host of nurses sheepishly appeared.

Seconds later, an absent-minded X-ray technician rushed in, got me out of bed, then flew out the door and down the hall, leaving me limping behind like a three-legged dog. Suddenly, as if remembering to pick up his kids from school, he stopped, spun around, and gasped, “Oh! Do you need a wheelchair?”

And my brain screamed: Are you kidding me?! I needed a wheelchair when you broke my back, jerking me off the bed! No, I’m good. I always walk like this after being hit by a train!

Finally, with no help from him, I dragged my twisted body through the door, feeling as naked as a plucked chicken beneath the flimsy, paper-thin hospital gown.

Barely looking my way, he says, “Stand here, stand there, turn that way, turn this way, hold your breath, breathe. We’re done; you can go back to your room.”

How thoughtful of him.

No sooner than I crawled back on the bed, he rushed through the door again. “I’m so sorry! But I need a few more pictures, but you don’t have to get up. You can lie right there.”

There was nothing human about this elf-like, dark-haired guy. Like a drunk driver, he zigzagged his X-ray machine beside my bed, banging it, apologizing, and banging it again. I felt like I was auditioning for The Three Stooges!

“Lift your bottom,” he said, his voice hurried and apologetic. “I need to slide this board under you.”

Up until that moment, I was as brave as a lion. No tears, no moaning and groaning, no screaming and yelling; not even a whimper. But when he SHOVED that board under me, that’s when I died and went to Hell! That’s when demons ripped my flesh apart and began eating me alive. That’s when I yelled. When I bawled like a baby! When I screamed like a burning witch!

I actually felt a twinge of pity for the little guy. Despite his clumsiness, he was frantically trying not to hurt me. And insane with pain, I was frantically trying not to knock his teeth out!

Then, like a hit-and-run driver, everyone gathered their gear and left my mutilated body to slowly bleed to death. No warm, fuzzy blanket. No painkillers. No hope of getting out of this hospital alive.

Another hour crawled by before Mr. Sunshine finally returned with something for pain.

Dare I believe this charming, white-toothed devil? Dare I trust those baby blues? That mesmerizing smile? You decide. He handed me a wee, little, tiny pill in a wee, little, tiny cup and said, “Chew it up. It’ll work faster.”

What planet am I on?!!

From across the hall, moans for help were cut short with a flippant, “Take a deep breath!”

And I felt like screaming, “It doesn’t work!”

Suddenly, the technician ran back in and cheered, “No broken bones!”

Yay! I feel so much better now!

A few minutes later, Mr. Sunshine returned with a jackhammer and jammed it into my hip. To ease the pain, he said. It didn’t.

An hour later, I was discharged. Really? Just when I was beginning to like it here.

Feeling like I’d just spent a week in the Twilight Zone, I hobbled with my husband arm-in-arm down the long, dimly lit corridor. No wheelchair. No Painkillers. No warm, fuzzy blankets. It’s as if I came to the ER with a chopped-off arm, and they slapped a Band-Aid on it and sent me home.

But wait! Hell’s fury isn’t finished with me yet. No sooner than my husband helped me to a chair before leaving to get the car, an Amazon woman with a Freddy Krueger scowl told me to get up because someone else needed to sit there!

Seriously?! I’ve just been put through a meat grinder! Can’t you at least pretend to be a human for five seconds?!

Lessons I learned in the ER:
If you’re not having a heart attack, take the car.
If you’re in pain, suck it up.
If you’re in a hurry, stay home.
If you want special treatment, go to the spa.
If you want amusement, go to Disneyland; it’s cheaper!

Teacher From Hell

We’ve all had at least one, that teacher that made a career of belittling their students in front of the class. We were kids. We were taught to obey authority. So we didn’t fight back.

Then there was Eugene.

Every day, for no reason at all, Mr Savage, a dark-haired short little man with a great big fat ego, punched Eugene on the shoulder. Maybe he didn’t like the way he sat in his chair or that he wore glasses or had curly hair and a Robert Mitchum dimple in his chin. Maybe he didn’t like that Eugene was bigger and smarter and better looking than he was. Or maybe it’s just that Mr Savage had to live up to his name by terrorizing his seventh-grade students.

One day, Mr Savage was extra mean. I don’t know what Eugene did, but Mr Savage marched over to his desk and plowed his fist into Eugene’s shoulder nearly knocking him out of his chair.

Suddenly, as if waking a sleeping lion, Eugene jumped up, shook his fist in Mr Savage’s face and snarled, “Now, hit me again!”

And sitting dumbfounded across from him, my insides were yelling, “Yeah! And that goes for me too!”

He must have heard me because Mr Savage laid off Eugene and started bullying me.

Every day Mr Savage singled me out, asking me questions hoping I’d give the wrong answer so that he and everyone else could roll with laughter. And every day I just sat there clenching my jaw and shooting green-eyed daggers through his heart.

My you-can’t-make-me stubbornness didn’t sit well with him. So one day while the students and teachers were lined up to go to their classrooms, Mr Savage marched over to me and snarled sarcastically, “What’s the matter with your mother? Is she an invalid or something?”

Dumbstruck and wondering what the heck invalid meant, I blurted, “Yes sir, she’s in a wheelchair.”

Suddenly, as if I’d punched him in the nose he spun around before I could explain, tucked his tail between his legs and practically ran into the classroom and slammed the door behind him!

I didn’t know Mr Savage had written my parents requesting a conference with them because I was failing Social Studies. It wasn’t until much later I discovered that daddy wrote back telling him about mom’s back injury and that if he wanted to talk to them he’d have to come to the house.

God was my hero that day. He grabbed the savage beast by the horns and gave him a swift kick in the butt. And from that day forth, Mr Savage never ever bothered me again.

Yes, I failed Social Studies. But Mr Savage just plain failed. He failed at teaching. He failed at having compassion and wisdom and understanding. Rather than building us up and helping us learn he beat us down to the ground. So I give him and every teacher like him a big fat F!

“Whoever digs a hole and scoops it out falls into the pit they have made. The trouble they cause recoils on them; their violence comes down on their own heads.” Psalm 7:15,16 NIV

Never, Ever Quit!

My son gave me permission to share this. He is a strong leader in our family and puts his heart and soul into everything he does. He never complains. He never feels sorry for himself. He never quits. But today, he is feeling very discouraged. He has MRSA. Not just one pustular bump, but twelve; the worst case his doctor has ever seen.

So this is what he shared with the family today:

Hey family, hope you all are doing good.  Just sharing my heart about not quitting. 

First, there is no failure in being tired, exhausted, having difficulty accomplishing a task, event, or mission and feeling like giving up or quitting.  Failure is simply quitting when you know you can do and endure more, but you trade short-term relief for long-term regret.  Quitting is the acceptable norm for our modern, mentally weak, soft, and sensitive culture–Christians included. 

I’ve trained for nearly an entire year for the GORUCK Selection. https://www.goruck.com › I have pushed my body and mind into very dark places filled with short-term pain in hopes to develop a greater threshold for the pain and suffering ahead–not just for GORUCK, but for life. 

Honestly, there have been two occasions I have felt like quitting and not attempting Selection due to all my travels and the recent infection with MRSA.  I can quit and my family will think no less of me.  My culture would say, “It’s  okay, you had good intentions, there’s always another time.”  I can quit–my body is constantly sore, at times I can barely walk, I don’t always feel like doing a 3-4 hour routine.  Sore.  Tired.  Beat down.  Mentally fatigued. 

So why do the event to begin with?  Why put myself through that much pain?  Simple:  I said I was going to do it no matter what when I registered for the event one year ago.  No matter what happens.  No matter what obstacles surface.  No matter how plausible it may be to quit.

What’s at stake if I quit now?  My word, my character, my integrity, and my own personal self-respect.  For me, if I quit, what example do I set for my family and others who believe in me?  Finishing Selection is not the ultimate goal for me.  Victory is overcoming every obstacle and opportunity to quit before the event even begins. 

When confronted with the temptation to quit ask yourself “what’s at stake if I quit?”  Failure is simply quitting in the face of difficulties when you can do and endure more than you think.  We don’t need courage when things are easy  . . . we need courage when things seem impossible!!

Family, be strong!  Be brave!  Be bold!  YOU can do all things through Christ Jesus who strengthens you!  Be courageous!  Fear not!  Don’t quit–Finish the goal, the task, the dream, the event, whatever it is–Don’t give up, give in, give out, or quit!! What is at stake if you quit?  The better question is, “What potential impact does my not quitting have on me, my family, others, and the Kingdom of God? Regret or glory–the choice is yours.  And for me?  I’d rather die than to quit!

 

Letting Go

Parenting is a full-time job of love and patience, teaching and learning, guiding and directing. A full-time job of trial and errors, pacing the floor . . . and letting go.

From the time a mother holds her infant in her arms and holds it to her breast, the natural process of letting go begins to unfold.

At first, we don’t see it. We’re way too busy changing diapers, filling bottles, and trying to catch a few hours sleep. The mere thought of him starting first grade is a trillion miles down the road.

Suddenly, it happens. You’re not the love of his life anymore. He’s dating. He gets married. He has kids. His kids have kids. They all have lives of their own to live and enjoy and to follow the star of freedom and independence. No one has the right to interfere with that.

Unfortunately, my mother didn’t get that. To her, letting go was like cutting off her arms. I guess through her abusive childhood and failed marriages she had lost so much already that she felt she couldn’t survive losing her kids too.

So she clung to me like clinging to the edge of a cliff.

I could write a book about the emotional damage she caused, the conflicting battles and severed relationship we had and the effect it still has on me. Maybe one day my life will be what it is was meant to be, but it may never happen on this side of heaven.

That’s why I’ve worked so hard through my fears and insecurities to set my son free. Why my heart gave him permission to spread his wings and become the strong and independent man he is today. He will not be controlled, and I will never impose my will on him; to manipulate and toy with his tender emotions. To me, that is the most deadly form of child abuse. It’s emotional rape and almost impossible to recover from. I love him way too much to slaughter his spirit.

Through a river of blood, sweat, and tears of letting go, I am reaping a bountiful harvest of joy and happiness through my son, his kids, and his grandkids. And when he takes me out, which isn’t very often due to his busy and exhausting schedule, he treats me like a queen. He warms my heart and makes every moment we spend together priceless treasures that no one can take away.

For me and my twisted emotions, letting go is not easy. But I’d rather die than sacrifice my son’s emotional well-being for my own selfish desires; to try to put him in a tiny box with no room to grow. His wings are way too big and strong for that.

 

 

 

A Coat of Many Colors

A Coat of Many Colors

This poem came to me one quiet morning during a moment of meditation. Suddenly, across the screen of my imagination, flashed a brightly colored robe . . . a token of Jacob’s love for his son, Joseph. This robe symbolized a position of honor and esteem. I wish I had known a father’s love like that, I sighed. Suddenly, like a gentle breeze, the cloak of God’s love wrapped around me, reminding me that I am precious to Him. All the finest and brightest treasures of this world pale in comparison to God’s unfailing, unchanging, unconditional love for humankind!

With loving care and tenderness

My Father made for me

A coat of many colors

For all the world to see

He didn’t have to tell me

I saw it in His face

This coat of many colors

Must ever be worn with grace

Threads of pure gold proclaim His birth

Purple, His royal descent

Stripes of snow white and patches of blue

Proclaim His purity, honor, and strength.

And to complete His glorious masterpiece

He trimmed it all in red

Proclaiming the cross at Calvary

Upon which His blood was shed.

Father, thank you for your wondrous gift

So precious rich and free

For the coat of many colors

You have made for me

And lest in arrogance I wear your gift

Forgetting from Whom it came

Remind me of the price you paid

To cover my guilt My sin

My shame