Face, to Face

Into the darkness, He came

He whispered my name

He took my hand

And the journey began

Down the steep winding stairwell

Into the dungeon of my soul

Where I dare not tread before

And I was afraid

Of the ghosts from the past

With glaring eyes and scornful frowns

Violent screams pierced my ears

Shattered my soul

Shook my world apart

And I felt worthless

Unloved

Unwanted

And I wept

I wanted to run and never stop

Then I felt His gentle nudge

So we moved on

To the bottom of the stairs

Where I saw a little girl

Gazing into a hazy room

Where her dad sat

Like a corpse

Oblivious to her tears

Her pain

Her longing to crawl on his lap

To fall into his arms

To feel his heartbeat

His love

His protection

From the angry world in which she lived

But he never looked her way

Ever

Then she turned

And saw a face

Shining like the sun

Smiling

Arms extended wide

She ran to Him

He hugged her tight

She felt His love

He dried her tears

And there at the bottom of the stairs

In the dungeon of my soul

I met my Heavenly Father

Face to face

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He Was There All the Time

He was there at conception, knitting me together in my mother’s womb, watching me grow, delighted with His handiwork. And He smiled.

He was there when I took my first breath, beaming with joy as my mother held me to her breast and kissed my downy head. And He smiled.

He was there when I took my first step, picked my first flower, and chased my first butterfly through hills of green. And He smiled.

He was there when I grew up, fell in love, got married and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. And He smiled.

He was there when my body was slammed against the wall and vice-like fingers squeezing my neck. And He cried.

He was there when anger consumed my heart, hatred ravaged my soul, and darkness flooded my mind. And He cried.

He was there when I sobbed in the darkness searching for His face, questioning His love, cursing the day I was born. And He cried.

He was there when I ran away, far from His beckoning call, ignoring the thorns and choking vines along the foreboding path. And He cried.

He was there when my heart was shackled by fear when my eyes were filled with tears when my lonely soul was shivering in the bitter cold. And He cried.

He was there when I fell on my knees calling His name, surrendering my stubborn will; deeply grieved that I made Him cry. And He smiled.

He was there all the time patiently waiting to set me free, to prove His love, to draw me back to Him. And we smiled.

It’s Funny, But Not Funny Ha, Ha

I’m not the only one with this neurotic disorder. I know because I went online to see if there was even a name for it. And there it was. Trichotemnomania, a disorder characterized by compulsive hair cutting or shaving. It is often triggered by intrusive ideas or stressful experiences.

It’s scary having a disorder I can’t even pronounce but at the same time, I’m relieved knowing that I’m not crazy all by myself.

And for me It goes way back; as far back as the time that I made all my Barbie dolls look like Ken and our neighbor’s ten-year-old look like a skinned cat after cutting his hair with the electric clippers. I watched mom cut my brothers’ and daddy’s hair so much that I was sure I knew how. I did okay till I removed the attachment to get it just a little shorter. I should have stopped while I was ahead. But his dad liked it, so it was all good.

Then I began bugging mom to cut my long, red hair; an absolute no-no according to my grandmother who only had her hair cut once in her entire seventy-something years.

Finally, to shut me up, mom got out her big silver shears and cut it. I felt like the weight of the world was lifted off my scrawny shoulders.

From there it escalated from mom cutting my hair to me cutting my hair. After all, I had plenty of experience.

When I was a teen I wanted everyone’s hair but my own. Every Sunday at church I sat behind Freda, drooling over her short, dark wavy hair neatly combed back into a drake’s tail. She was beautiful, like a China doll, with big brown eyes, thick dark lashes and porcelain complexion.

And I’d sit there thinking if my hair looked like hers, I would be transformed from an awkward, ugly duckling to a beautiful, graceful swan. My freckles would disappear, my straight, unruly red hair would become dark and wavy, and I would finally like the gawky kid looking back at me in the mirror.

Thus began my full-blown hair obsession. I’d cut it, color it, curl it, tease it, and spray it. Some mornings I’d spend hours doing and redoing my hair till it was perfect. Other days I’d get so angry and frustrated that I’d throw my hairbrush across the room and cry. And yes, most mornings I was late for work in spite of getting up at four in the morning to be at work by seven.

I bought wigs to cover the shame of cutting my hair too short. But, even my wigs weren’t safe with a pair of scissors in my hand.

Beauty School taught me the do’s and don’ts of cutting hair, but I taught myself how to use the electric clippers.

That’s when I really got crazy. There’s just something about the sound and smell and feel of the clippers in my hand, especially when I’m feeling stressed and anxious. A coworker once told me that she knew how stressed I was by the length of my hair. So when I’d come to work wearing a ball cap, she was tempted to call the Mental Health Hot Line.

One time my husband hid my clippers, but I hunted till I found them.

I could go on and on telling you how I’d stay up all night cutting my hair, but that would really make me look stupid. And I could tell you that I like wearing my hair short, and laugh when strangers ask me if I have cancer and little kids asking me if I’m a girl, but I’m afraid you’ll think I belong in the loony bin.

But I can tell you that I’m okay with cutting and wearing my hair short and that when I screw it up I slap on a ball cap till it grows out and I begin the madness again. And I don’t mind telling you that my family laughs at me, and that’s okay because I laugh harder at myself.

So yes, I admit to having OCD. But, believe it or not, I’m dealing with it. I take medication, which sometimes isn’t enough and I feel like getting good and drunk. But I did that once and got so sick I swore I’d NEVER do it again! Besides, I can’t stand the stuff.

OCD is painful. It messes with my mind, heart and soul. It cripples and enslaves and makes me feel like I belong in a freak show. I’m restless, my mind races, my insides feel like a bomb exploding and I wonder why I was even born. I question if God really loves me, I’m so messed up. Some days I can’t stop crying, other days I’m so depressed I think I’d be better off dead.

I pray and read my Bible. I talk to family and friends and realize that they love me in spite of my insanity. Most of all, I continue working on myself. Medication alone can’t fix everything that’s wrong; I wish it did. And although God doesn’t remove the thorn in my side, He gives me the strength to bear it. Sometimes, like the one set of footprints in the sand, He carries me till I can walk on my own.

I couldn’t make it without God and family and friends. They’ve been there, helping me pick up the pieces of my life, loving me, encouraging me, and seeing me through the darkest shadows of despair. I’m thankful and blessed that God loves me so much that He never leaves my side.

So does that mean I’m throwing away my clippers? Are you crazy?

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Second Chance

I wonder, did the tree cry when Eve plucked its forbidden fruit? Did it sob with grief; cry out to the universe of the treacherous crime she committed?

Did the luscious fruit writhe with pain between the jaws of death? Did it mourn for the woman who so brazenly murdered her soul?

Did the flowers become faint and did the color drain from their lovely petals? In the heat of the woman’s lustful desire did their faces burn with shame?

Did thunder shake the heavens? Did lightning strike the earth? And the mountains and streams, did they tremble and quake? Did the rocks cry out and the willows bend and weep?

And I wonder, did Satan laugh? Did his devious heart dance with glee? Did his eyes glisten with delight for the victory he thought he had won?

Did the Garden rumble when God called out, “Adam, where are you?” Did the wind whistle and blow? Did the sea become boisterous and did the sun hide its face in the clouds?

Did God cry? Did His sobbing heart split the earth in two? Did he regret forming the clay and breathing into its nostrils the freedom of choice?

Did the angels fold their wings and weep? Did their radiant faces grow dim? Did they cover their heads with ashes of grief?

And I wonder, while covering their nakedness with fig leaves did Adam and Eve mourn their radiant robes of righteousness? When standing guilty before God, did they wish they could somehow erase the reckless, devastating choice they made?

And when the final moment came, did they pound their fists against the iron gates? Did they kick and scream and beg for God to let them back in; to give them a second chance?

I don’t know. But I do know that in spite of His dreadful curse God loved the world so much that He sent His Son to die for it; to wash our hearts clean and lead us back to Him. I know that He’ll never ban me from His presence, slam the gates shut behind me and leave me to wander in the desert of fear and hopelessness. I know that when death closes my eyes on earth God will open them again in Heaven. And I know that I will live with Him there forever.

And with every unworthy breath, with every fiber of my wretched being, I thank Him and praise Him for giving me a second chance.

He Loved Me to Death

God gazed from heaven upon the earth

Through tears of remorse and disbelief,

His heart was pierced by transgressions of man

And was broken by sorrow and grief.

He cried to His Son, “What shall I do?

My children can’t go on like this,

For when it comes time for them to die,

My kingdom, they will surely miss.”

So, Father and Son both lovingly agreed

As they fathomed what must be done;

In order to save all the world from sin,

The Father must send down His Son.

So, Jesus came down as a tiny babe,

God’s perfect, loving gift to mankind;

In hopes that one day His words they would heed

And their eyes would no longer be blind.

Jesus was tender, so patient and kind

As He spoke of His Father’s love;

But many were they that refused to believe

That He was God’s Son from above.

After years of teaching and healing the sick,

The Savior’s hour had finally drawn near;

Fo the time had come, God’s will to be done,

Though the cup brought forth bitter tears.

He willingly gave His life on the cross

And bore much suffering, sin, and shame,

But many today still don’t understand

That is the reason He came.

But I believe with all of my heart

And want to give the Savior my best;

 It was for me that He shed His precious blood

For you see, He loved me to death.

Sandi

Monster Inside Me

Monster Inside Me

Some call it depression

Anxiety disorder

Bi-polar

Crazy

I call it Monster

She-Devil

Demon from Hell

I don’t know where it came from or how it got here

But it’s been my lifelong tormentor

My constant companion of blood and tears

Anger and rage

Fear and loneliness

Sometimes it lurks quietly in the shadows deep within

Other times it nearly charges through my chest

Ripping my heart to shreds

I’ve pretended all my life that it doesn’t exist

Who could love me if they ever saw the Monster inside me

Who would understand

Who would care

But I grew weary of hiding in the shadows of fear

Of pretending to be something I’m not

Of forever running from the truth

So I looked it square in the eyes and made peace with it

I admit that a Monster lives inside me

That I hurt others

That I am flawed

That I’m not always in control of my zillion emotions

That I don’t always like or understand myself

That I am not always the person I strive to be

But I thank God that He opened my eyes to the truth

That He loves me in spite of myself

That He will always be there for me

And that He is patiently taming the Monster inside me

~Sandi

Mary’s Little Lamb

Mary had a little Lamb

His heart was pure as gold

And everywhere that Mary went

Her Lamb was sure to go

Then before her very eyes

Her little Lamb grew up

The hour had come to make the climb

And drink His bitter cup

How Mary mourned for her little Lamb

She once cradled in her arms

And kissed away His hurts and fears

And protected Him from harm

But in her heart she always knew

Her Lamb was born to die

To save the wretched world from sin

And give it eternal life

~ Sandi