Category: Writing

Truth Seeker

Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32

What price are you willing to pay to know the truth? How deep will you dig in search of the truth? How badly do you want to know the raw-naked truth?

The majority of people in the world today avoid the truth like avoiding a rattlesnake. Why is that? What is so horrible about the truth that we want to hide it and would rather bite off our tongues than to tell it?

FEAR

That little four-letter word has the mighty power of Superman to keep the truth dead and buried; no matter what it takes. And the longer we allow fear to control us, the more watered down the truth becomes.

Let me introduce you to my mother. When she was just a child, her mother was between a rock and a hard place. Her alcoholic husband left her alone and penniless to care for her children. So, in my eyes, she did the unthinkable; she put her kids in an orphanage, with the promise she’d come get them when she got on her feet.

My mother, the youngest of twelve siblings, was farmed out to an abusive, foster home. They beat her, humiliated her, molested her, sent her to school with stones in her lunch box in the place of food, and worked her like a mule when she got back home. They told her she was ugly, stupid, and no good. And the final blow, that her mother was dead and was never coming back for her.

Throughout my childhood, my mother recited her broken past as if rehearsing for a horror film, which my tender heart and mind soaked up like a sponge. How could anyone be so mean and cruel to my mother? I wanted to beat them up with my little clenched fists!

Even before I started the first grade, I decided to be her savior. Her protector. Her golden child. With all the love and understanding I could muster, I surrendered my heart and soul to her. I became her golden child. Her savior. He protector. Her puppet. Her victim.

But the one thing I never surrendered was my stubborn, independent, strong will. And that became a monstrous problem in our relationship. Even as a child, the harder I resisted, the more ruthless she became with her twisted mind games; guilt and shame. Tag-along demons from her abusive past to now wreak havoc on me.

By the time I left home, the golden child I tried so hard to be was a broken mess of confusion, anger, hurt and rage, overwhelming feelings of worthlessness, abandonment, and betrayal. Is it any wonder relationships didn’t work for me? Is it any wonder that my first marriage failed? Is it any wonder that I didn’t even know who I am?

Having a loving, peaceful relationship with my mother was impossible. She was like an octopus, with her tentacles reaching every nook and cranny of my life. Everything broken in her life I was supposed to fix. EVERYTHING! And like a drunken fool, I kept trying.

One day I snapped. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop hurting. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t stuff my feelings anymore. My heart was a swollen, festered boil and was exploding all over the place. What is wrong with me? Why do I hate my mother? Why do I hate the world? Why do I hate myself?

After walking out of my mother’s life and two years of weekly, cognitive therapy sessions at the mental health clinic, my heart was finally at peace. But my mind is still in the painful process of recovery, and probably will be until I die.

But, I finally know the truth, about myself, about God, about life. Bad things happened to my mother. Bad things happened to me. The difference is, I got help. I uncovered the truth. I repented of my sins. I stopped the abuse. I forgave myself. I forgave my mother. And yes, I forgave God.

How badly do you want peace? How badly do you want to know yourself? How badly do you want to know God? How badly do you want to know the truth and be set free?

Set Boundaries. Your Heart Will Thank You for it.

I’m a full-blooded, empath people-pleaser with a built-in pain detector. A complete stranger can pour out their heart to me, and tears gush from my eyes like Niagara Falls. Sometimes, I even feel guilty, as if it were my fault somehow. And I always, always, always want to dive in and fix it.

People love empath, people-pleasers. Right? They will stick to them like glue, treat them like royalty, and never, ever leave them stranded in a dark and lonely place. Right?

WRONG!

People with a false sense of entitlement love to be pleased by people-pleasers. They love controlling, confusing, and gaslighting them, making them feel helpless and believing they could never live without them. The world is full of predators like that. And they can crop up in the least expected places.

I think my first introduction to reality was when I bought a car from this guy recommended by a friend. The only problem was, he needed a few weeks to get it up and running. I was a single mom in much need of a car with a motor and four wheels. But what I got were empty promises from a jerk who took my hard-earned cash, and built himself a Nomad, dream car using the parts from the phantom car I bought, and skipped town, never to be seen or heard from again.

Was I angry? Not one bit. I just wanted to wrap my fingers around his scrawny neck and choke him till his eyeballs popped out of his head and rolled across the floor! I just wanted to hammer his brains out, rip off his arms and legs, and drag him to a den of starving lions. . . Over and over again!

Still, my stubborn, fearful heart refused the silly notion of setting boundaries. Besides, Christians aren’t supposed to have boundaries. Christians are supposed to turn the other cheek, wash people’s dirty feet with their tears, and keep giving away their soul.

But, where does it say that in the Bible? Matthew 5:38, where Jesus says to turn the other cheek, is He telling His followers to be doormats, allowing others to walk all over us? Is He telling us to be weak and surrender to our abusers?

No. But that’s what my twisted, religious brain believed. Now, a thousand years and a million scars later, I believe that Jesus was and is teaching His followers to live in peace with one another; to hold on to our integrity by snuffing out the flames of revenge. Turn the other cheek and walk away. But, if they follow you, stand your ground. And if they come at you with a knife, fight like hell to protect yourself. That’s what I believe today.

But how do you set boundaries when you’ve never had them before? When you’re afraid that people will hate you for it and turn others against you because of it. How will you survive without your family and friends?

You start by saying no. No, I won’t allow you to hurt me anymore. No, I won’t be manipulated and controlled anymore. No, I refuse to bow down and kiss your feet just to keep you in my life when you’re killing me. No more crossing the line. No more sleepless nights. No more guilt and shame. No more! You choose to believe in yourself, to love and respect yourself, and to live in peace, with or without them.

My circle of friends is very small these days. And that’s the way I like it. The less people I have in my circle, the less stress I have in my life. And at my age, I don’t have much time left to waste on users and abusers.

I’m still an empath. I still enjoy pleasing others. But not for the same reasons anymore. The people I once allowed into my heart broke it to pieces. The scars run deep. Recovery has been long and painful, like crawling through a dark, slimy sewer with a zillion rats eating me alive. That’s when I finally woke up. When I finally realized that my own family was killing my soul. That’s when I put up a no trespassing sign and closed the gate and locked it. And that’s when the painful healing began.

With the heart of a lion, I endured all the ramifications of walking away; the glaring eyes, the shunning, the blame, the gossip, and overwhelming feelings of anger, hurt, and shame, hours spent questioning my sanity, and the fierce temptation to fall on my knees and beg forgiveness. The story of my life. But not this time. This is the time I break the chains and take back my life. This is when I dig deep into my troubled soul, scoop out my broken inner child and learn to love her. This is when I planted my heart in the rich soil of truth, watered it with my tears, and slowly began learning, forgiving, and growing.

What about you? Do you allow people to take advantage of you and hurt you over and over again? Do you grit your teeth and just bear it? Maybe it’s time to figure out why you keep allowing that abuse. Maybe it’s time to draw the line. Even if it hurts. And it will hurt like hell. You just gotta be tough and do it. If you don’t, you will never have the peace and satisfaction you long for.

Overwhelmed

So, it’s been a while since I’ve written, or even wanted to. For many reasons. A library full of reasons. All frustrating. All senseless. All just down right debilitating.

As some of you know, I’m old. Some days, I’m walking on air. Most days I’m crawling over broken glass. Naked. My mother told me not to get old. But I never listened to her. I have my own way of doing things. Besides, getting old can’t be that bad. Can it?

Oh, yeah!

Of course, I do have a Chicken Little view of life; a mind-set I’ve been working on for ages. And that in itself is bad enough, especially when you’re old, and everything is falling apart, with no signs of things ever getting better, because your body has gone on strike!

Yep! The sky is falling! The sun has quit shining and will never shine again. The only thing waiting for me at the end of this suffocating, dark tunnel is a pine box adorned with flowers that are doomed to shrivel up and die, too.

Old age is scary for people like me. Even people with their heads screwed on tight have their scary moments. But Chicken Little people are just, flat-out doomed!

Trust me, old age is tough. Especially for those of us who takes the bull by the horns and does whatever needs to be done. People of action. People of strength and determination. That’s me. And that’s the woman I miss. My younger self. The one who packed up her bags and left me stranded just when I need her the most. Just when the house is falling apart, the yard is washing away, the weeds are taking over my flower beds, the trees are sky-high and dropping limbs all over the place, and everything is shot to smithereens. Betrayal of the worst kind!

Frustration laced with anger and confusion and fear and grief and loneliness and depression hardly covers the overwhelming feelings at times. Bawling my eyes out helps. Talking to God helps the most. I do that a lot these days. Who else understands me more? Who else can give me the strength and wisdom that I need? Who else can calm my fears?

So, now you know why I haven’t been around for a while. And now you know for real that old age ain’t fun. But it’s not all bad, either. I don’t have to set the alarm anymore. That’s a plus . . . I think.

Legs Are Made for Walking

As a kid, I didn’t think twice about walking five miles to my friend’s house, a mile to the bus stop, or three miles down the road just to see the old paper mill still up and running.

Walking was never a dreaded chore. It was sheer enjoyment. A means of transportation. A trip around the world and back. It’s what I did.

As a single mom with no vehicle and no money to buy one, I walked to and from work, to the grocery store and the Goodwill across the busy highway. I’d put my baby in the stroller and off we’d go. Just the two of us, down the old tree-lined, cracked, broken sidewalks of Wilmington, Delaware.

I was thirty-six when I started jogging and fifty-three when I stopped. At sixty-two, I started jogging again, but not with the same commitment or enthusiasm. It soon dwindled from walking when I felt like it to not walking, period.

But I never quit thinking about how much better off I would be today, had I never quit jogging. Because, now, two years shy of turning eighty, with neuropathy and back problems, it’s tough just getting out of bed.

But, I’m not in a wheelchair, or on oxygen, and because I don’t want to be, I’m going to walk. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe an hour. Maybe three days a week, maybe four or five. Maybe, only one day. But that’s better than not doing it at all.

So yes, I walked today. Really fast because it was freezing. My fingers were on the verge of breaking, and I was a hair from calling my husband to come get me!

When a Walk Turns Frisky

The toughest part about walking is stopping what I’m doing, bundling up, and pushing myself out the door. But once my feet hit the driveway, I’m ready to dive into the adventures of the great outdoors.

My walks consist of thoughts and ideas, and letting my spirit run free and wild. The dishes can scream their dirty little heads off, but I can’t hear them. I don’t even know them. This is my time. My walk. And I’m not stopping till my legs fall off.

I enjoy walking most on the wooded trails. However, there are none close by, and I wouldn’t feel safe walking them alone, so I walk the neighborhood. Since it was once a pasture, the scenery, with its hills, a little pond, and twists and turns, is beautiful, and sometimes, quite adventurous.

One day last summer, I turned down a road I don’t often walk and was met with a German Shepherd. He was still a puppy. A big puppy, on the brink of becoming a full-grown, mean-looking beast, so I kept an eye on him as I continued walking.

I never run from a dog. Ever! I stand and face the bully; my walking sticks ready for battle. But, I didn’t feel threatened, he just barked and followed me from across the road. Then he came over and sniffed my hand. Okay. Sniffing is good. He’s not growling and showing his big, sharp teeth. He’s just an overgrown puppy and wants to play.

Overgrown was an understatement. This grizzly bear puppy suddenly jumped on my back, nearly knocking me off my feet, and planted his two big paws on my shoulders!

Oh boy. Now I’m in trouble!

Without a second thought, I swung my walking sticks behind me, poking him in the ribs to get off. Nope! Didn’t work. Now what? This Romeo only has one thing on his mind! Desperate to keep my wobbly knees from buckling, my calm turned into cold-blooded screams!

At last, two guys ran to my rescue, neither of which owned the dog, but knew who did, and they weren’t home. But their four-legged beast is out, running the streets and parked himself on my back!

Finally, after much tugging and pulling and me trying not to fall and break my neck, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort, got down and ran back into his yard.

That was the last time I saw that dog. The last time I walked down that street!

A New Beginning

I just finished a brisk twenty-minute walk. Yay! I mention this because I stopped walking when it got so hot last summer, promising myself to start back in the fall. But, everything happened but that.

You know how it goes: I’m too busy, too tired; too not into it. I’ll do it tomorrow. A thousand tomorrows later, my walking shoes sit and cry in the closet.

Thinking about getting fit and making excuses for why I can’t only cause a guilt complex. And already there’s no more room in my brain for that! So, I pledge, not to the New Year, but to myself to get out the door and walk.

If it’s not snowing. Or raining. Or too windy. Or someone mentions shopping!

Just a Dirty Red Brick

A head lacking ideas is an artist’s worst nightmare. It’s like sand running through their veins. Like a near-death experience. Like creative juices stop flowing and their arms and legs fall off. Their brains fall out. And they die. Slowly and painfully, like a zombie.

It was a day like that, sitting at my art table, staring at the bone-dry paintbrush in my hand. Brandon, my then six-year-old grandson, was watching Beauty and the Beast for the umpteenth time, and studying the eye-catching images on Disney DVD covers.

Between Belle getting locked up by the Beast, and refusing his demanding dinner date, I got an idea! Suddenly, the juices started gushing, my heart arose from the dead, and my brains flew back into my skull! I’m alive!

Jumping down from the stool, I said, “Hey, Brandon! You wanna help me build a birdhouse?”

Like a puppy on steroids, he jumped to his feet and followed me out the door, across the backyard, and behind my husband’s workshop. That’s where the bricks were. Neatly stacked against the building, as if waiting for this very moment to become useful again.

Excitedly, I looked at Brandon, his beaming face now drenched with doubt. I guess I’ll just have to prove it to him, I thought to myself. I will create it, and then he will believe it. And that’s what I did. Now everyone believes it.

Final words:
I created many of these brick birdhouses, churches, and schools, and gave them away. I sold a few from a local Christian bookstore, but they were too heavy and awkward to package, so I quit selling them. I kept the one in this post, mostly to see the look on people’s faces when I tell them it was once a dirty red brick.

Things I Believed That I Don’t Anymore

God is mad at me
God is punishing me
God is disappointed in me
God expects me to be perfect

I have to go to church to be a Christian
I have to obey church rules
I can’t dance, take a sip of wine, wear shorts
I can’t question God

Real Christians sacrifice themselves to serve others
Real Christians have faith to jump out of their wheelchairs
Real Christians tithe, even if they can’t pay their mortgage
Real Christians never say no

If your feelings are not Christ-like, hide them
If you have a conflict with your neighbors, bake them a cake
If you speak the truth that hurts, apologize
If you don’t get along with everyone, something is wrong with you

A woman should never leave her abusive husband
A woman should bow down to men
A woman should be seen and not heard
A woman doesn’t deserve respect

I believed all those things and more
Because I was brainwashed
Because my eyes were closed
Because I believed it was the Gospel truth

But, I don’t anymore
God opened my eyes to the Truth
I no longer walk in darkness
Because the Truth has set me free