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
1949. Landenberg, Pennsylvania. Most people never heard of it. But it’s a real place where cat-sized bullfrogs lived, and cows, chickens, roosters, lizards, trees, hills, valleys, brooks, streams, and spring water trickling from ancient rocks. It was a child’s paradise. Better than PlayStation. Even better than iPhones.
No one living there that I knew had running water, heat pumps, or inside toilets. In the old rickety outhouse, newspapers and pages from the Sears catalog served as toilet paper. In the summer, kids went barefoot because they didn’t have shoes to wear. In the winter, we all nearly froze to death.
We swam in the creek in front of the house, ventured through the woods, and straddled fallen trees and limbs pretending they were horses. In the winter we played in the snow, made silly snowmen, threw snowballs, and drank hot chocolate near a blazing fire in the rock fireplace. Living in those plush, rolling hills of Landenberg, Pennsylvania, our family was many things, but poor wasn’t one of them. We were the richest family on the planet.
It was going to be our forever home until sickness drove us out. Doctor’s orders. The house was too damp, he said. I guess he was right because, every winter, Daddy suffered bouts with malaria, complements of WWII, and Kenny and I had rheumatic fever.
It was night, and Mom was in the hospital when Daddy rented a truck, packed our few belongings, and drove us into the real world with all its bells and whistles; so-called luxuries that people couldn’t live without. Bigger houses, fancier clothes, and a schoolhouse with more than one room. It even had running water, toilets you could actually flush, and real toilet paper.
We moved to Cooches Bridge, a historic district located at Old Baltimore Pike, Newark, Delaware, not far from Landenberg. However, we didn’t move into a bigger, fancier house like those down the road. We moved into a tiny, upstairs cinder-block apartment with dozens of homing pigeons roosting and cooing below. I called it the pigeon coup. Daddy had his woodworking shop down there. He liked it. It had a flushing toilet.
Mom liked it there, too. She didn’t have to carry in firewood, wash clothes on the scrub board, and get up in the freezing cold each morning to start the fire in the wood stove and fireplaces.
I loathed living there. Compared to our magnificently, rundown, creaky, little three-story farmhouse in paradise, this was like a grassless, treeless, waterless, critterless, rockless prison! I was too ashamed to tell anyone I lived there. Every afternoon getting off the school bus, I’d creep like a sloth toward the long, dirt driveway leading to the cinder-block pigeon coup. Of course, everyone knew. I just pretended that they didn’t.
Reality soon became a nightmare of trying to belong in a place I didn’t even want to be. Like a fox without a den, I was lost, frightened, and alone. I never knew I was so utterly shy, timid, and poor.
In the heart and mind of that carefree, little girl, swinging on the swing, the wind toying with her golden-red hair, nothing was missing from her life. She had it all. There was nothing more she needed.
Now, sliding quietly behind her wooden school desk, feeling naked, and exposed, she crawled inside herself, closed and locked the door. No one could know her fear. No one must see her tears. No one can ever know how much it hurts.
Yes, she was introduced to a new world with all its modern-day baubles and trinkets. And though this new world tried convincing her she needed more, she’d race back to that place few people ever heard of, where her life began and flourished like a beautiful blossom, where dreams came true, Santa Claus was real, and no one was poor. No one died of starvation. No one went naked. Landenberg, Pennsylvania. Always in my heart, forever on my mind.
That moment stands out in my mind like the Empire State Building. That moment when my third-grade teacher threw up her hands and walked away from my desk. That torturous moment when my face burned with embarrassment and frustration as the tears splashed on my desk like pouring rain. As hard as I tried, my brain just could not grasp it!
Math has always been my worst enemy. Worse than a snarling, junkyard dog. Even worse than that tall, skinny school bus bully. And somehow, between my frustrating disabilities and feeling like a complete failure, I got this crazy notion that if I messed up, the world would stop spinning.
Childhood trauma. We all have our painful stories to tell. Some even bear traces of humor, like the time my mother dragged me kicking and screaming to our next-door neighbors and made me apologize for being sassy. I needed a straitjacket that day!
Some memories fade over time, while others stick in our hearts and minds like superglue. And, the humiliation of being singled out that day as the sole classroom dummy left a deeper scar on my heart than the tattoo on my leg.
But what we do with those scars of yesterday is what makes us who we are today. Do we stay crippled for the rest of our lives? Do we blame others for our misfortune? Do we blame ourselves?
I love watching the documentaries I Survived. It’s amazing how people suffered unthinkable acts of torture, were left for dead, and came out alive. Later, many of those victims chose to become law enforcement officers and advocates for other victims. Some found love again after their faces had been butchered and scarred beyond recognition. But all of them bravely pushed through it with a better understanding of who they are.
Our lives, one way or another, have all been changed. None of us leaves this world with the same, baby-smooth skin in which we were born. Whoever we are, whatever we do, rich or poor, we all bear the scars of life, but only the brave survive.
Flowers, riches, and fancy words don’t set my heart on fire. Vacation cruises and a trip around the moon are a waste of time and hard-earned money. And the saying that diamonds are a girl’s best friend doesn’t apply to me. Long walks through the woods, sitting by a campfire, and holding hands while crossing the parking lot are the things that make my heart soar.
Sometimes my husband forgets that about me. But, after 53 years of marriage, my heart still does a jig when he gets up before I do, feeds the dogs, lets them out, and makes coffee.
Listen up, brain! I’m in control now Stop playing those dusty, ragged old tapes Over and over and over You know the ones With the murderous voices That paralyzes and cripples the soul Those thunderous, earth-shaking voices that never shut up I’m sick of it! Look what you’re doing to the heart She cries for days She mopes around the house Too depressed to even pick up the broom She loses interest in everything she loves She stops singing and creating She can’t even put two words together She just sits and stares at a blank screen Day after frustrating day She hates what she sees in the mirror Is it herself she sees? Or is it that tyrant who broke her soul? She can’t tell anymore They both look the same Well, I’m telling you right now It’s going to STOP! She’s a good heart Despite the scars and serrated edges Even when she’s bleeding She still knows how to laugh She still knows how to love She’s broken, but she’s not destroyed You tried to make me hate her And sometimes I do When she rages like a demented monster When she explodes all over the place Making a big, fat mess of everything But I’m on to you, brain I know where you’re coming from I know who orchestrates your ungodly lies And makes the heart believe them It’s over brain! No more! As much as you believe the demented lies The heart believes them less So this is how it’s going to be We’re going to work together as a team No more mud-slinging No more filthy lies No more pulling against one another We work together or we die together Which will it be? Speak up, brain! I can’t hear you! Okay then, smart choice We’ll work together And since we can’t jump out of the skin we’re in We just darn well make the best of it!
Yesterday, my husband received a phone call from Publishing Clearing House. He won 7.5 million dollars. All he had to do to receive it was to pay $1,700.00. Registration fee.
For decades, my husband bought magazines he never read in hopes of winning a million dollars. So, when he received that call yesterday, he lit up like a Christmas Tree! It took my son and me both to convince him that it was a scam.
It made me realize, though, that getting rich was never one of our goals when we got married. Building relationships, spending time with each other, and being there for our son was our greatest investment.
I’m grateful for our growing family, for the fun and laughter we share together, and for the love, peace, and joy that comes through building healthy relationships. Being happy from the inside out is worth more than millions of dollars to me.
It was my husband’s birthday. Rascal, our beloved pet, died a few weeks before, and hubby was having a hard time getting over the loss. I didn’t want another dog to fall in love with; saying goodbye is just too hard. But seeing my husband moping around the house was even worse.
The dog pound is depressing, but here we are, eyes wet with tears, looking for the right dog to take home.
Rascal was special. We didn’t choose him, he chose us. He was the puppy next door; a beautiful Australian Shepherd mix, with tiger stripes and a silky white chest. Before we knew it, he was sleeping on our front porch, and then, living in our house. The grandkids loved him and he loved them. The kids at Pet Smart loved wrapping their arms around his furry neck. He even allowed grownups to pet him. But, on his own turf? Not a chance. He wouldn’t even let them in the house. PERIOD! But children were always safe. He was their dad, their best friend, their best-ever playmate. Always. Any time, any day or night.
After three times around the kennel, we were feeling hopeless about finding the perfect dog. There was one, though; a hound mix. That skinny, brown, short-haired dog with long legs and floppy ears. I didn’t want a hound. Buck didn’t care what kind of dog it was, he just wanted a dog. So, a hound dog is what we got.
She is the strangest dog we’ve ever had. After eight years, she’s still jumpy, as hardheaded as a bull, and as stubborn as a mule. She licks everything, barks at everything, and thinks all babies are hers by pushing their moms away.
She is definitely my husband’s dog. She sleeps with him and wakes him up whenever he stops breathing or has one of his recurring nightmares. She’s never been trained to do that, she just does it. She is an amazing dog. We fell in love with her and her quirky personality. That’s what makes her Bella!
Straight From the Heart 