Diggin’ Up Bones

While letting the dogs out this morning I frowned at the holes Bella, our greyhound mix, has dug in the backyard. I don’t know what she’s digging for, bugs, probably, but I don’t like it, especially when I nearly break my neck stepping in one of them.

It got me to thinking, though, about my digging adventure. Not in the backyard, although that would have been much easier, less time-consuming, and a lot less painful. No, I picked up my shovel of determination and began digging up bones buried deep beneath a ton of hurt, anger, and confusion. Of course, God orchestrated the ordeal, otherwise, I never would have done it. But first, He had to do something to open my eyes real wide.

I’ll never forget the day I got zapped; sanctified, the preacher called it. Doesn’t matter to me what it’s called, I got a bath. Well, my heart and mind did. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all religious on you. I’m just going to try my darndest to show my deepest feelings and my personal experience with God. It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not. It happened. I felt it. It changed my life.

My heart was as battered and broken as a fatal car wreck. My mind was a cesspool of depression, anger, rage, panic attacks, social anxiety disorder, noise phobia, mood swings, all adding up to Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). Of course, I didn’t have a clue what all that stinking garbage was called, I just knew the hellish torment it was causing in my life and I wanted to know why. That’s when I became a digger. And that’s when everything got much worse before it got better.

Mom didn’t like the idea of my digging up the past because she didn’t want to face or feel responsible for the role she played in it. Daddy didn’t care one way or the other and my sister and brothers chose a destructive path to deal with their pain. So, that left me, the crazy one in the family to go digging for the painful truth for my sanity. And because mom was the fuse that lit the dynamite inside me, I severed all ties with her for six, long years. Did I feel guilty? Did I care what people thought? Did I cry my eyes out? Did I agonize over whether I was doing the right thing? YES! But that was my first, gut-wrenching giant step toward freedom.

With the sole support of my husband and my son, I began psychological therapy sessions once a week for two years as well as months of counseling sessions with my pastor. But, my number one Hero in teaching and leading me to the truth, is God. He is the only One who knew and completely understood my unbearable pain. He’s been there every step of the way. And I have to tell you, I’ve never known such love from anyone on this earth. And it’s His steadfast love and encouragement, His longing to set me free, that kept me digging up those ugly, dry bones buried in the darkest recesses of my mind, heart, and soul.

In the end, instead of casting blame on him and her and this and that, I took full responsibility for my lack of understanding, my anger, and rage, my unforgiveness, my stupidity, my choices. It was no longer about what happened to me but how I responded to it. It was no longer about the unfairness of being controlled and manipulated by guilt and shame and being my mother’s scapegoat and feeling emotionally raped. It was no longer about making excuses, getting revenge, seeking justice, but about healing and forgiveness. I wanted to break the chains of the past, to be free, to think for myself, to decide my fate, to be happy in spite of my brokenness. I wanted to learn more about God, about myself, about what having an abundant life means that God promises His children (John 10:10b).

There were times I wanted to give up. There were times I did give up. There were times I wished I had never been born. But I always got back up and kept going. And like a loving father rewarding his child, God turned my tears to joy. He never left me stranded. Through the darkest, scariest tunnel, He never left my side.

Am I there yet? NOPE! The journey will never end for me this side of Heaven. But I will never stop moving forward in my quest for freedom, knowledge, and understanding.

I still struggle with depression, anger, and rage. I still have a ton of anxieties; some days worse than other days. I still wish that I could know what normal feels like for five minutes. But I’m a better me today than I ever was before. I finally know, without a shadow of a doubt that God loves me . . . He really loves me! I am His precious daughter, the apple of His eye, and He always wants what’s best for me. I didn’t do anything nor could I ever do anything to deserve it, that’s just the way God is.

Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him (Psalms 34:8).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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

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?

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Believe it or Not

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned or I just can’t help myself or I’m too old to change my heart and mind, but I believe in God. Not a deaf and mute god that just sits and blankly stares all day. But a big and mighty God, Creator of everything, Savior of the world, Lover of my soul. I believe in the Great I AM, Heaven and Hell, and every word on every page of His Holy Word. I believe that the only way to Heaven is through the blood of Jesus Christ. I can’t earn my way there and I can’t make myself worthy enough to get there. It’s just not within me. I was born into sin and without my belief in God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit, I will die in sin and receive an eternal sentence in Hell.

It bothers me that many don’t believe for one reason or another. But that’s their choice. I can’t change their mind and I won’t even try unless it’s up for debate. God created us with a free will so who am I to try to take it away. I just feel bad for the unbeliever. Where do they put their trust when troubles come in like a flood? Friends let us down. The family can’t always be there. Strangers don’t care. So where is their hope?

The church can only help lead us to salvation but it can’t save us. And in some churches, everything and everyone but God is allowed in. But we can find Him on a fishing bank or in a barn or under a tree; anywhere and everywhere we go He is there and ready to speak to our hearts and to cleanse and make us whole. It only takes one simple leap of faith. Why is that so difficult for so many to do? Why is it so easy to believe in nothing and so difficult to believe in God?

Believe it or not, God is alive and well. He sent His Son to die that we might have life. He loves us more than we love ourselves and wants what’s best for us. He heals broken lives, shattered hearts, and troubled minds. He is always on call, every minute of every day. Believe it or not, it’s either your eternal gain or your eternal loss. I pray it’s your eternal gain.

“For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him. Whoever believes in Him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because he has not believed in the name of God’s One and Only Son.” John 3:17, 18 NIV

Twas’ a Few Days before Christmas

Twas’ a few days before Christmas and there was nary a tree. No stockings were hung by the chimney with care, no presents, no decorations; no sign of Christmas anywhere. At least, not in our house. Not that we didn’t want to decorate and go shopping and at least conjure up a Christmas spirit, it just wasn’t there. It got gobbled up by pain and depression, empty bank account and a just plain too-sick-and-tired-to-care attitude. Plus the stuporous side effects of the pain medication I was taking didn’t help either.

And to top it all off; the last straw that broke the camel’s back, Pepper chews the corner of the cushion to the love seat. She might as well have chewed up everything in the house. At least the scenario that followed next would have made more sense.

Crying, and limping in pain to my husband sitting at his computer, I sought solace. No, I sought a full-blown miracle. I wanted him to fix it, right then and now. I wanted him to suddenly become the Dog Whisperer and teach our two bratty dogs how to behave. I wanted him to wave his magic wand and make a Christmas tree appear with presents piled under it and a magical star on top. I wanted him to rip the pain from my hip and leg and send it back to Hell from whence it came. I wanted him to be God!

I guess my expectations were just a bit too high. Because, well because he’s just a man, and as hard as he tried to understand this woman boohooing before him, he just didn’t. So we ended up arguing. And I ended up in the twilight zone of ghosts and goblins as I lay sobbing in my bed.

There was the house I grew up in, and my grandmother shuffling from her bedroom to the living room, Bible in hand heading towards her favorite chair. And there were my brothers and my mom and dad, and even me; young and vibrant, not a care in the world sitting on the couch. Between sobs of grief, I saw the spruce Christmas tree decorated with bubble lights, vintage ornaments, and tinsel hanging on the branches. I saw presents under the tree, stockings hanging from the mantle and the spirit of Christmas dancing like jolly elves in everyone’s eyes.

Like zombies everyone I loved and lost wandered aimlessly through my mind, making me happy, making me sad; making me cry and cry and cry.

My husband is beyond frustrated now. He comes to me, pleading with me to tell him why I’m crying so. But no words could describe the awful grief that seemed to have carried me to my own grave.

So he threw up his hands and left me laying there sobbing and clinging to the ghosts invading my mind. That’s when the tree appeared, the one I always ran crying to when no one seemed to understand or care. Now, in my frenzied mind, it was more than just a tree; it was my best friend; my grandfather I never knew; my dad who was never there; my mom who never understood; everyone and everything I needed in times like these but was never there. Void of human arms reaching out to me, I always ran to the tree.

Now, in total desperation, I cling to the tree planted firmly in my mind, drawing comfort from its unshakable strength. The tree, so rugged and steadfast never feared my tears, my overly sensitive emotions, my anger and frustrations. It never made me feel stupid and insignificant. It just let me sit beneath its protective, sturdy limbs and cry and work it all out my way and in my own time.

Suddenly, in the midst of my inconsolable grief, the tree faded away and God appeared, mighty and strong and holding me tightly in His arms. I felt His love and understanding. I heard His words of comfort. I saw His smiling face and knew everything was going to be okay.

Twas’ just a few days before Christmas when an unexpected check arrived in the mail for my husband, enabling us to do a little Christmas shopping for our family. The pain became more bearable, the depression lifted, and I decided not to strangle the dogs. Hubby, the man who grew up with five women, is still scratching his head and wondering what the heck that was all about, and that’s okay. I understand and that makes me easier for him to live with, so what more does he want?

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.

Seasons of the Heart

When I was a child, going to Sunday school and church was as much a part of me as putting on my clothes. I wasn’t made to go, I wanted to go.

Childhood memories flood my mind with Billy Gram crusades, Oliver Green tent revivals and meeting in the preacher’s house, then in his garage, then in a circus tent while the church was being built. Laughing, I remember the preacher’s rattle-trap van bouncing me up and down and banging my head against the window as he drove through deeply creviced ditches to pick up poor kids for Sunday school. Mr and Mrs Sterling were more than preacher and wife; they were our family’s best friends.

Mr Sterling often brought us bags and bags of groceries telling mom that God told him we needed them. He prayed over my baby brother one day who suffered a bowel obstruction. When mom sat him on his potty, everything broke loose and he never suffered bowel problems since.

I felt safe in the church; like I belonged there. I enjoyed being with my friends, memorizing scripture, having Bible drills, and singing and playing my accordion. And I liked that the church was plain and simple, not big and fancy that seemed more like a morgue than a church. It was a little, cinderblock mission where babies were allowed to cry, Baptisms took place in freezing cold creeks under God’s blue skies, and get-togethers were hot dogs and weenie roasts and kids wading in the creek and catching tadpoles in jars.

I always felt that people needed to be in church and always encouraged my brothers to go, thinking that it would somehow change their lives. And I’m not saying that it doesn’t change people’s lives, but it’s not the church that changes people, it’s a repentant heart and the cleansing power of Jesus Christ. And there are many people sitting in their pews thinking that because they go to church they are going to Heaven.

Sadly, along with many years of attending church, come heartaches and misunderstandings, gossip and quarrels, cliques, and favouritism, frustration and burn-out. Instead of being the perfect place for coming together and working things out, some leaders prefer to sweep conflicts under the rug and hope no one notices there are problems in the church. And then they wonder why people emotionally and physically drift away.

Sadly, I feel that many in the world today are either looking for something they long for in church or have lost hope of ever finding it and given up. And many may never find Christ as a result of it.

I’m thankful that I grew up in church and remember the good times. I’m thankful that I asked Jesus into my heart when I was five years old. I’m thankful that we have a warm and loving relationship and that He is always by my side regardless of whether I’m praising Him in church or sitting on my back porch or in my living room in front of a cozy fire.

I wish I could say I miss going to church. The truth is, my heart is totally at peace with not going. Many don’t understand why I feel the way I do, but God does. He knows and understands the deep hurt and the tears I’ve cried over things that destroyed my trust and turned my heart away. And where I expected to find love and understanding and let’s sit down and talk about this I found cold indifference; a total lack of concern.

After more than three years, I’m still struggling with hurt and anger and confusion. Call it a bruised ego, an unwillingness to forgive; whatever you want to call it. I call it a grieving process; and as with all grief, it takes time, for some longer than others.

And if anyone comes to the conclusion that the only way you can be a real Christian is to attend church, where does that leave our shut-ins and those in nursing homes?

I don’t apologize for my feelings, they’re mine and God allows me to have them plus all the time I need to work through them. Just like life itself, the church has its ups and downs, hurts and confusion, but it’s how it deals with it that matters in the long run.

 

 

 

The Best Dad in the World

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The journey was long and tortuous

Like being stuck in quicksand

The harder I struggled to get out

The farther I was sucked down

Into a slimy pit of depression

Anger and rage

Visions of my dad were ever dancing before me

Like a blazing fire

Burning holes in my soul

Ravaging my spirit

Destroying every flicker of faith and trust

In God

In my dad

In the human race

Voices in my head condemned me

Punished me

Convinced me that I was worthless

Un-lovable

Unworthy

Feeling connected eluded me

Friendships lied to me

Love slipped through my fingers like burning sand

Night and day my heart cried out to God

But He seemed deaf

Cold and distant

Just like my dad

Hope flickered and died

My soul was a heap of ashes

The will to live was gone

Then

One dusky

Mystical morning

I was awakened from my slumber

And beside my bed

A shadowy figure stood

As if waiting for me to open my eyes

He whispered my name

He clasped my trembling hand

And through the smoldering fire of hurt and confusion

Anger and rage

He led me straight to God

Without hesitation

He opened His arms as wide as the ocean

Where I ran

And collapsed

And sobbed and sobbed

Love unimaginable ignited my soul

Cleansing my mind

Renewing my strength

My hope

My faith

And I knew

And I know

And I believe forever more

That God loves me

He really loves me!

Now my sighing soul is at rest

The scary ghosts are gone

And God

My Heavenly Father

Is forever by my side

Helping me

Teaching me

Encouraging me

Every minute of every day

I can’t tell you why He loves me so

I can’t tell you why He cares

But this one thing I can tell you

He is the best Dad in the world!

Our Nest

Digital Designs by Sandi

Digital Designs by Sandi

I can’t tell you how many families have moved in and out of the old, weathered birdhouse in our flowerbed in the front yard. I can’t tell you all the materials used to create their nests. I can’t tell you how many eggs were hatched or how many babies were tossed to the ground to fend for themselves. But I can tell you about the family of two living in our nest.

I hate change, so it was tough moving from the city of fifteen years to the country thousands of miles away, it seemed, from civilization, wondering if anyone would ever visit us again. To make matters worse, my son had just gotten married and we made our first move ever without him. Hardly adjusted to the empty nest syndrome, I felt lost, lonely, abandoned. Walking through each dimly lit room, looking through windows into unfamiliar surroundings only intensified my grief. Finally, I crawled in a corner, buried my face in my hands and bawled. Not quite the reaction anyone would expect after buying a new home. And if my husband was confused, I was totally flabbergasted!

But it would be years before I understood why I felt I was living in a house without walls, and before I could honestly call it “home, sweet home”.

Before moving, my mother and I hadn’t spoken to each other for six years. Because of her abusive childhood, she had a ton of emotional baggage that she dumped on me. I was her scapegoat for everything that went wrong in her life. Being just a child, I couldn’t process the guilt and shame that I felt, so I internalized it and became an emotional time bomb of anger and rage.

My dad wasn’t much help either. He just sat drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and staring into space. He rarely, if ever talked to me. And when mom was in one of her rages, daddy got up and went to his shop. There was no place for me to go except my tiny bedroom. Even there I wasn’t safe from her barging in, slapping me around and screaming and yelling. Most of the time I didn’t even know why she was so angry.

My tiny bedroom, insecure as it was, became my haven. I’d go there to cry, draw, play my accordion and sing, write poems, and paint. Hours later I’d come out, hoping to find everything under control; that the “good” mother was whistling and preparing a delicious meal. That daddy was sitting at the table reading the paper. That my brothers were laughing and horsing around. That our family was back to normal again.

As I grew older I just learned to cope with the raging war inside. I wore a mask, pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t. But that was before I stepped into the twilight zone of full blown panic, phobias, and desperation. That was before I turned into my mother.

People move to the country for different reasons. Mine was for peace and quiet. The first night in our new home the neighbor’s dog barked nonstop all night long. That weekend, an army of remote control airplanes flew over our property, sounding like a million bumble bees on a rampage. Then came the dirt bikes and four-wheelers zooming through the neighborhood, and boom boxes vibrating the windows. I felt that I had died and gone to hell!

I’m a runner when things get tough, so I cried and begged my husband for us to move. But we couldn’t afford to move. This was to be our final destination, where we would retire and grow old together. The choice had been made, the money had been spent, and there was no way out.

I had never felt so frustrated, so helpless, so hopelessly trapped as I felt during the first ten years of living in this house. Sometimes I could barely make it through the day without crying. Other days I’d go through uncontrollable fits of rage. The least noise threw me in panic mode and I wanted to bolt out the door and run off the face of the earth!

I believe in God. I believe in faith. I believe in miracles. I also believe that God gave me a brain and expects me to use it. So I began researching my phobias online as well as proper treatment for them.

Not that it came as any surprise; I have an anxiety disorder and will be on medication for it the rest of my life. My only regret is that a doctor didn’t diagnose it sooner. I would have been a far better person, wife and mother. I would have spent the days laughing more and crying less. I would have been more trusting, caring and loving. I would have embraced our home and felt safe as I do now. But I can’t dwell on all the-would-haves of yesterday. My focus is on doing my best today with all the wisdom and understanding that God has given me.

Our neighborhood is much quieter now. Not because I’ve lost my hearing, but because I fought for a noise ordinance and won, and confronted the property owner where the club members flew their planes. They found another place to meet. Highway Patrol eventually weeded out the dirt bikes and four-wheelers. The dogs don’t keep me up barking all night. I didn’t shoot them, I wear earplugs. My mother and I worked things out. Although our relationship was never what I wanted it to be, it was the best it had ever been.

Had we not stayed and worked through our difficulties we would not be experiencing the peace and joy we have now. I’ve learned that running from my problems never solves anything. Sometimes we have to trudge through the mire of painful memories before we can experience real joy and happiness. I will always have anger issues, but talking and medication help me keep it under control.

God has a plan for each of our lives. He wants to have a personal relationship with us. He wants to free us from our fears, our anger and rage, our rusty chains of the past. And He will do whatever it takes to help us see the brokenness within so that we can experience His healing touch.

Together we’ve built our nest, my husband and I, securing it with love and faithfulness, prayer and dedication, honor and praise. We are blessed with four awesome grand-children and a great-grandson on the way. We’ve weathered the storms of sickness, sorrow and grief. We’ve argued, kissed and made up. We share our failures and shortcomings, hopes and dreams, fears and concerns. Best of all, we are sharing our golden years together; hand in hand, heart to heart . . . till death do us part.