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).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Just Lock Me Up and Throw Away the Key!

I sat on the edge of the sterile, paper-lined examining table, laughing at my husband’s silly jokes, my mind racing like a team of runaway horses. My husband accuses me of never being able to sit still for five minutes without jumping up and doing something.

A brief knock at the door and the doctor walks in, shaking his head and rolling his eyes playfully. Laughing nervously, I said, “Yeah, I know. Just cut off my head and be done with it!”

He sits in the chair across the room, crosses his long legs and patiently begins his interrogation. I look at my husband for comfort, wishing we were at the beach or the Bahamas; anyplace but here.

Finally, satisfied that I had answered all his perplexing questions accurately, he has a diagnosis: Borderline Personality Disorder.

Great! Not only do I feel crazy, I am crazy!

Suddenly, it all started making sense, though, why my brothers called me Sybil, why the rollercoaster of high’s and low’s, the crying spells, the anger and rage, the gnawing, gut-wrenching feeling that something is wrong with me. No normal person flies into a rage over a squeaky chair or broken vase. And certainly, no normal person feels like a terrorist lives inside them, setting off bombs and blowing up their insides and sense of reality their entire life.

No wonder I was more wildcat than my mother could handle. We were like two live wires striking against each other creating more sparks than either of us could handle. She didn’t understand me and I didn’t understand her, yet, we were both the same.

So, I’m sitting there thinking, now what. Am I stuck like this? Do I just live out the rest of my days feeling guilty because of who I am, hating myself because no matter how hard I try I can’t get my act together? Give me a break, I’m old. I’m running out of time!

Other than gaining an ounce of wisdom and a sliver of understanding, I’m no better off now than I was before sitting in the doctor’s office. I’ll take the medicine like he prescribed and just keep doing the best I can. Since I can’t tame the beast within I’ll keep avoiding people, places, and things that make it roar the loudest. I’ll try to stop cleaning my house all night long and pushing myself to the nth degree in everything I do. I’ll try giving myself permission to screw up and work on forgiving the stupid things I do and say.

But, do you have an inkling how hard that is? People with mental disorders feel they have to be punished; purged from their abominable sins to be allowed back into the human race. They have to work twice as hard to receive half the benefit of “normal” people. We have to hide who we really are, don’t dare show the world our ugly side. Keep it stuffed way down deep and never, ever let that stinking sewage rise to the surface and erupt. Do you see the dilemma? do you feel the pain and desperation of just wanting to be okay?

Pretending became a way of life for me, and how I hate pretending! It goes against the grain of who I really am. So many times I wished I could go shopping for a new brain that functioned with love and peace and joy, was more positive and happy and full of fresh ideas and creations. A brand new brain without a junkyard dog tied to it.

I realize that no one is perfect. No one is “normal”. We live in a fallen world of brokenness, none of us escapes the trials and tears and long, lonely nights. We all have our own battles to fight. We all want to win.

So, I sit here today, feeling anxious as usual, worrying about this and that and hoping the medicine will kick in before I die. But, I am thankful for my life, the things I’ve gone through and the wisdom I’ve gained in the process. I’m thankful that God chose me to live this life with its many challenges so that I can better understand others going through similar circumstances. I’m thankful that I don’t have to be “normal” for God to love me and use me for His purpose. I’m thankful that I have sense enough to know that only God can put me back together again. All I have to do is trust Him.

Borderline Personality Disorder | Learn About This Disorder | rtor.org‎

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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?

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teacher From Hell

Every day, for no reason at all, Mr Savage, a dark-haired short little man with a great big 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 than he was. Or maybe it’s just that Mr Savage had to live up to his name by intimidating his seventh-grade students.

Well, like clockwork one day, Mr Savage marched over to Eugene and punched him harder than usual on the shoulder. Suddenly, like a mad dog, Eugene jumped out of his chair, shook his fist in Mr Savage’s face and snarled, “Now, hit me again!”

And sitting across from him still as a mouse on the outside, I was jumping up and down on the inside and yelling, “Yeah! And that goes for me too!”

He must have heard me because Mr Savage left Eugene alone and started bullying me.

Day after day Mr Savage singled me out, asking me questions in hopes that I’d give the wrong answer. And day after day, escaping embarrassment and humiliation of looking like an idiot, I just sat there, my mouth clamped shut, shooting green-eyed daggers at his head.

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

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

Suddenly, the hall fell silent as teachers and students turned their attention on us. And before I could utter one word of explanation, Mr Savage stormed off, his face blazing like fire.

God had my back that day. 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.

Like a Mighty Warrior, God became 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 bothered me again.

Yes, I failed Social Studies, but Mr Savage utterly failed the art of teaching.

“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

 

 

 

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy

Okay, daddy, since we never went on a coffee date before or even shared an intimate moment anywhere together for that matter, I’m taking you out. Just in my mind of course; you’d never come any other way.

So where’s it going to be, Starbuck’s? I forgot, Instant Nescafe’ hot water straight from the spigot with creamer and sugar in that coffee-stained cup you yelled at me for thoughtlessly washing one day. Okay then, let’s just have coffee in the kitchen in the old house where we used to live a long time ago, doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.

I’m sorry for my rebellion during those troublesome adolescent years. I was just a kid and didn’t understand your cryptic silence. And on those rare occasions when you decided to break the code of silence, I didn’t understand your joking and kidding. I thought you were making fun of me and that you didn’t like me. That hurt me deeply and I wanted to hurt you back.

I just wish that one time you had held me in your arms and said you were sorry; that you had poked your head into my shattered world and see how much I needed your encouragement and love and protection. Instead, you crawled into a tomb of apathy; dead to my fears and troubled emotions.

There’s so many things you didn’t know about me like; how I wanted to be a daddy’s girl; for you to tell me that I was beautiful and smart and funny; for you to have met my first date at the front door with a Smith and Wesson and stood up to my X-husband the first time he hit me. When my baby was born too early and I thought he would die, I wanted you to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. But, you never did.

But, that’s okay daddy, I didn’t invite you here to condemn you; I’ve done enough of that throughout my life. I just want you to know that in spite of your lack of concern, I learned to stand on my own two feet, fight my own battles, and communicate my deepest feelings. I faced the demons of anger and rage, and overwhelming feelings of rejection. I’ve learned to cope with loneliness, anxiety and depression.

So thank you for meeting with me today and allowing me one fragmented moment of the rest of your time in eternity. And before you fade into the shadows of my mind, I want you to know that I’m glad you were my dad; that without realizing it you made me determined to love my son the way I wanted you to love me. And because of that, I am reaping a bountiful harvest of love and joy and happiness through him and his growing, loving family.

So thanks, daddy. Happy Father’s Day

 

My Little Wild Man All Grown Up

Sitting in my rocking chair in my tiny apartment, my sweet baby boy on my lap, I said to myself: well, girl, you’re on your own. You can’t depend on anyone but yourself to raise this little one. He’s your responsibility, his life is completely in your hands.

At the ripe old age of nineteen, I got married. A year later I had a baby. A whole fourteen months later, I became a single mom. Even if I’d had a crystal ball revealing the abusive marriage and interfering mother-in-law that practiced witchcraft and was as evil as the devil himself, I would have done it anyway. For God, in His infinite wisdom, took the mess I made and turned it into a wonderful blessing, although it would take many years, heartaches and tears before I saw it.

I was living on my own, in and out of the hospital, working laborious, dead-end jobs and being so broke I couldn’t afford an ice cream comb. Then there was the cooking and cleaning and washing dirty diapers on the scrubboard and draping them across the radiators to dry. And if that weren’t enough to grind Superman to a pulp, Robbie was like raising six kids instead of one. Every night he cried; no he screamed himself to sleep. And from the crack of dawn until bedtime, he was wide-open-non-stop. By the time he was a year old, no crib or playpen could contain him. Like a little Houdini, he always found a way out.

When he was four, I’d take him to a little country house made into a church that he thought was his playground. No door was safe. Like a monkey, he’d hang on to the doorknobs and swing back and forth, or do a jig in the middle of the floor while I was playing the piano knowing I couldn’t get up and bust his butt. Other times he’d be outside throwing rocks and hitting older kids in the head, or kicking people in the shins with his pointy-toed cowboy boots or catching rainwater in his hat and pouring it over his head till he looked like a drowned rat. At another church we attended for a brief time, the preacher actually laid hands on his bouncing head praying a demon out of him.

One day, Robbie and I and another couple were going to meet with some friends and follow them to the church we were visiting that evening. I pulled into the couple’s driveway and as I was getting out of the car to see if they were ready, I told Robbie to stay there that I’d be right back. He pitched such a conniption fit I wanted to put him in a straight jacket. Like a wild bronco, he kicked and screamed and rolled all over the couple in the back seat. I turned around to smack his butt but got him in the nose instead. Blood gushed like a fountain all over his face his white shirt and bow tie and jacket and pants . . . everywhere. It was beginning to look like a crime scene. I ran to the couple’s house to get a washcloth when here he comes barging through the door, blood pouring from his nose crying and screaming, “Look what my mommy did! Look what my mommy did!”

But in spite of his devilish capers, he was kind and compassionate. At the age of five, Robbie had to have a tonsilectomy requiring blood work the day before surgery. He was so brave as the nurse stuck the needle in his arm; didn’t even whimper. But across the room sat a thirteen-year-old crying; scared to death of needles. Suddenly, like a little soldier, Robbie slid out of his chair, marched over to her and gently patting her on the shoulder he said, “Don’t cry, little girl. It don’t hurt.”

Those were the moments that erased all the tears and frustration of being a single mom. The moments where nothing else mattered but this little, rambunctious human being God entrusted me to raise. I didn’t know the plans He had for his life, I just knew I was going to continue raising him the best I knew how in spite of the many roadblocks ahead.

Yet, I was lonely and too young to spend the rest of my life being single. But I was also afraid to try again. I just didn’t believe anyone out there would even want to take on a ready-made family and love my son as his own.

But there was one man left at least, and God sent him to us. Robbie was five when we got married and a few years later, my husband adopted him.

It wasn’t a fairytale beginning; we all had a lot to learn. There were times when I thought I made the biggest mistake marrying again. There was no doubt Robbie needed a firm hand, but my heart wasn’t ready for it and neither was Robbie’s tender butt. I admit I was like a barracuda when it came to Robbie’s tears. So we argued a lot during the first two years of marriage before I finally laid down my sword, but it was never out of sight.

There’s always been something special about my son; his love and compassion for people; especially hurting people. And after getting through his rambunctious years alive he never gave us a moment’s trouble. When he began driving, we never walked the floors wringing our hands wondering where he was or if he’d come home drunk or high on drugs or if he’d come home at all. Whatever I asked him to do he did it without a fuss except when I made a mess in the yard trimming bushes and cutting tree limbs. But he cleaned it up for me in spite of wanting to trade me in for a much nicer mom.

Today, Robbie is fifty-one with four kids, five grandkids, and one on the way. He works out every day, runs several times a week and travels every two months to Cambodia where he teaches self-defence and law enforcement and physically rescues children from sex traffickers. He speaks at High Schools, making students aware of sex traffickers and how they cunningly lure girls and boys into their web of lies and deceit. He is a loving, caring man, faithful and committed in everything he does. He never complains, not because he doesn’t have a reason to, he just doesn’t waste his time and energy.

So all you moms out there on the brink of a nervous breakdown, don’t give up! You may not see it now or even ten years from now, but God has a plan for your children’s lives. And He has a plan for your life as well, to be the best mom you know how to be, praying for wisdom and guidance throughout every single day. It’s tougher now more than ever before raising children and keeping them focused and headed in the right direction. but with God’s help, you can do it. Keep loving your kids, praising your kids, getting involved in their interests and helping them make the right choices. And when they become young adults, let them go, trust them to make the right choices you taught them and just be there when they need you.

And grandparents and great-grandparents out there, we should help, not interfere with our young moms and their children. We have wisdom and knowledge that only come from a lifetime of experience. A lifetime of knowing what works and what doesn’t and can even see the humour in some of the things kids do. I sit back and laugh at things my great-grandkids do that were about as funny as tripping over a log when Robbie did them.

If there is nothing else we can carry out in life, we can be the best parents, grandparents and great-grandparents we can be. With God’s help, all things are possible!

Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it. Proverbs 22:6 

https://www.joy.org/

 

 

 

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?