He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~ Psalm 147:3

Posts tagged ‘Inspiritational’

Isolation Getting You Down? Create!

So, I’m spreading my wings today and trying out the new block editor in WordPress. So far, I haven’t run into any problems. I’ll get back with you and let you know if I like it or not. I tried it once before and didn’t like it. But, maybe I was in one of those moods when I didn’t like anything that day.

Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, I changed the WordPress theme after a much-needed upgrade.

Okay, Between getting my house back in order and cleaning up the yard, I create. Some days that’s all I do. Okay, most days that’s all I do. That’s why my house is still a mess and hubby is running out of clean underwear. But, I’m retired. I can get to it tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next month. Or never if I don’t want to.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy my creations and that they take you to a happy place. We all need plenty of that these days.

From Damnation to Redemption

The Cross

Sugar and spice and everything nice

That’s what Eve was made of

And placed in the Garden of beauty and charm

To bask in the warmth of God’s love

Then along came a serpent so charming and sweet

With a hellish mission in mind

To crush and destroy the apple of God’s eye

And to rob her trusting soul blind

How foolish was she that fateful day

When she ate from the forbidden tree

And lost the cloak of God’s righteousness

For all eternity

But even before He formed the clay

God had a plan for man-kind

To redeem and restore our broken souls

And give us life sublime

He sent to earth His only Son

To die on a rugged tree

To wash away sin’s ugly stain

And to set our spirits free

Does God Really Care?

My mother was a mess. A neurotic, paranoid, yelling and screaming broken mess, striking out at me as if her abusive childhood was my fault. My fault that her mother dumped her in an orphanage. My fault that she had a foster-mother from Hell. My fault that my dad didn’t work, that they were behind in the bills and my youngest brother was getting into trouble every time he blinked.

And I believed it.

I should have been there and punched that wicked foster-mother in the face. I should have been there when her sadistic son molested her in the barn.  I should have beat him up, hung him from the highest tree stark naked in the blazing sun and let the buzzards finish him off.

That’s what I should have done.

And I felt smugly justified in my feelings seeing how broken my mother was. How the fury inside her erupted time and again. How none of us knew how to help her or cope with the hopelessness and devastation her brokenness caused.

I don’t know why I felt so responsible for my mother’s tragic childhood. I don’t know why I thought I had the power to make her all better. Maybe I thought if she could just one time see and feel my love it would be enough.

It wasn’t.  All the love, wealth and happiness in the world wouldn’t have been enough.

But, I never stopped trying to be her “enough”. Trying and failing again and again till I had nothing left to give but a heart boiling with rage.

Carelessly, she used my tender, sensitive emotions to control me; to feel a sense of power she never felt growing up. Oh, how she loved un-zipping her soul revealing the wounded inner child, whimpering how she was beaten till she bled. How she walked a mile to school in snow up to her elbows. How she’d find rocks in her lunch bag instead of food. How her foster-mother hung her pee-stained sheets out her bedroom window for every passerby to see. If I resisted her mad ploy for control, She’d hammer me to the ground with her lengthy crypt-like silence till I finally caved in.

My mother had a china-doll-Incredible Hulk syndrome. Delicate and fragile one minute and a raging, roaring monster the next. My bedroom became my haven, but not for my poor Barbie dolls that were slammed repeatedly on the bed by a raging lunatic. Sometimes I’d even chop off their long, beautiful hair.

I admit I was a hellcat of uncontrollable fury against my mother at times, especially when I entered my teens and began pulling tighter on the reigns. I was a good kid; a Christian kid. I took to heart the morals she pounded into my head. I didn’t chase after boys, or lie, cheat or steal. I hung around wholesome kids and always checked in to let her know where I was. I earned my freedom and trust, didn’t I?

Nope! Nope! Nope!

Finally, the battle of the wills turned into a full-blown war neither of us would ever win.  And the very one who tried her darndest to save her is now drowning in a cesspool of grief, crying for help. But help never came.

No human hand reached out and touched me. No human arms held me tightly as I cried. No human voice whispered in the darkness everything will be okay.

But God did.

For years I ran from Him, though, blaming Him for everything that went wrong. My life was one big question mark of why’s. Why did you let it happen? Why didn’t you rescue my mother? Why didn’t you rescue me? Why? Why? Why?

He didn’t answer all my why’s, but He understood all my pain. He understood my raging fury. He cared that I was a shattered mess. And to prove it, He opened my eyes and I saw His beaming face. He touched my wild, rebellious heart. He held me in His arms like my father never did. He whispered to me in the darkness, “I’ve got this. I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go.”

It’s been a long bumpy ride. At times, it was like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. But, although we never had a perfect relationship, after six years of no contact, we finally had a few civil years before she passed away.

There’s still that empty longing that only a mother can fill. My heart still cries for her. And I can’t help but wonder what a peaceful, loving home life would have felt like. Then, I look at my son and his happy, growing family and I know.

And I feel deeply blessed. Deeply rewarded when I did nothing to deserve it. And I can’t thank God enough for all that He has done for me even when I thought He didn’t care. I see now that through the darkest dungeon of despair, He was there, giving me strength, nudging me forward, teaching me, encouraging me, sending people to love me, picking up the pieces of my life as if they were priceless jewels. He never once left my side. Not even for a second.

I will never leave you nor forsake you (Joshua 1:5).

 

 

 

 

 

A House Without a Dog is Not a Home

When Rascal, our handsome, Australian Shepard mix of eight years died, he took part of us with him. The grief was so unbearable that I never wanted another dog to wrap my heart around only to have it ripped apart.

But hubby couldn’t stop grieving and I couldn’t stand seeing him suffer. So, for his birthday, we paid a visit to the animal shelter, and there she was, curled up in a big cage on a skimpy blanket on that cold cement floor frightened and all alone.

Hubby fell in love.

I didn’t. She wasn’t Rascal.

So we kept looking.

No Rascal anywhere.

But hubby wasn’t looking for Rascal and kept dragging me back to that pitiful, scrawny, long-legged Greyhound mix curled up in that dreary cage. I guess I’m a sucker for pitiful, so we adopted her.

That was three years ago. Yep! Three years of wanting to wring her neck for chewing up her bed, and my pillows, and my couch; things Rascal NEVER did. Three years of her hyperactive personality, her jumping and jerking around when we tried petting her. Three years of trying to stop comparing her to Rascal.

Then a year ago Pepper came into our lives. Sweet, dainty, loving little Pepper. She was more dead than alive after being abandoned along with fifteen other dogs. She was so skinny I could barely feel her when she jumped on my lap. Then she licked my face, pierced my soul with those big brown eyes, and that did it. We bundled her up and took her home, hoping and praying Bella would approve.

It was love at first sight. Kindred spirits.

Having two dogs at one time in the house is more than challenging. It’s insane! Pepper loves jumping on the table, and countertops. Heck, she just loves jumping! The higher the better. Now Bella thinks she can jump that high, too. And Pepper is a chewer. Bella stopped until Pepper came along. And she was potty trained till Pepper came along. She was getting more settled till Pepper came along. We had to potty train her all over again. And Bella poops and pees like a cow. So yeah. I was tempted to haul them both off to the animal shelter. But, you already know what a sucker I am for pitiful.

In spite of all their frustrating antics, they are beautiful, loving dogs. They love each other and can hardly stand to be apart. And they love us and children and whoever comes to visit. Most of all, they bring us joy and happiness and a ton of laughter. And when I think where they might be today had we not rescued them, I want to cry

No More Hiding Behind a Mask

For me, writing is like eating a big piece of chocolate pie. Okay, I lied. It’s like eating cow manure.

I sit at my computer, staring at a blank screen wondering where to start. And that’s really tough because most of the time I don’t even know what I want to write about. So I sit fidgeting at the computer, smear vaseline on my lips, blow my nose, clip my nails, paint my toenails, jump up and let the dogs out, trying to squeeze words from my tiny brain that’s as dry as a sponge. Finally, I plop back into my chair and a word or two trickles out and I begin typing before they evaporate and disappear. But, they’re senseless; utterly stupid.

Frustrated, I get up from my chair and holler, “Coffee time!” at my husband snoring so loud I tell him the neighbours are complaining. Like a drunk on a three-day binge, he roles over and mumbles, “What time is it.”

“It’s way past time you be getting up, that’s what time it is,” I snort.

We drink our coffee on the back porch watching the birds at the bird feeder and yell at the dogs for pushing out the screen when a squirrel gets too close. We talk about old people stuff, like how kids today are nothing like the kids were in our day. Instead of sitting around like zombies texting or playing video games, we played with normal things, like frogs and lizards and rode our bikes for miles getting sunshine and exercise. And kids are so rude and disrespectful these days.

After three cups of coffee and solving the world’s problems, my bladder is screaming. Besides, it’s too hot by now sitting on the back porch. Between the heat and humidity, I feel like crawling inside the refrigerator, which is what the house feels like compared to outside. But that’s early summer North Carolina weather for ya.

I pour another cup of coffee, hubby gets on his computer checking his mail and visiting friends on Facebook, and I drag my butt back to my lonely computer chair and take up where I left off a few hours ago.

Finally, a story pops into my head. Waite. I don’t want to write about that! Besides, it’s way too personal. And I don’t like spilling my guts all over the place; too much like self-sabotage.

And if not for my family and friends encouragement, I’d either wear a mask when I write or not write at all.

And speaking of masks, I wore many of them growing up, trying to be what other people wanted me to be; in school, at home, in church. Like a chameleon, I’d change my thoughts and ideas to blend in with people’s likes and dislikes, pretending that I was calm and collect when my insides were blowing up. No one liked the real me, and neither did I. Then I wondered why I felt so anxious all the time. Why I was so confused, why I felt like a tattered rag doll tossed at the bottom of a garbage bin.

Then I went through a series of agonizing events that gave me glimpses of the battered child within trying desperately to get out; clawing her way through the rubble of lies and deceit and anger and rage, being what other people wanted her to be.

Like an onion, I began peeling off the masks, one protective mask at a time; feeling naked, vulnerable and shaking with fear inside my skin. Some people didn’t like that I arose from the dead. I started speaking out, expressing my hurt and anger at being emotionally bullied just to make others happy. And I admit, after years and years of holding back the furries of Hell, I turn into Adolph Hitler when the words start gushing out.

So, yes. Writing for me is like eating cow manure. I have to pry the words out of my brain, weigh them on the scales of truth and justice, swim against the tide of my anxieties, and agonize over whether or not to post what I spent hours, sometimes days writing. But the yearning deep inside my soul to write what I feel won’t allow me to write any other way.

 

 

 

 

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Random thoughts, life lessons, hopes and dreams

South Texas Watercolor Artist

Corpus Christi, Texas

THE POETIC SAGE

This site is dedicated to my amazing writing skills.

Digital Art Junky

Art is something that makes you breathe with a different kind of happiness

Art and Soul

Art is the only way to run away without leaving home ~ Twyla Tharp

Straight from the Heart

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~ Psalm 147:3

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