Susana

January 27
   I know it's the right thing to do.  I don't have a job; don't have money, don't have education; don't have oh so many things.  What I do have is a world of love for this little girl--for you, Sweetheart.  I don't get to give you a name--that is going to be your mommy's job--but just between you and me, I already have.  Your name is Susanna.  Even if nobody else in the world ever hears it, I want you to know.  Susanna, I hope you know how much I love you.  I only get these few minutes to talk to you and hold you and give you a lifetime worth of love, and I know that's not enough, but I hope you somehow understand that it's because I love you that I'm giving you up.  If I were selfish, I'd keep you with me and make you suffer through my mistakes.  But I'm not going to be selfish. I love you too much for that.  So just know, my precious Susanna, that my heart is always going to be broken because I want you to be strong.
                                                         Love,
                                                                Mommy

February 14
Can it really be that over a year has passed?  I thought about you all day today.  I hope that somehow you know that you have inspired me.  Because of you, I've gone back to school.  I'm going to be a teacher, Susanna.  I'm going to teach elementary school, I think.  I have a long way to go, but I'm hoping that I treat every student--boy or girl--as if it was you.  I think about you every day.  I wonder about your hair, your eyes, your family...did you get my curly hair or your daddy's straight hair?  Did your eyes stay blue like his, or did they turn green like mine--or even maybe brown like my father's?  Do you have brothers and sisters?  Do they hold you when you cry?  Do you ever miss me?  I hope not, Susanna.  I don't want to be the reason you feel bad.  I love you so much.  I hope somehow you know that.
                                                                    Love,
                                                                           Mommy
December 25
Susanna, I know that you're almost 10.  My goodness, how time flies!  Did you have a nice Christmas?  I stayed with your grandmother.  This is her first Christmas without your Grandpa.  Oh Susanna, I wish you could have known him.  He was a great man.  I will always remember him carrying me piggyback on his neck.  I felt so tall--like I could almost touch the sky!  He made me feel that way, anyway, Dear.  He was a good, good man and I really miss him.  He died of a heart attack, but before he died, we had time to talk.  He knew about you, Little One.  I didn't keep you a secret.  Both he and your grandmother knew that I was pregnant.  We all prayed and talked it through together.  Susanna, did I ever tell you that I wasn't a teenager?  I was an adult--20 years old.  Your daddy and I were in love and planning to get married, and we chose not to wait.  We chose together.  When I got pregnant, though, he got scared and left.  He knew that I wouldn't dream of abortion, and he didn't want to raise a child.  Not that I would have asked him.  I knew we weren't ready.  But this introduction to responsibility scared him and he left.  Grandma and Grandpa didn't pressure me in any way.  We prayed together and decided.  It was an easy decision for me--I've already told you that I wanted you to have the best home and the brightest future possible, and I knew that couldn't happen with me.  I think it was really hard for Grandma, though.  I heard her crying in her room, but she never tried to talk me out of it.  I'm thankful for that.  Before he died, your Grandpa told me that he knew I did the right thing.  He said that if I ever got to know you, though, he wanted me to tell you that he loves you.  He's always prayed for you--his granddaughter.

My little girl--I know I shouldn't say "mine", but I still feel you in my heart, just like I told you I would.  That's why I've written this journal.  Just in case, some strange way, we should ever find each other, I want you to know that I never, not even for one day, stopped thinking about you.

                                                                   Merry Christmas, my little angel,
                                                                                Your mommy, who loves you

July 28,
Susanna, school is starting up again soon.  I know that you will be a freshman this year.  Are you excited?  I wonder if you'll go out for sports, or maybe play in the band like I did.  Do you have a gift?  Mine was always music.  Even when life was hard, music always lifted me up.  Coming home, I always had on my I-pod.  Sometimes I would hear people laughing and realize that I'd been singing along again.

I've been teaching for quite a few years now.  Fifth grade, mostly.  I see so many little girls, and I wonder if that's how you look-or looked, you know what I mean.  Blonde and pretty, brown hair in pony tails, chubby redheads--all of them are you.  Not knowing what you look like, I know that any one of them could have been you.  It helps me remember to treat them all with love and compassion.  What if that little girl that I snickered about turned out to be my own daughter?  So even now I look for you in every face and treat every child (even the boys) as if they were my own.  Just another way you make me a better person, Susanna.
                                                                 Love,
                                                                          Mommy

March 18,
Dear Katie,
            Thank you for giving me the chance to see you.  I was scared about the idea of looking you up, but I always felt that there was a connection.  When I turned 18, I talked to my mom, and she gave me her blessing.  I wouldn't have done this so soon if she hadn't.  I didn't want to do anything that would hurt her.  You did give birth to me, but she gave me life.  She told me a little about the situation.  She told me that you were young, unmarried, and you wanted me to have the best.  She knew you from the letters that you had written to the adoption facility, and she was impressed by the love that you had for me.  She knew that it was hard for you to give me up, but that you were determined to do what was right for me.
           When we met, you said that it was like you were looking at yourself.  I'm with you! I think that the first thing that struck me was how alike we look.  Your mom (it seems funny to call her Grandma still, but I'll get used to it) says that I look just like pictures of you when you were 18.  I brought my photo album (and my phone) and she took hers out, too, and we were all in tears--it could have been me in your book and you in my book!! Honestly, it was hard to figure out whether we laughed more or cried more.
           Katie, I was so blessed when you gave me your journals.  Eighteen years' worth--20 books!  I can't believe you thought of me every single day!  You have no idea how close you came to truths about me.  That day that you worried about whether I'd find the right boy...I had found the wrong boy and came so close to making the same mistake you made!  But I remembered the nights that I'd cried in my mom's arms--why would my parents give me up?--that I knew I couldn't risk doing that to another child.  I don't blame you, Katie.  You did do what was best.  My parents are there for me, and I've had a great childhood.  But you must know that it hurts, even when you know that your parents let you go for the best reason possible.  We talked about that a little, and we both cried a little more.  What a day of tears!!
             I'm looking forward to learning more about you.  I'm glad you understand that I can't call you Mom--that's not something I can do--but I was thinking--I learned German, and the word for mom in German is mutti.  I really think I want to call you mutti.
             So anyway, mutti :-), I'm looking forward to more time together with you.  Maybe one day you can meet my mom and dad, too.  They're great people, like I said.  But we'll play it by ear.
              I love you, Katie.  Mutti.
                                                                          Love, your daughter
                                                                                          Savannah

The night my mother died and after

Eyes so tired from crying.
Sitting in the bleachers at a football game.
Remembering that my mother is gone.
Hating the fact that I can't be home.
Watching balloons going up up up into the black sky
And wondering if she might catch one.

Surrounded with family
I have never felt so all alone.

Healing comes with time.
With time, I learn that life goes on.
With time, I realize that it wasn't that he was thoughtless--
Just that he didn't know how to cope, either.
Realizing that he probably had few memories of that night.
Just as I have no memories of the night my husband died.

I feel the emptiness
And allow myself to realize
That was his emptiness, too.
Maybe we didn't know how to express it,
But our world had come to an end.
I don't think he ever figured out how to recover--
But I did.

Time passes, and I can look back
And remember
And forgive
And move on.

I love you, Daddy.
I know now exactly how you felt,
And I'm sorry that you didn't get the support you needed.
I no longer blame you--
You tried, I know.
More, Daddy, I thank you.
You taught me how not to respond to death.

Because of your stagnancy,
I realized the need to live.
I owe my recovery
In part
To you.
In doing what you did not,
I walked to wholeness,
And am dipping my toe in the pool of joy.

When I'm ready, Daddy
I'll swim a lap
In your honor.

markers

She walked through the park with the old dog.  No, not that old, he was barely eight.  She remembered the day that she got him.

She'd met Charley through a friend a few weeks before.  He was handsome, funny, gabby--everything that her father was not.  A few years out of high school, she wanted to escape.  She still lived at home; she worked at Penney's during the day and came home to her father and brothers at night.  Her mother died years earlier; she was left to cook and clean and listen and be sympathetic--and dodge any drunken blows that might come her way.  Her father hadn't been the best of parents before her mother died; he was a miserable excuse of a man after.  She felt fifty years old when she was barely 20.  When Charley came, she felt that she was ready.  It surprised her that he got so serious so fast, but again, she felt that she could handle Charley and whatever might come her way in his company.  On the first date, he asked for a kiss.  By the third date he was taking her body.  She was a virgin, though not by choice.  She'd just never had time to date before.  Charley was different.  He met her at work and took her on walks.  One day, only a few months after they'd met, Charley met her after work with a little Pug tucked under his arm.  "His name's Pugsley," he said.  "He needs a mom, don't he?"  She smiled and said yes.  "Well, he's yours."  She giggled her thanks and began to take him from Charley.  "Oh, one thing.  Him and me--we're a package deal. Okay?"  It took her a minute to realize that Charley was asking her to marry him.  No ring, no bended knee, just a cute little snuffly dog.  She remembered thinking, 'Oh well, why not?' as she agreed.

One of the first things they did together was to find Pugsley a collar and a tag.  He only wore it for a year before his neck got too full, but she kept it.  It was her first marker--a reminder of the happiness that she felt that first year.  Life with Charley wasn't a picnic, but it wasn't hell, either.  He seemed to care about her.  Yes, she still worked at Penney's, still came home and cleaned house and made dinner, and she learned to live with the understanding that Charley was out of work as often as he was employed, but there were no drunken rages.  She was thankful for that.  Instead, though, there was Charley's pure meanness.  She hadn't experienced it before they were married, but Charley had a sarcastic mouth and a way of making her feel small.  Even though she was the one making the money, he criticized her for spending it.  Charley, however, could do extravagant things like buy himself a PS-3 and a new truck.  If she dared to say anything about it, he would look at her in a way that was a warning.  She soon learned to keep her mouth shut.

As time went on, Charley became more and more critical and less and less loving.  His sense of humor was now his tool to inflict pain.  In a group of friends (his friends--hers had somehow stopped coming over), he would talk about her as if she wasn't there--he belittled everything from her looks to her cooking to the way she made love--and his friends thought that he was hilarious.  The first time it happened, she was shocked.  She was serving chips and dip when he compared her to a rutting pig.  She was caught unawares, embarrassed, and so hurt that she set the food on the nearest table and ran to her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  There were no locks--not even in the bathroom.  She ran to the bed and held the pillow to muffle her tears.  Next thing she knew, she was pulled up by her hair.  "What do you think you're doing?  Get your butt back down there! We have company!"  "But Charley, what you said..." "Oh, shut up! Can't you take a joke?  It's your responsibility to be there for our guests, so get down there!"  Without another word, without checking the mirror, with her head hurting from his treatment of her, she went down and took care of his company.  When they went home, for the first time, he didn't ask her if she'd like to sleep with him.  He just made her.  That was how it was from then on.

For a while, life with Charley stayed ragged but manageable.  She had her dad's example; she even gave Charley the benefit of the doubt--maybe there was something in her that made men treat her that way.  But then she lost her job.

It wasn't her fault.  Penney's was losing money in her area; they simply couldn't keep their doors open. She had known about it for weeks, but she'd had no idea how to tell Charley, so she just didn't.  As a result, he came home from work (he had a job in the oilfields--something he'd found through a relative) and found her there.  "Why the hell aren't you at work?  He said.  "We were all laid off, Charley.  Penney's went out of business here."  "What?"  He was furious.  He went to the shelf and found a figurine that was precious to her.  "This is you!"  he screamed, and he threw it on the floor, where it broke into tiny shards.  He went to the kitchen, got the coffee pot, and smashed it into the sink.  Again, shards of glass littered the area.  And then he bent down..."No! Not Pugsley!"  But it was too late.  He threw the little Pug straight at her.  His twenty pounds knocked her down, but the dog was all right.  She lay on the floor with him, too stunned even to cry.  She carefully set the Pug back on his feet, quietly shuffled away from him, got the dustpan, and cleaned up the mess.  She was unable to save the coffee pot, but she painstakingly restored the figurine.  It sat on her dresser beside Pugsley's collar--another marker.

Perversely, Charley refused to allow her to find a new job.  He told her that she was too stupid to do any real work.  She might as well stay home and try to find something that she could be good at--maybe like having babies.  He continued to work, and his buddies at the oilfields were all hard drinkers.  He went with them round for round and often came home roaring drunk.  She didn't know which was worse--sober, mean, sarcastic Charley or drunken, amorous, romantic Charley.  Worst of all, though, was Charley once he noticed that she had done some little thing wrong--not to his liking.  Then Charley became a demon from hell.  He would take her into the bedroom or the bathroom or the kitchen and start whaling on her.  It was only when she admitted through her tears that she was a horrible wife and didn't deserve him that he would stop.

Of course, if someone is forced to admit to a lie long enough, that lie becomes a truth.  It didn't take her very long at all to believe everything she said.  She saw herself as unloveable.  She truly believed that she put Charley up to it.  She even began to rethink her relationship with her father--maybe he'd been the victim all along.  As her self esteem plummeted, a fatalism like nothing she'd ever experienced took its place.  Whoever was at fault, she would stay with Charley.  She knew that sooner or later he would kill her.  It was only a matter of time.  But until that day, she would stay with him.

She probably would have, too, were it not for two things:  the first was Charley's increased insistence on a baby.  He would get up with her any time she had to go to the bathroom to make sure she wasn't sneaking contraceptives.  He told her daily that a baby would make her a new woman--someone worthy of his love.  The very thought of bringing a baby under the same roof with Charley terrified her.

The second thing was her father's death.  It was not unexpected.  He died one cold January morning--so drunk that he couldn't make it home and died in his car.  His family paid for his funeral, and of course she and Charley went.  She sat on a chair at the cemetery and watched the casket as it stood beside the cleverly concealed hole--her father was so entirely gone--and yet she still felt his presence, felt the menace that even now seemed to hover around him.  Although she couldn't see it, she knew that her mother's stone was right beside his.  They would be buried together.  As she was leaving, she stumbled and looked down. There was a beautiful piece of granite--a chunk of rock that seemed to be out of place.  She wondered if it broke off a marker as they were preparing her father's area.  Hardly realizing she was doing it, she took the piece of granite and held it all the way home. She put it beside the collar and the figurine--not as a marker, just because.

That night, she had a dream.  In it, she was once again at the cemetery, but instead of Charley, it was her mother at her side.  Her mother walked with her to her father's grave.  It was older now, and the marker had been made and even grown a little worn.  To one side, as she'd known, was her mother's grave.  But to the other--there was another marker, granite the color of the stone she'd found, with a beautiful picture of an angel.  Written on the marker were the words Marjorie Wooten.  Beloved wife and sister.  Gone too soon.  She was stunned.  Then she heard her mother's voice:  "Marjorie!  Wake up!  You don't have to live like this! Get out!"

When she woke up, she knew that she'd only been dreaming, but she truly believed that the dream was prophetic.  She got out of bed, packed her clothes, her markers, took what little money she still had--she only took enough to get out of town--and left.  The one thing she took that belonged to both of them was Pugsley.  She felt that she had to; if she didn't, she was sure that he would take it out on the dog.

The next few years weren't easy.  She was in bad shape.  She startled easily.  She didn't trust.  She was afraid of everyone and trusted no one. But she had her markers and she had her dog and she got help.  She found a job and started counseling.  And most of all, she kept walking.  She started taking walks, first for her dog but then equally for herself.  She would practice breathing, feeling...being.  And one day, she realized that she wasn't afraid.  She felt that she was no longer running away.  She looked around the city park and picked up the first thing she saw--a little pine cone.  It was added to the parade of markers on the dresser in her apartment.  It signified hope.  Each of the little tear-shaped pieces of the pine cone had the choice--to stay closed or to open.  She also had that choice.  She chose to open herself to new experiences.

Marjorie kept walking, kept looking, and one day, she decided to go on a trip.  She hadn't thought in those terms since...well, to be honest she didn't remember ever thinking in those terms.  She thought about where to go and immediately the thought came--the beach.  It wasn't close and it wasn't easy--she lived in Arizona and had no car--but she made it work.  She saved up and bought a train ticket, and she had a beautiful time.  Starting with the trip aboard the Coast Starlight, she gave herself up to the experience.  (Pugsley was along, too, in the baggage compartment--she made sure he was well taken care of.)  It had been so long since she'd seen the waves, smelt the salty air, heard the seagulls, that when she arrived, she simply stood still and was.  She felt the years roll away from her, and she realized that she really wasn't all that old.  Maybe it wasn't too late.  Maybe she could try again....Out of the stillness of the moment, she heard a voice: gentle, musical, and firm.  "I will redeem all you have lost," it said.  Hope.  She went to the shore and...she didn't even have to look.  A sand dollar--pure and unbroken--was waiting for her.  She carefully wrapped it in a Kleenex--another marker to add to her collection.

Years went by, and slowly and gently, God was true to His word.  She found the will to go back to school.  She found a few friends--only a few, but enough.  From a life without hope, she began to have a few timid dreams--little ones at first:  another trip to the beach, a new laptop, going to a concert.  Then the dreams became bigger, took feet, and became goals--get her bachelor's degree, become a teacher, find a good job.  And then, one day, she realized--God had done what he'd promised.  He had redeemed her.

One night, just after sunset, she was walking Pugsley in the park. She walked through the park with the old dog.  No, not that old, he was barely eight.  She remembered the day that she got him.  She remembered without fear, without regret, without anything other than a sense of love.  Yes, love.  Charley wasn't evil incarnate.  He wasn't the devil.  He was a messed up kid who became a messed up man.  And she wished him well.  Then she realized a truth:  it was time to move down another road.  She went to the store and found a beautiful box.  Inside the box--all of her markers.  They were valid, they were important--but it was time to move on.  She shut the lid on the box, put it in the closet, and took out the other thing she'd found at the store:  a framed calligraphy of Jeremiah 29:11  For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you  future and a hope.   Marjorie took a deep breath and smiled.  Her journey was about to begin.

Never never EVER give up!

My story didn't start yesterday.  It didn't start last year.  It didn't even start ten years ago.  While my story, like all of yours, has been in a state of becoming since I was born, the part of my story that nearly killed me started in 1990 and first became traumatic in 1991.  That's over 23 years ago.  After my father died (not unexpected--he was 81), I felt the grief that anyone would feel at the death of a father.  I was the baby, so maybe it was harder for me; I'm really not sure.  However, in July, 1991, my world was shaken.  My baby, Tommy, died at 24 weeks gestation.  It was not a stillbirth; he lived for eleven days.  Miracles happened both during and after his birth; still, my precious son died.  I'm not going into that now--that's not the point of this post.  Thirteen months after Tommy died, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy named David.  Two months after David was born, I started a new job.  Four months after that, my husband unexpectedly died.  He had a cerebral aneurysm and lived for eleven days, just like my son.  I'm not going into any of that right now, either.  That's not the point of the post.  I struggled with grief, suicidal thoughts, horrible decisions, miserable choices, and then--I began to experience healing.  THAT is STILL not the point of this post.  But patience, friends.  I'm getting there.

As I began to experience healing, I was unable to do much more than receive for the first several years.  When I was able to reach outward, at first it was only through writing and singing.  But before too long, I began to want to serve others--to help others in the way that I myself had been helped.  I took 2 Corinthians 1:4 as my life verse: He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. However, the more I asked God to allow me a chance to help others, the less likely it seemed that he would do so.  I never understood why, but nothing ever seemed to work out.  Whenever I asked for a chance to help, the answer I got was "wait."  But I didn't want to wait!

Well, here it is, 23 years later, and I find myself preparing.  I know that the time is not yet at hand, but it is coming.  I am resting in the Lord, waiting on Him, and He is reminding me every day of something that He wants me to take into this new life.  One day I will remember a miracle, another day I will remember the sweetness of a healing, another memory will come of something that he showed me in his Word that brought an understanding that I hadn't yet received.  I see all these things coming together.

One thing, though, that I hadn't seen, was this.  I understand now why I had to wait all these years.  It took that much time for me to be ready.  Not healed, ready.  I couldn't have taken the steps that I'm about to take even 5 years ago.  It took people criticizing my Spanish to understand that people mean only good when they criticize.  It took people proofreading my stories (in Spanish) and projects for me to realize that you don't disintegrate when you receive criticism.  It took me having opportunities through the years to sing, to share my story, and to share my readings to understand that it moves people when I do so, and it can bring healing.  I didn't understand that 23 years ago.  I understand it now.

So I wait again, and hopefully for the last time.  I know that at the end of this waiting, I'll be free to help others receive the hope and healing that they can find through God.  It will be truly time.  And I will be so thankful that I waited.

So this is my point to you:  as Winston Churchill said, Never never EVER give up!  You might be in a holding pattern, too, and the days may see pointless and long.  Please do remember that God is walking your path with you.  He knows how long you need before you're ready to take wing and fly.  Please don't despair--he will give you the desire of your heart.  He WILL.  Just have faith.  

By the way, I'm discovering that you are leaving comments and somehow they're not appearing.  Please email me at meggiev7777@gmail.com until I figure out what's going on.  I so want to hear from you.

God bless you!

Forgiving yourself

Forgiveness.  Such a beautiful word, but such a difficult thing to give.  It is one thing to forgive a thoughtless action or careless word; it is quite another to forgive action that caused serious hurt, harm or death.  Above all, it is nearly impossible to forgive pain that you yourself inflicted.  How can you forgive yourself?

I was 15, and I was going through a particularly rough patch in my development.  I was easily embarrassed, easily offended, put off by anything that seemed to my arrogant little mind as selfish.  The prime culprit, in my opinion, was my mother.  She seemed to be a constant irritant.  She had to be helped out of her chair.  She couldn't walk long distances.  She told stories of falling and staying there until someone came to pick her up.  She seemed overly concerned about her weight.  I understood none of this and resented all of it.  What I didn't realize was that my mother was desperately ill.

In my defense, I need to explain that my mom, Violet Wood, had been seriously ill since I was 18 months old.  She was so often in the hospital that I thought visiting the hospital was normal.  I didn't realize the severity of her condition, and I didn't see the gradual decline.  I was too young to fully understand.  By the time I reached 15, my mother was months away from death.  However, the changes weren't visible to me.  I saw them as new things for her to complain about, and I resented them.

Reading this, I can't believe how shallow and callous I was.  But I'm trying to be as honest as I can, and that was how it was.

Two events stick out in my mind.  The first is just a memory.  I know I was 14 or 15.  It's like a photograph--an event frozen in time.  My father, mother and I were going to JC Penney.  By this time, Mama couldn't walk for long distances, so for this trip, she was in a wheelchair.  I didn't understand, and I was embarrassed.  It seemed to me that she was lazy.  She could walk (using a walker) in the house, so why wasn't she walking now?  I didn't want to be seen with her, and I lagged behind, looking into shop windows and pretending not to be part of the family.  Of course, Mama picked up on it right away.  She called me on my behavior.  Now I wasn't only embarrassed, I was ashamed.  I don't recall asking for her forgiveness.  I just recall resenting having to share space with her.

The second event is frozen in my mind.  It was the morning of September 23.  My mother was in the dining room in a chair.  Once again, she was going to the hospital.  I was in bed, asleep, as was my brother.  Her breathing woke me up.  It was as if she had a bunch of phlegm caught in her throat.  I couldn't stand the sound.  I remember being irritated.  'Why doesn't she clear her throat?' I thought.  My mother didn't have the strength to go to our rooms.  She called out to my brother that she loved him.  He responded.  Then she called out the same thing to me.  I remember groaning to her.  I couldn't be bothered to tell her that I loved her.  Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.  My dad took her to the hospital, and I went back to sleep.

The next day, my brother and I didn't go to school.  I don't remember thinking too much about that, but I do remember having lunch when we received the call--your mother is dying, and if you want to see her, you need to come now.  We all hurried to the hospital, and for the first time in my life, I was allowed into her room.  She was in a coma and unresponsive.  I remember going to her side, taking her hand, and saying over and over, "I love you, Mama!"  Nothing.  At that time, I didn't realize that people in a coma can hear you.  All I knew was that I had lost my last chance to let my mother know that I loved her.  I became fascinated by the heart monitor.  I couldn't stop watching it record my mother's heartbeat.  As a result, I saw those beats stop.  I saw her die.

For many years--over 30 years--I couldn't forgive myself for the miserable way that I had treated my mother.  I was in a strange place--the person that I had offended was dead.  There was no going to her and asking forgiveness.  I did, of course.  I spoke to her as if she was still there and asked her forgiveness.  I believe with all my heart that she heard me and forgave me, but how could I forgive myself?

The answer didn't come easily.  The unforgiveness that I felt became seated in my heart and turned me cold.  It began to distort my personality.  I thought of myself as unworthy, unloveable.  I built walls between myself and the world--the pain and hurt that I felt was a barrier that walled me in and kept love out.  It didn't happen overnight, and it wasn't healed overnight.

 I don't remember one specific moment that led to my ability to forgive myself.  I think that it was a gradual understanding of an overwhelming truth:  God forgave me, and my mother forgave me.  Of that I was certain.  So in my refusal to forgive myself, I was stating that their forgiveness was incorrect.  If they could forgive me, then I had the ability--the responsibility--to forgive myself.  I didn't have the power within me to do it, but I had learned obedience, and in that obedience I claimed forgiveness.  I forgave myself for the foolish behavior of my youth.  The italics show the understanding that came with that forgiveness.  As long as I was mired in my own guilt, I couldn't see that.  There was no category, there was just self-loathing.  But as I forgave myself, my soul began to speak to me the peace that had always been available to me in Christ Jesus.  I began to realize that I was judging myself far more harshly than either my mother or my Lord had ever judged me.

Dear friend, what is there in your soul that is waiting to be forgiven?  Please look into your heart and see what is behind the hurt that is there.  What is keeping you from feeling free to express that loveliness that is you?  Is it youthful indiscretion, a life of sin that is still bothering you, although you repented long ago?  Are you refusing to forgive yourself for the pain that you caused others?  Please, in obedience, grasp the forgiveness that has been given to you and then apply it to yourself.  I promise you that it will set your soul free and allow for the healing that you know you need.

Father, I pray for the person who may be reading this right now with tears in their eyes.  I pray that as you speak words of love and forgiveness to that person, they understand that your love is always free, always open, and always available.  I pray that as they accept this truth, they find the obedience that they need to both accept your forgiveness and then apply it to their own soul.  Let them see that the self-forgiveness that they do not feel worthy to claim is the very key that they seek to unlock their hearts and admit the love and peace of Your Holy Spirit.  In Jesus' name, Amen.

writer, ministry--the work has begun

I am a writer.  I am.  I don't know why it takes someone else affirming it for me to really believe it.
I saw an editor today.  He was so positive, so affirming, that I knew beyond any doubt that my dream was going to come true.  My head is still spinning.  It is amazing to me--totally amazing.  He and I are going to work together to make my dream become a reality.
He told me that I need a platform.  He told me that I should have a ministry--something that I can do that will promote my book while serving God.  I just looked back to Facebook--Sept 15--my fondest dream is being told "You should make a living at this. The way you write and the way you read, you're perfect!! Of course, little chance of that happening.  

That was what I wrote on the 15th.  And it came true today.  The time is right--my kids are all grown, I am on my own, I have no major debt, and so I can look at the possibility of change.  It's a big leap (and I'm not saying that I will give up my day job yet), but it's happening.

He said (Adam--he has a name) that I should start asking God what I should do.  I have been, and he's been reminding me of three things;  healing, forgiveness, and obedience.  All of this has come about because of all of those things.  

I have been in a process of healing since 1993.  My husband died and I was broken.  Broken--more like shattered.  Crumbled into a million pieces.  Shards of glass lying on the floor with no hope of redemption.  One by one, God has picked each piece up and gently, carefully, lovingly put it back into place.  No, I'm not who I was.  I am cracked, patched, mended.  But I'm so beautiful. Each scar, each mark is a reminder of the work that God has done.

Forgiveness--how very important that is.  In my life, thank God, forgiveness has rarely been hard for me.  Sometimes, yes, I did find it hard to forgive.  It was hard to forgive our doctor for forcing her religion on us when all we wanted was to keep our baby alive.  It was hard to forgive when I knew that the people who hurt me so terribly would never come to me and ask for forgiveness.  But I've always known how important forgiveness is.  I've seen firsthand the bitterness and hatred that comes when forgiveness is refused.  I don't want that ever to happen to me.  And so I know that forgiveness is for yourself every bit as much as for the offender.

Obedience.  This is the secret to successful living, first and foremost.  Don't try to talk him out of it.  Just do it in obedience.  If you prove that you can be obedient in the small things, then he will entrust you with bigger things.  It's by obedience that we learn to walk into abundant life in Him.

This is it, Lord.  Now just show me how to use this platform for your glory.  And if it's supposed to change, please help me understand how.

A Intro-Inspection

I have wondered about this moment
This future
Since that day at the hospital.

I left the ICU
Shellshocked
A widow.

With four children at home,
A family that loved me
I had never felt so alone.

Years passed, and I watched my children
As they grew up and moved away.
I feared, not for them,
But for myself.

I knew that they were moving onward with their lives,
Finding love and families of their own.

But I had no one.

I felt ripped in half,
And I grieved for the part of me that would never return.
I lost the only man I have ever loved,
And I wanted no one.
No one could fill his void.

As the years passed,
I began to realize a truth
That took be by surprise.

I was surrounded by love.

My children may not be near,
But I know that they care,
And that is enough.

More,
I find that I have come to understand this truth--
I don't need bodies around me to be happy.

I am perfectly happy in and of myself.
In a way, being alone is what I was always meant to experience.
Not that I want to exclude others--
But honestly,
I have excluded myself for so long,

That it is only right that I get to know that person now.

I find that I like her.
She is interesting,
Observant,
She has a lot to say,
And she wants to see her dreams--
My dreams--
Come to life.

Maybe after this season of writing is over
I will feel the need to reach out to another
And to become part of a larger whole once again.

But for right now,
I am content.
My life is not lonely.
I have so much to do
That I don't know how I could cope with another person.

And for right now
That's okay.

The Artist

We all used to live differently.  Back in the before times.  it is said, there was something called color.  Yes, I know that we say we have color today, but what we think of as color really is all shades of grey--white to black and the shades in between--nothing can really merit the name "color".  We look out at our landscapes:  cool grey sky, taupe mountains, ash grey shrubs and dark slate grey trees,  and we see it as an artist's pallet.  I used to agree, but no more.  Because I met the Artist.

It happened many years ago.  I was wandering in the woods, and there was a tap on my shoulder.  "Are you enjoying your walk?"  asked the man.    He was dressed as we all were, in grey tops and slate pants, but there was something off about him.  I couldn't really put my finger on it.  I thought he was nice to have spoken, though, so I answered, "Yes.  I always enjoy walking through the grass around here.  It's so pretty, isn't it?"

"Is it?" he said.  "You realize that you aren't seeing it properly."

"What do you mean?"  Somehow I really wanted to hear what he had to say, because I had felt that way for years.  I love my home, but it's always seemed that there has to be something--well, something more!

"You have soot in your eyes," he said.  "Here, let me help you."  He spat on his hand and wiped his two hands together.  Before I could recoil, he put his hands over my eyes!  I was about to protest.

Then he removed his hands.

For the first time in my life, I saw colors.  The trees were the most beautiful things I had ever seen.  The grass sparkled with dew that I'd never even realized was there.  The dirt was made up of countless pieces of tiny little rock, each one singular, every bit unique.  Amazing!  I looked up at the Artist, and I couldn't believe it.  How could I have thought he was dressed like me?  He was simply glowing and alive with color!  His hair--so many colors all joined together to make an autumn carpet.  His skin was delicate and beautiful and rugged and strong, all at the same time. His eyes were neither green nor blue nor brown, yet all three at the same time.  And all around him, clothing him, were a myriad of colors:  the purple of penitence and royalty, the white of purity, the blue of truth--and the red of martyrdom, the fire of Holiness.  It was at that moment that I realized that the Artist was the most important man in the world.  He took my hand in his and began to tell me his secrets.  Yes, he knew many secrets--the secrets of my world.  He remembered a time when everyone could see colors, but now only he and his followers could see them, and only he could see them as they truly were.  I was being given a special glimpse, but from now on, I would only see dimly, through a filter of grey.  However, I knew that I would never forget this moment and the precious gift that had been given to me.  He held me close and whispered, "Go and tell others what you've seen!"

And it was at that moment that I awoke.

I hadn't realized that I'd been dreaming, but now I was back.  At first, I thought that nothing had changed, but then I realized that EVERYTHING had.  From that day, I made it my mission to tell others about the artist--this great creator who desires nothing more than for us to be able to fully enjoy his creation.  

As I go about my way, I see many people.  Some--most--feel no need for fairy tales.  They say that they already see perfectly--how dare I insinuate that their lives are anything but filled with color!  I feel sad for them as they walk away.  Their pride has already diminished them and caused them to fade to almost nothing.  Others say that they would like to see, but they aren't good enough.  They want to buy special glasses first, or take classes in gazing, or maybe have a special helper who can cause them to see more clearly.  They simply can't believe me when I say that the Artist can do that without any help from them.

But then I find a wanderer like myself.  I know them right away--even with my limited vision, I can see the shimmer of truth around them.  I tell them of the Artist, and they become excited--they always knew there was something more, and now I was explaining how to find it!  They often come back to tell me of their personal encounter, and we laugh and cry together.  The Artist has promised that one day he will come back and roll away all the soot, and then the only grey that we will see is the grey that is supposed to be there.  There will be no more distortion.  We look forward to that day.  Until then, though, we are not left alone.  The Artist left a piece of himself--a sense of beauty that we all share.  Until the Artist himself returns, Beauty guides us in the night and helps us walk toward morning.

One more day

He wakes up, turns over and looks at me.
I pretend to still be sleeping,
Although the child within me is fully awake.

I feel the warmth of his gaze,
and I know that he is still tormented,
Oh Joseph.

I didn't start this,
You know that.
This is not the life I would have chosen.

Here we are,
On the road to Bethlehem,
Two travelers--nearly three.

One more day, my husband,
And we will be there.
I pray our child will wait.

Joseph, please know
I didn't ask for this.
But having been given the opportunity--

How could I decline it?

It is written, Joseph, remember?
"A virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
And shall call his name Emmanuel

God with us."

I want you to understand that I'm thankful.
I know that you are a just and good man,
And I realize that you could have put me away

Or worse.

But you chose to bear this burden with me,
And I respect and admire you for that.
But it's so hard.

Joseph, I barely know you.
You are my husband,
But you are not the father of my child.

Can you accept him as your Son?
Will you love him as a father should?
Will you teach him what a man must know?

And Joseph, can you accept me?
Will you see me as your wife,
Though not in the way you might have wished?

Oh well.
I must open my eyes and start the day.
I put on a smile and meet your eyes.

"Good morning Husband.
Yes, it's almost over.
One more day to Bethlehem."