Friday, September 2, 2011

That one night....

 It’s been a while since I’ve posted, I know. I’ve made all sorts of excuses to myself in order to justify these quiet pages, but, the bottom line is simplistic (in words anyway). I’ve been afraid.
Each time I journey to the past, it brings about darkness which I had tucked away, buried in a mental box, not meant for visitations.
Then I ask myself, what good comes from my newfound light if I leave others in the dark simply because I don’t care to go back and share where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’d like to be? I’d say it makes me somewhat selfish.
So, rather than traverse the darkness in fear, I bring my light with me, slaying shadows that lurk, waiting to drag me back into what was. I’m once again ready to travel back, armed with His loving presence.
When I take a moment to reflect on my life, I can see moments in which God was reaching out to me, cradling me in His arms, even at times when I felt completely alone. I didn’t feel His presence then, because I didn’t know Him or believe that He existed, especially for someone so completely broken, as I was.
When I was in the third grade, my school offered an after school Bible study. (Yes, this was still allowed in the 70’s.) I went, not because I wanted to hear about Jesus, but to stay away from home a little longer. While attending, I said a prayer with one of the teachers, all I remember was her saying “now you’re saved”. Saved from what? I had no idea, and didn’t really give it much thought until years later, reflecting on times my life should have ended, but didn’t. I see now that He was with me, holding onto me, even though I didn’t know who He was.
Sometimes, living a life of abuse leaves you seeking the same, grasping what’s familiar, regardless of the feeling of pain and humiliation in which you’re left to drown.  It’s difficult to search for something better when you feel unworthy of the happiness you so desperately crave. Satan feeds us lies, and those who are starving, hungering for something they don’t know how to find will gobble up those untruths, swallowing them with gusto and beg for more.  I know, because I once ate them every day; filling myself with his lies was as natural as taking a breath of air.
I didn’t want to live, yet I didn’t know how to die, so I took roundabout paths, seeking an end through volatile relationships, attracted to the same type of men I had grown up with, those who dominated me, controlling my life and steering me down destructive paths. We (me and them) were all nothing more than puppets of the world, allowing ourselves to be led by an unseen enemy. Knowing this has allowed me to forgive, something I thought I could never do. More so, I’ve forgiven myself for being led down life’s dark corridors, walking hand in hand with evil and allowing those lies to take root and grow for so long.
I’ve debated whether or not to share a certain memory, but it has been nudging the recesses of my mind, almost as if asking to be released and shared with someone who may understand. Someone out there knows what I was feeling and needs to realize that His love can and will prevail.
During my early 20’s, I was in a completely abusive relationship. (one of many) I knew the person I was with didn’t really care for me, but since I didn’t care for myself either, I stayed, thinking we were on equal terms in the department of “who cares”. If I had known how deep the evil he carried within was rooted, I may have scurried away, then again, perhaps not.
One night, during a frequent argument, he said “I’ve had it with you” and proceeded to drag me out to the car, shoving me into the passenger seat and slamming the door before getting behind the wheel. It was a hot summer night, but the clinging humidity did nothing to warm me as chills ran up and down my body. He’d been angry before, but this was different.
I was crying, silent tears leaving a trail of warmth on my fear frozen features. I had no idea where we were going, I’m not even sure I cared…until I saw it.  There, lying on the seat between us was a gun. Comprehension dawned quickly. My eyes raced from the seat to his, and there was all the confirmation that was needed. He was going to kill me! A slight nod in my direction erased any doubts I may have had.
Strangely enough, it wasn’t fear that engulfed me, rather an overwhelming feeling of peace. It was almost over, this life, this pain, this complete emptiness was about to disappear as I drew my last breath. I was resigned to my fate, even looking forward to the end.
It was late and the baseball field he pulled into was empty. Only those looking for trouble were out that late in the city, or, those heading for it.
Turning off the car’s engine, he picked up the gun, pointed it at me and told me to get out. I did so slowly, taking in my surroundings, trying to memorize every detail of my last moments. The fear still hadn’t come, only the realization that this was the end. There were no regrets dancing through my mind, I’m not even sure there were any thoughts other than “over, over, over, it’s almost over”.  It’s somewhat difficult for me to reflect on that night and realize that I was somewhat giddy with relief, but yet, that’s exactly how I felt.
He pointed the gun at me and told me to start walking. Obeying his command, I moved forward, the sound of crunching gravel under my feet as I took what I believed to be my final walk seemed as loud as firecrackers going off with each step I took.
I continued moving forward, thoughts of “this is it, this is it” screaming in my head. I started wondering about the pain, would it hurt? How long would it be before I succumbed to complete darkness?
I was trembling, the anticipation causing my ice cold limbs to sweat profusely. I wanted to run, scream, shout, but there I stood, frozen, waiting, allowing my puppet strings to be pulled in one final dance of life.  Just when I thought I couldn’t stand another moment of suspense, he said the words that would shame me for years to come. “sorry bitch, you’re not worth it”. He then got in the car and drove away, leaving me alone with my humiliation.
I crumpled to the ground, not in relief over being alive, but in utter despair that I wasn’t dead, as his words screamed in my head, “you’re not worth it”, over and over.
Perhaps you’re wondering if I went back to him after that, and the answer is a sad “yes”.  Not for long, but any moment with that monster was too long.  I walked back to our little rented house that night and apologized for making him so angry.  Weakness enveloped me like a long lost friend as I stood there, waiting for him to take me back, which of course he did. How fun for him to have such a malleable partner, someone to bend at his will.
Looking back now, I wonder how differently that night may have been had those Bible teachers gone to another school, had I never invited Jesus into my heart. He was there with me, I know that now. He kept me alive, not because “I wasn’t worth it” but because I AM WORTH IT.
You, my sisters, are worth it too! God Bless

I know many have left comments on my past posts and I apologize if I didn’t respond to you. For some reason I can’t leave a comment on my own or anyone else’s page. If anyone knows how to fix this, please let me know. Thank you.

Friday, June 24, 2011


Alone. –adjective (used predicatively)
separate, apart, or isolated from others: I want to be alone.
to the exclusion of all others or all else: One cannot live by bread alone.

What a sad word that is. Sometimes I see it and can’t help but pause, reflect, remember that it is exactly what I once craved; Complete and absolute solitude.
Sadly, we don’t realize how clever Satan is until we find ourselves in the light and take the opportunity to look back at the deception we allowed ourselves to wallow in, the whispered lies reaching deep into a vulnerable heart and wrapping dark tendrils of untruth around our very existence.
Because I was abused, I believed that I was unworthy to experience what others had. I didn’t think it was ok to smile, be joyful, and bask in life because I had been broken and continued to feel as though the pieces would never be put back together.
Each day we self edit our life narratives, picking and choosing which memories to share and which to hide in the dark corners of our minds. Eventually, those corners become full, overflowing and spilling into our presumed happiness. I say “presumed” because hiding the memories means we haven’t yet learned to give them over and let His hands cradle the pain.
I can only wonder how many others like me, (those like I once was), are out there? How many women are huddling under their secrets, afraid to let go of what has become their normal and grasp the light rather than shrink from it.
Are you clinging to the shadows? Do you wake up each day wondering why you’re even bothering to open your eyes? I remember those days so well. I want to remember so that I can fully appreciate what I now have. The good news is that I no longer have to carry the burden of pain myself. I have given my cares over to God’s loving hands and am flying free for the first time.
Are you ready?

Friday, June 10, 2011

Your bucket list?

I've been somewhat uninspired lately. I'm not sure why, only that I felt the need to write about something important, something that touched people, so I've been waiting.
In the midst of that self-induced limbo, I came across a blog belonging to the most amazing 15 year old. She is dying of cancer and started writing very recently to update her friends and family on her progress. It seems to have taken on a wildfire mentality and you can't help but spend a few moments reflecting on your own life as you read it.
I may even have to start my own bucket list. I wonder, what would be on yours?

Here is the comment I left for her..

"Alice, life isn't about how long we live, but how we live it and the imprint we leave behind.
You, my beautiful girl have done more in the span of a a few weeks than most people manage in a lifetime.
I know you won't be able to accomplish everything on your bucket list, and that's ok because no one ever does. Our lists grow with us and keep getting bigger; so don't ever regret not being able to do all you wanted, just enjoy every moment doing what you can.
I don't know you, but I love who you are! God Bless "

Please visit her blog and leave a word of encouragement.

Friday, May 20, 2011

A Quiet Goodbye

We’ve all heard of, perhaps even known someone who quietly killed themselves. I’m not referring to a peaceful death, rather one that leaves the survivors baffled because there was no note left behind, no final farewell in which the reasons for such finality are explained.
Why would someone do this?  I can’t answer for everyone, only myself, someone who overcame a deep desire for death.
The majority of my life has been spent in a pattern of self destruction, finding ways to ensure the shortest survival possible.  Unhappiness has a way of breeding negativity in every area of your life. Even during the rare moment of an uplifted outlook you still hide a feeling of impending doom behind the smile the world sees, waiting for the rare glimpse into serenity to pass so you can once again find yourself cloaked in a world of gray.
It wasn’t depression I suffered from, rather, low self-worth, a feeling of not belonging or even being wanted.  I’m sure a psychiatrist would have prescribed medications to mask the moods, but at what cost? Losing the essence of who I am? It wasn’t medicine that was needed, it was fulfillment.
Before I found the answer to happiness, I sought an escape. As a teen I would take ½ a bottle of pain medicine before going to bed, kind of bargain with myself; if I wake up, I’m meant to live one more day, if not, then I wasn’t.  I would compose long goodbye letters in my head, filled with a message meant to hurt those who were left behind.  I would tell my mother how weak she was, how much I resented her for not protecting me. My brother would know how much his touches sickened me, how dirty I felt every time I looked at him. There were no words for my father, I never composed his letter there simply weren’t enough angry words to pacify my thoughts.
I never put the words on paper because under all the hurt, the anger and shame, there was still a love for these people in my heart, buried somewhere under the pain was a kernel of hope that maybe, just maybe they actually loved me too, and for that reason I couldn’t find it in myself to hurt them with words, just in case I didn’t wake up.
There were other times, other notes, other people who were the mental recipients of my wrath, but in the end, goodness overcame the dark.  God’s love was invited into my heart and He poured it willingly.
 I stopped wishing for the end a year ago. It’s amazing how much a life can be transformed once your eyes are opened to the light, the Life. There are so many hurting people out there, crippled by their pain, seeking solace in suicide because no one took the time to pour love into them, to show them it’s not the worlds approval they need to seek, rather the purest most amazing love available, their Fathers.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

The day I hated God

A life spent lacking in love’s knowledge led me to a desperate search for the elusive secret others seemed to be whispering about, sharing with each other, and leaving me out of.
I kept thinking the heat would smother me before my shift at the shoe store ended that day. I had worn an oversized sweater to hide a middle that had yet to begin thickening.  I was in a hurry for things to happen, the little bump, the first flutter, labor, and then the ultimate gift, holding my baby. I was 18, and completely adoring the idea of finally being able to love and be loved; a child to call my own.
It wasn’t a secret, not really, I had no one to answer to; yet for those blessed 8 weeks I kept the news of my pregnancy to myself. This was all mine, it was my baby, my life, my love.  I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I knew everyone’s secret, I felt it growing day by day, but instead held the knowledge close to my heart. If I told, that meant sharing and I was greedy right then, drinking in and becoming drunk on this newfound feeling inside of me.
The first pain hit as I bent down to stuff another woman’s foot into an overpriced shoe meant for fashion, not comfort.  It wasn’t alarming, not yet, just an unexpected cramp which I decided to blame on all of the stretching for boxes on high shelves, the pressure of trying to please unpleasant customers, and the constant ups and downs of shoes on, shoes off.  
I don’t remember when the waves of pain hit, only the panic, the immediate feeling of loss over something I had waited so long to find. I was young, na├»ve, but not stupid. I knew what was happening. Although I know I rushed to the employee bathroom, it now seems to have taken forever to reach.  I’m sure it was only a few seconds, but my mental sojourn to the past takes long minutes to locate the door when wandering down that corridor of memory. Perhaps it’s my way of holding onto that little life that was inside of me for just a bit longer. A way of remembering the joy just a moment more before I turn the handle, open the door and get hit once again with overwhelming loss.
I tried to pretend the sticky feeling wasn’t there, coating my undergarments with little pieces of life; tried telling myself the pain was normal, just my body growing, stretching and making room for the baby I wanted so badly. I even stooped so low as to pray to a God I had no belief in to save this little gift inside of me.  The pretending was over the moment I sat down and watched the bowls water become tinted with the blood flowing freely from my body. The pain was intense, the loneliness of loss overwhelming, but I turned it off, choosing instead to shield myself once again in numbness, feeling punished for ever wanting to feel life, and know love.
Forgetting I had been pregnant just a breath ago, I reached for the community box of tampons and went through the steps I had taken each month for years prior, refusing to acknowledge  that this was no normal period. It was the “plop” of falling cotton that brought me back to reality. Looking down, I saw the tampon I had just inserted floating in the water, becoming bloated with fluid, reminding me that my body was going through the birthing process, dilating in order to expel the life I wanted so badly. I hated God, I hated life, I shut down, almost completely. Going into auto-pilot I found a pad, made sure there were no tell tale remnants of the horror I had just gone through, opened the door and went back to work. 
My expression must have made it obvious that something monumental had just happened, something life changing and painful, but no one asked. I had kept a distance all these months from my co-workers and they had no desire to get close now, especially now when my face must have been stuck in a silent scream of “stay away!”
I was in the bathroom every 30 minutes, bleeding, changing, bleeding, changing, but still the numbness remained. It was near the end of my work day when the fog finally cleared long enough for me to wonder at a minute splash as I sat there once again. Looking down, it didn’t take long for me to realize what was in that porcelain bowl of water; My life, my essence, my baby, floating in waste, waiting to be flushed and mixed with life’s garbage. The numbness receded, replaced by a wave of hopeless emotion as I stood there trying to find the courage to push the handle and watch this little piece of me swirl down the drain, leaving me forever.
It was a knock on the door that told me I had spent too long looking, too long trying to conjure non-existent courage.  I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I could not do it!
My hands shook as I held the little Dixie cup and gently scooped this little piece of flesh, my heart, my blood, from its watery grave. I didn’t look at it, couldn’t bring myself to look closely at this tiny, tiny creature. Yes, that’s what it had become. All feelings of love had flowed out of me with this lost life. A moment later I left the bathroom, my little burden wrapped in paper towels and put it in my hand bag.
My purse became my own elephant in that little break room. I could hear it crying out to me from the sales floor. Reaching out, grabbing hold of my heart each time I perused the stock shelves for a box of shoes. By the time I clocked out, my mind was screaming for freedom from the chains that were wrapping around it, tying me to the burden of a life lost, cradled in a little cup, a paper coffin.
The weight of my purse was like a brick as I walked out of the mall that night. I couldn’t stand the thought of what was inside, could no longer bear the thought of having my tiny dead baby with me a moment longer. I had to let go. I didn’t look as I reached into my bag, grabbing hold of this little piece of me one last time. Walking past the community dumpster, I tossed it in, no goodbyes, no tears, only blessed numbness.
It’s been almost 24 years and there are still days I wonder what might have been, what could have been had I done things differently. Could a doctor have saved my baby? Should I have flushed and never looked at what had once been growing in me, depending on me for life? Was I wrong in what I did that night?
I have never shared this tale before now, choosing instead to hold it close as a personal burden to be carried, another choice gone wrong. Every decision we make sends ripples throughout our life’s ocean and I now realize that there is only one way in which to calm the waves, bring peace to our waters.
I blamed God, denied Him in my need to find reasons for all of the pain my life piled upon me. I now know it wasn’t God’s hand that caused so much hurt, rather the world’s evil, Satan himself that brings destruction.  I may not have known it at the time, but Jesus was with me that day. He cried with me, took the pain with me and lay in bed with me for the days after as I contemplated ending it all. He was my strength when I had none left of my own.
I don’t have the answers for why I lost something I so desperately wanted, I no longer need them. I do know though, had I known God’s love at that time, I wouldn’t have sought so hard to find it in all the wrong places.
 Thank you Jesus for showing me what true love really is.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Ugly on Purpose

The chirping of newly hatched birds coupled with a warm spring breeze wafting through the open window belied what was happening in my teenage bedroom. A fragrant burst of fresh cut grass being carried along that same gust of wind did nothing to cover the smell of burning flesh.  Not for the first time I wished for the bravado to slice rather than burn my skin, but, the risk of dripping blood onto my mother’s pristine carpet kept that wish at bay.
Turning my thoughts back to the task at hand, I deftly flicked the lighters thumbwheel, watching in morbid fascination as the spark became flame allowing me a means in which to light the needle to a red-hot state.  The lingering moment of anticipation before contact afforded me an opportunity to turn back, set the needle down and walk away, but I knew I wouldn’t do that, couldn’t possibly turn away from a moment of pain, a moment to feel something, anything.  
Life, even at its most painful was still life, so much better than walking around in a state of constant numbness, feeling nothing, but hearing everything. The taunts of my classmates as they ridiculed my never changing wardrobe, frizzy hair and all around weaknesses bounced through my head as I set the heated needle to my arms flesh, biting my tongue to keep from crying out in pain. But oh, what a blessed pain it was. To be able to feel alive, even for that brief instant in time was worth a moment’s agony.
Savoring the throbbing ache, I silently walked to my closet, inspecting its meager contents with disinterested eyes. Yes, they were right, I did wear the same ugly clothes every day, but what they didn’t understand was why. Being ugly on purpose had more benefits than downfalls in my lonely world. It was a means of defense, a way to keep people distanced. I learned at a young age that keeping people at arms length was the only way to safeguard secrets that must be kept.  An open heart becomes an easy target for pain, and I simply couldn’t squeeze another drop of hurt inside; numbness, nothingness, a blissful drifting on still waters was by far the better choice in my young mind.
I am now a grown woman, slowly learning that my secrets were never meant to be carried alone. Walking a path of self destruction for too many years has opened my eyes to the pain of others. Knowing that God never “allowed” my brother and father to molest me, but instead cried right along with me, and felt the same pain I did has given me the strength to want to share His love with others, those who feel as though secrets must be kept and carried close. The only way to set your mind free is to allow your heart to be opened and the love of Jesus to shine in. He is waiting to carry your life’s burdens for you and walk its path together.
The journey isn’t always easy, there are still days I trip and stumble, but the good news is that He catches me before I fall.
Please keep in mind, if you see someone being ugly on purpose, whether it’s the way they dress, the way they act, or just because you label them “different”, there is a reason behind those actions. Treat them with love, not scorn or a look of disgust which has the potential to send them burrowing further within themselves. The deeper we dig inside, the harder it is to come back out.
God Bless

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Time for change..

Two more young lives lost to suicide.  Why? Because they didn’t fit into a “box” and their peers made sure they knew it?  I wonder, how many of those who threw taunts and jeers at the girls have taken a moment to reflect on what they said with remorse?  Something tells me that any regrets felt over something said will be pondered in private while the “mean girls/boys” openly gloat at the power they held, even for a moment over the lives of these two young girls.
If you detected anger in what I wrote, then you perceived correctly. What is happening to our society? How long do we have to walk through this living graveyard, busy with our own lives while the spirits of our children continue to die a little more each day?  How many monuments to a life ended too soon, too tragically, need to litter the cemeteries of our towns before someone says “enough”?
 I feel as though we’ve lost our grasp on what is truly important in life (caring for one another) in favor of material possessions and social status. I read some of the comments left in regards to this tragic story with a heavy heart.  People who think that bullying is just a part of life that needs to be endured, simply tolerated until you can get away from it. Really? Is that the answer? Perhaps if our children were taught to love and respect one another rather than having to be the “cool kid” then we wouldn’t be reading stories such as these.
Yes, the problem has been around as long as man has, but not with such vicious glee.  Just like many others out there, I was picked on during my school years, an easy target because of my extreme shyness and lack of clique clothes.  Although I didn’t take make the irreversible choice to end the suffering, there were times when whispers of suicide drifted through my mind with extreme enticement.   I may not have known God then, but my spirit for life kept me here and for than I am grateful because I wouldn’t have had the chance to discover how beautiful life truly can be. I wouldn’t have known the joys of overcoming life’s darkness and walking a path bathed in His light.
How long will we allow ourselves to be a society ashamed of our faith, afraid to tell our children that God loves them and through Him all things are possible? We need to find these little lost lights and put them where they belong, into the sad hearts of those who feel as though there is no answer other than death, into the angry hearts of those who feel the need to lash out at others, into the very hearts of those who have lost their way in the world.
Life shouldn’t be a painful experience; it should be filled with love, happiness and a passion for sharing those very things with others.
I’m ready for a change, are you?

Friday, April 15, 2011

Saying goodbye

We all say “goodbye, see you, or even, farewell”, at least once a day, every day. Some of these separations are momentary, small windows of time in our daily lives, while others are permanent; heart-wrenching in their finality.
 There is a 5 year old little girl who I said a final goodbye to last week, yet I will not miss her. Those curly locks of dark hair, coupled with haunting brown eyes will always be with me, but saying farewell was one of the most freeing things I’ve ever experienced. She was needy, clinging to me in such a way that I was constantly smothered by her cries of “love me, love me, PLEASE love me."
She didn’t help me to live a better life; in fact she caused me pain beyond belief, dragging me into abusive relationships, thoughts of suicide and a walk through darkness in which I am just now coming to terms with. This child made me feel unworthy of love, making me seek people who would show me how right she was. She didn’t know how to accept love, and in return, it was not given.
I know her story. I lived with her through the darkest of her days, held her close when the tears seemed never ending, and helped her write the first, second, and even third, ‘goodbye world’ letter.  Although I always did and still do admire her skills of mental prowess and courage, there were many days I despised them as well, wondering why she didn’t just end it all. Why live a life of numbness when there is an eternity of nothingness waiting within arm’s reach?  
It took 40 years, but I am finally rid of this needy, clinging child, completely lacking any sort of self-esteem or feelings of self-worth.  She was put into a box and buried, but I have no intentions of visiting her grave, for it is surrounded by shadows and a darkness which would love nothing more than to swallow me whole. 
Don’t be sad for her, she’s where she should have been all along. In finally relegating my 5 year old self to the past and all its memories, rather than carrying her with me like a badge, I am finally able to live freely, with love felt in total abandonment. I can dance, I can sing, I can laugh without her clawing at me, asking how I dare to feel joy when she is immersed in pain.
That little girl finally knows that she was loved all along, never abandoned, never alone. I had the caring arms of God wrapped around me all along. Knowing this allows me to stop seeking that which was with me all along, LOVE.
Goodbye little girl, we are all grown up.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Means of beauty..

   Plato once quoted Socrates as saying "By means of beauty, all beautiful things become beautiful".  I believe the same can be applied by means of ugly. If it is poured into you enough, the words whispered and bounced around in your mind on a daily, hourly, minute by minute basis, then you become what is spoken. Ugly.
  In every life, there is a memory so monumental, a moment so great, that time seems to stand still. What happens though, if you become stuck in that moment, if that very memory of wretchedness wraps its cold wet tendrils around your heart so firmly that every breath you take brings you back there again? What if all the colors that were once so vibrant fade to shades of grey, the birds stop singing, and your happiness is sucked into a vacuum of mangled memories?
 If the ugliness of 'what was' serves as your everyday foundation, seeping into your thoughts, the very words you utter, and every person becomes the enemy, then what? Simply put, you stop living, forget that you're breathing, that there is a heart pumping an essence into veins filled with a life that you cease to notice; it is no longer a tangible existence, rather a memory of what was.
  Since finding my way back to life, I often look at others, those who once blended into the landscape of my own misery-unnoticed by someone breathing the same dead air-and I wonder if they even realize how accustomed they have become to carrying the dead-weight of pain and misery around?
  Therapists (and those who pretend to be) look at an overweight person and say "eating to cover their pain", when they truly have no idea that it's not a means to mask, rather a way to feed the hurt, give it fuel in order to have a moments reprive from the gnawing hunger of emptiness buried deep within a starving soul.
 Over-eatering, alcoholism, self-mutilation...regardless the addiction, it is born of a need, an attempt to grab onto something a world of gray cannot name, will not allow you to grasp hold of.
  How do I know? Because I've been there, done that. That girl you see stuffing another morsel into her already overstuffed cheeks, is me. That person sneaking a bottle of  liquid spirit into a shopping cart, furtively looking around to see if anyone noticed, is me. That teenager walking around with self inflicted battle scars running up and down their arm, me again.
 Don't judge, don't judge, don't judge! Every addiction, every bit of baggage we choose to drag around, is born of a need, a way to grasp hold of life, regardless how tentative that very hold may be.
  Whether someone is holding on with all 10 fingers, or just one, it doesn't matter. It's the moment they loosen the grip that our chance to reach out and help has passed.
  Tell me, if you look into the eyes of desperation today, regardless of the body they belong to, what will you do? Turn and walk away, or offer a smile/word of encouragement?

 "By means of beauty, all beautiful things become beautiful".  What are your means? They can be the very thing that starts time for someone whose clock of life froze in a moment of pain.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Puzzle Pieces..

  We all have a story to tell, puzzle pieces of our lives to be put into place, but, what if in telling/sharing that story you realize there are pieces of you that are missing?
   Usually in aging, becoming a more mature and refined version of yourself, you carry what was into what is. You become a whole picture that can be reflected on over the years, brought out for a moments enjoyment then tucked away until a sojourn down memory lane is needed again.
   It's the very meshing of who you were over the years into who you've become that makes up the puzzle of your life. Unless of course, someone comes along and yanks you off the path which was yours to walk and forces you onto one of their own, a dark little trail where hopes of happiness are left behind. Then what?
Then, (if you don't have the right tools in which to overcome)who you were meant to be, becomes the evil essence of who they are.
  My brother, in the space of one short afternoon, stole my innocence, lead me astray, deep into a tangled mass of overgrown brush, and dark pits yawning wide in hopes of swallowing me whole, so that not even the empty shell of a child could be left behind.  Sadly, the emptiness was there, but I never stepped over the edge of that beckoning pit, the one screaming at me to just "end it all", and for that I am completely grateful because I would never know how amazing it is to finally be filled with light.
  Darkness, evil, yes, Satan, does his best to steal our happiness and keep it just out of arms reach without our even knowing where it is, or how to get it back. There are so many people complacently walking in a fog of grey, missing pieces of who they are, and doing nothing to change it because they feel as though they deserve whatever lot in life was handed to them. I know this because the great deceiver whispered words of woe and devastation into my listening ears for many, many years.

 Isn't it time to step away from the masses of misery and journey into happiness? If I could do it, so too can you. Keep reading, sharing my walk and you may realize how close happiness has been all are not alone.

My puzzle has very few pieces of the past missing these days. What about yours?

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Not always what it seems...

Two weeks ago as I sat with my husband, waiting to be called into the Doctor's exam room, the door opened and out walked a teenage girl.
 At first glance she seemed quite normal, the very picture of teenage smugness written on her face. (ah yes, the know it all years). I started to look away, but then something caught my eye as she slipped her hand into her jackets sleeve. It wasn't the brightly painted nails, displaying a riot of colors I could never dream of wearing in public, nor was it the wristful of bangle bracelets playing a musical medley as they were pushed through the jackets tight sleeve. No, what caught my eye and held me in a moment of awestruck dumbfoundedness were the neat little rows of cuts lined up in painstakingly perfect formation on her upper arm. She did nothing to hide her self-mutilation, instead she seemed almost proud of these bright red slivers sliced into her delicate flesh.
As I looked around at my fellow gawkers, staring at this young girl in obvious disgust, I couldn't help but caress my own arm, searching for the scars that are no longer noticable on the outside, yet felt deeply within. Although I had an overwhelming urge to smile at this child in silent commiseration, I tamped it down, knowing she wouldn't understand, not yet.
What is it she wouldn't understand? Simply put, the fact that the grown woman staring at her mangled mess of an arm gets it.
Oh yes, I know what it's like to want so badly to feel something, anything, that even a moment of pain is better than complete emptiness. I grasp completely, without question that the feeling of life, even at it's most painful is keeping her from taking the plunge into an abyss of darkness.
If she had looked at me in that moment of my own self reflection, made eye contact and read the smile in my eyes, she would have been confused as to why it was there, probably responding with a sneer of disgust directed at me. But, just in case she (or the other "shes" out there) ever reads this I want her to know that those little soldiers lined up in perfect little formations on her battle field of delicate flesh represent a need for life, for something other than the dark emptiness she is in right now.
To want to feel is to want to live, and that need for life is a testimony to a greater power, a God waiting to pour those missing feelings of love back into you. I know because after 40 years, I finally have them myself.

For anyone who reads this, please remember that not everything is always as it seems. That angry face a child/teenager sends your way may be masking a deeper need, a cry for help hidden in the depths of  angry, ugly, painful words.  React with love, pour into them what they so desperately need.

God Bless