Tag Archives: faith

Mama’s Peace

  By Rebecca | November 5, 2012 - 10:06 pm |
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Her fingers clicked across the keyboard as she typed a few words.  Then, just as many times, she tapped the delete key.  How to pull some kind of coherent thought from the fragmented bits that swirled incessantly in her head?

Lists.  She could make lengthy, detailed lists of all the things she needed to do.  She could bullet the bills, errands, library books, phone calls, emails, notes to teachers, and plans to arrange.  Grocery lists, menu lists, and birthday gift lists.  She could jot forever the undone tasks that haunt her mind at night, keep her from focusing at work, and steal her miniscule lunch break time.

Laments.  She could wax poetic about her stress and shortcomings.  She could write long complaints about the way things are, and paint wistful pictures of how she wishes they were.  She could give in to the longing sob that lurks in the back of her throat at every thought of her mother, father, sister or brother.  She could explain why everyone should cooperate with her plans, and expound on the misery that results when they don’t.  She could compose a heartbreaking account of betrayal and brokenness, nearly drowning in the sorrow of it all.

Laugh.  She could throw up her hands and laugh at her ineptness.  She could give in to the cheshire cat smile that would make anyone wonder what she’s up to.  She could let out the giggle that erupts instantly at the sight of her two year old boy.  She could snort with her ten year old son at words like “fart” and let herself thoroughly enjoy that his presidential candidate choice is based on that candidate’s opinion of McDonald’s.  She could roll her eyes with her soon-to-be fifteen year old daughter and enjoy the inside jokes just the two of them share.  She could send her husband a steamy, silly text message and wait with baited breath for his reaction.

Love.  She could let herself feel the painful tidal wave of love that threatens to burst her heart each time she kisses her children goodnight or good morning or goodbye.  She could plan an unforgettable birthday celebration for the husband whose love overtook her life.  She could try… just try to love that someone she just can’t stand.  She could bake something, write something, give something to try to show her adoration for those friends that see her through the best and worst.  She could mail something to her mom and dad, Fedex something to her sister, fix up the guest room for when her brother comes to stay.  She could forget the remark, overlook the mistake, let go of the offense.  She could remember a name, remember to hug, remember to look an old person in the eye.  She could let the tears fall because she knows no way to contain her affection for a God who loved her first.

Her chest heaved a sigh and she did the thing she hadn’t yet dared to consider…

She let go.   She let go of it all and let it fade with the daylight.  She loosened her grip and let the load she’s carrying settle into a pile that will still be waiting for her in the morning.  She dropped the notion of perfection and propped her feet up on the ottoman of “good enough.”  She popped the top of something cold and slipped into a tub of something warm.  She kicked back and let Jesus take the storm of wife, and mother, and professional, and writer, and sister, and daughter, and friend, and citizen, and believer, and somehow bring about….

Peace

Night moon

 

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Origins: Journeying On

  By Rebecca | October 26, 2012 - 1:36 pm |
1 Comment

For three years now, I’ve been on a journey.  A pilgrimage, if you will, into my own heart.  Three years ago, we began what is now called Origins, a group of house churches who lean on one another for support and encouragement.  For most of the three years, my house has been the meeting place for “house church.”

By now, I’m accustomed to the double-takes and odd looks when I tell people my church meets in my home.  I’m confident about what we do and why.  I’m able to easily tell another person what a house church is and why it’s a perfect fit for our family.  Three years seems to be a milestone of sorts.  In a human life, the first three years are crucial to setting beliefs, behaviors, and “bents.”  After three, most kids are out of diapers, moving toward school, and asserting more and more independence.  Babyhood is definitely over and toddlerhood is quickly nearing its end.

So what about our house church journey?  It’s three years old now.  Infancy has passed, and I look around and think “Hey.  We really ARE doing this!!”

So what has house church meant to me?  Here’s my top three:

1)  House church has given me confidence in my faith.  When we began, there were many scary moments for me as I let go of things that were part of brick-and-mortar church.  Would I “stick it out” with God if no one was expecting me to play the piano, teach a class, or show up lookin’ good on Sunday morning?  Would I love God as much without the “game” to play that I was so accustomed to winning?  Could I separate myself from the things I’d always used as outward proof of my love for God?  The answer is:  YES!!!  Yes.  With 100% confidence I can now say that I am God’s daughter.  He is my Father.  I love Him more than ever.

2)  For the first time in my spiritual life, I have experienced unconditional acceptance for who I am as a person, not for how well I play, sing, speak, look, or what I know about the Bible.  That is not to say I haven’t HAD this type of acceptance.  There are many beloved friends, teachers, pastors, fellow believers who have extended this acceptance to me in the past.  I simply could not let myself experience it while still attempting to earn it by playing well, lookin’ good, and being the poster child.  There have been moments in my living room when fellow believers have prayed for me, and I for them, we’ve struggled and celebrated, and kept on being there for each other, all without the trappings I was used to.  I NEEDED to know, deep down, that not only would I still love God if stripped of my church “position” but that other believers would still love ME.  And they do.

3)  It’s OK to let God take care of me.  In the past three years, people have come along who’ve needed what house church offers… the healing, the acceptance, the rest.  But for the group that meets in my home, there hasn’t been an explosion of numbers.  No one’s beating down the door to get in.  Not that I expected or was shooting for a group that is bursting at its seams.  We do not have a goal of building a church building to house our meetings.  In all seriousness, I… we have needed the past three years to let God work in us, care for us, and knit us together with Him.  I’ve learned that it’s ok to let God teach me and lead me, even if the steps are miniscule.  I’ve learned that big crowds, microphones, offering plates and the latest tunes are not necessarily evidence of God’s presence or His blessing, or His work in my life. 

I’m so grateful for the simplicity, the straightforwardness, the purity of BEING the church.  I in Him and He in me.  In us.

Our hands in His, we journey on.

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Everyday OK

  By Rebecca | September 10, 2012 - 10:38 pm |
1 Comment

My house is quiet. Everyone’s asleep except me.  It’s that time of day to take a deep breath and evaluate.  Plus it’s much easier to blog while my two year old snoozes and the only sticky fingers vying for my laptop keys are my own.

Ya know I’m kind of liking this “being ok” thing. Ok really liking it.

During Hurricane Isaac, I was blessed to have someone with me like Bex, who needed no coddling or special treatment. She gave me the space to mostly be silent and stare at the rain, and the grace to deal with my children through a difficult situation. I didn’t have to come up with fascinating topics of conversation and was able to just process the situation as it went on. That girl knows true friendship. In hindsight, probably the hardest part for me was that faith crisis brought about by possible impending disaster. Will God keep me and my family safe? What will I do if He doesn’t? Is it worth it to even ask? Can my faith withstand what would happen if things go badly? But I processed as I went, wanting to hold more tightly to God Himself than to my expectations of what He would or would not do. And through it all I was ok. Perfect, no. Ok, yes.

I’m also rediscovering some things I enjoy. Like taking my kids to the library:

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And being at least a little domesticated:  (Or a LOT domesticated since this from-scratch waffle recipe called for egg whites beaten until stiff peaks form and then folded into the batter.  My mixer bit the dust last month so, yes, I beat them by hand, all the while growing in respect for the women of former days without such conveniences as electric mixers and Bisquick.  But hey… if we’re ever alone on a desert island I can beat egg whites to stiff peaks.  Aren’t you glad to know that?)

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Reading a great book: (This one I’ve read twice through at least. It’s from Jan Karon’s Mitford Series.  I’d call it the “macaroni and cheese” of literature as far as its ability to comfort and soothe.  Make that BACON macaroni and cheese. I never, ever get tired of these books.)

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And watching my sister sing at her church through their Sunday morning webcast. Thank you, technology!  Right after I took this pic came the best shot of all three kids giving the “mom’s boo-hooing again” look as I burst into tears at the sight and sound of Angie on the screen.  Too bad I was blubbering too hard to capture that one.

 

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Life and love, my friends, are good things.  Even just everyday ok is chock full of blessings.

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Hurricane Schmuricane

  By Rebecca | September 4, 2012 - 2:45 pm |
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Here we are, seven years out from Hurricane Katrina, and what comes along on the EXACT anniversary of ol’ Kat? ANOTHER HURRICANE!! This one was named Isaac, which means laughter. For some reason that fact has been recurring in my mind the whole time we’ve been dealing with Isaac, and I’m happy to report we’ve done a lot of laughing through this. No real traumatic feelings or flashbacks, thanks be to God. Just did our best to be good to each other, make the most of what we had, and have fun however we could.

We stayed home for Isaac. Oddly, though my big kids experienced losing most everything in Katrina, plus the crazy aftermath, they’ve never actually experienced a hurricane weather-wise. So here we are, playing in a hurricane!

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Bex, my bike mom and dear friend, weathered the storm with us. Here we are making smores the night of the storm. (Smores maker courtesy of my awesome mom, queen of thrift store finds and As Seen on TV bargains)

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A few shots of the damage around our area:

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THE WORST part was being without electricity. Here’s our little man sleeping in front of a fan. Thank God for friends with generators!  WE will soon be the proud owners of just such a thing.

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Here we are waiting in line at McDonalds. All the way down the block. When everyday stuff like ol’ Mickey D’s isn’t available, all of a sudden you want some. Real bad.

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Since St. Francis Villa got electricity a few days before our home, the kids spent some time there. Not a lot for kids to do in an assisted living home, but my darlings made the best of it:

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When Friday rolled around and one cook was able to get back to relieve Dwayne in the kitchen, we got out of town for a night. (Residents gotta be fed, storm or no storm!!)We swam in the hotel pool, met some sweet people, relished the air conditioning, ate breakfast at Cracker Barrel where I sniffed Yankee candles, Harvest scent, to a fare-thee-well and found my happy place!!

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We came back home to this!!

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And now it’s over. Well, I guess when schools finally start again Thursday, it will be over. I’m grateful to God for choosing, this time, to bless us and spare us the suffering we could have had. He giveth and He taketh away. This time He giveth, and I’m glad He did.

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Dat Ain’t Nuttin’ Pretty

  By Rebecca | August 10, 2012 - 9:44 pm |
1 Comment

Talk about off the wagon, honey…

Remember my last post about not abusing myself by overeating? Yeah… pride goeth before a fall.

My husbands piece o’ junk car has finally given up the ghost. So we’re a one car family right now. Today started out so well… My husband drove himself to work this morning, and I left the same time he did. I put Caleb in the stroller, put on my C25K app and started walking/jogging to work (we work at the same place about 2 miles from home but I come in about 2 and 1/2 hours after he.) I picked up the car and drove it back home. Great workout done and car problem solved! I returned home, roused the big kids and jumped in the shower. Got myself dressed, and Levi to the school bus stop on time. Came back in the house and ate a nice healthy breakfast that involved the word “bran,” made the bed, emptied the trash in several rooms, did a load of laundry and then left for work.

At work, I added someone to the waiting list, planned Assisted Living Week, did all kinds of good stuff, and used the stairs, not the elevator. Somehow, though, when I arrived home, it all fell apart. Fast forward through a series of frustrating events and here I sit, having polished off four pieces of pepperoni lover’s and three brownies.

Yuck.

Annnnnd to top it all off… examination of the above paragraphs confirms a suspicion that’s been lurking in the back of my mind: I use commas too frequently and often inappropriately. SMH…

Perhaps there’s some key in one of the aforementioned frustrating events. (Ya THINK?) But right now, I don’t care. I’m watching Poise Pads and Downey Fabric Softener commercials on the Hallmark Channel. I’m praying Caleb will go to sleep. Now. And sleep until 11am tomorrow. I’m trying not to throw up. I’m telling you this, why? Because I hope you’ll know you’re not alone next time you find yourself doing the same. (Ya’ll know I love ya!)

But I’m also doing something different. I’m letting myself off the hook. Yup. That was me you just heard… read… comin’ unhooked. Yeah, when I think back over the last few hours… as my beloved New Orleans natives would say, “Dat ain’t nuttin’ pretty!” But I’m not going to obsess. I’m going to focus on the good, focus on the blessings, take a shower, go to bed, and start over again tomorrow. (You know, that whole “new mercies every morning” thing. Yeah… I love that thing.)

Tomorrow’s a new day, friends. And even if it never comes, I’ve had a heck of a lot of blessings already. Overall, not a good night, but still… progress!

 

 

 

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Ain’t How It Works

  By Rebecca | August 6, 2012 - 10:24 pm |
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There’s something some Christian people do that I can’t stand.  They say, or post on social media, statements like: “I had a car accident today but wasn’t hurt.  God is so good!”  or “So-and-so was healed!  God is SO GOOD!”  I hate this because to say God is good because you get what you want is to say God earns His merit upon His ability to please you.  Ummm… that ain’t how it works.

This brings me to a lesson I’m learning:  Some tragedies in life make it seem that God is not at all good.  However, if our circumstances could change God’s nature, then in essence there would be no God.  If I believe in God, and I do, and if I believe He is good, and I do (see rising sun tomorrow morning if you doubt this.  If still in doubt, read something by C.S. Lewis) then my circumstances CANNOT change Him whatsoever.  He IS unchanging.  So He can’t be good when things are good and not good when things are bad.  I need a God who’s bigger than my circumstances, or else I don’t need a God.

When I was eighteen years old, I married the person I thought God wanted me to marry, and headed off to put my husband through Bible college.  With all my being I wanted to please God, and sincerely thought I was doing so.  I spent the next thirteen years enduring infidelity after infidelity in one form or another.  I’ll spare you the gory details, but you get the point.  Why would God allow that to happen?  Why did He let me go through all that humiliation? I gotta tell ya’ I’m not quite sure.  I have a few guesses, and of course, there’s plenty I’ve learned along the way.  But WHY?  I really can’t say. I CAN say that my faith still stands.  It has transformed… mutated perhaps, but it stands.

Still, I often find myself asking God for something. “Bring my children home safe” for example, and then thinking to myself, “He might not.  Probably won’t.  He doesn’t owe you that.  Plus, look at what He let you go through already.  No guarantees, honey.”

Some people think I’ve changed, or so I hear.  The way I practice my faith is certainly different than it was when I thought being a minister’s wife WAS what God wanted for me.  BUT, I’ve reached a different place with God.  For so long, I thought the same goofy things I complained of above.  I praised God for being SO good when things would go my way.  I never said He was bad when I didn’t get my way, a good Christian would never say that out loud.  But I wondered inside, how could I still trust Him when He might let it all fall down at any moment?  It’s at that heartbreakingly honest place, my friends, that something dawns on me like the meaning of Christmas dawns on the Grinch…

 HE defines my circumstances, my circumstances cannot define Him.  There is MORE to the faith and MORE to God than just what is going on in my life at any given time. It’s out here on the outside of accepted thinking, out here with the doubting thoughts that no one wants to admit, out here with the questions that have no good answers that I stand and yet here He is, and SO much bigger than I thought He was.  God is with me still, I know it in the depths of my soul. God is the ONLY thing still there when everything else falls apart.  Nope, I don’t know what His reasons are.  Don’t even know if it was He who allowed my saddest circumstances.  But I know He’s bigger than my circumstances.  I know He’s the only One who can hang with me ALL the way, no matter how crazy or whiny or messed up I get.

Bottom line is… if God must answer to me, then actually, I’m god.  And like I said… that ain’t how it works.

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Round Three: Some days

  By Rebecca | August 4, 2012 - 8:48 pm |
6 Comments

Round Three:  DING!!!  (OK, I’m getting sick of the boxing metaphor so from here on out, I’ll just tell ya stuff I’m learning, ok?  OK.)

Here’s what I’m learning:  Some days will be better than others.

One major trigger for my sadness and depression is when my kids have to go visit their father.  I miss them terribly.  It is during those moments without them that I feel most vulnerable, scared, and alone.  This summer, their leaving and then some subsequent difficulties that my daughter experienced while far away from me, had me at an all-time low.

The kids are back home with me now, and I’ve felt a small measure of relief.  The last several days since I picked them up have been good ones.  Then last night, Caleb, my littlest, would NOT go to sleep.  Until midnight I dealt with his crying and screaming.  By then, I had enough adrenaline pumping to give me some kind of super power.  Around about 2am, I finally fell into a fitful sleep.  Fitful sleep not good… since I’ve learned from my beloved counselor that REM sleep is the only time the brain produces serotonin… and honey, I NEED that serotonin.  Do you hear what I’m sayin’?  About 4am, my little insomniac climbed up in my bed, sealing the deal on a sleepless night for me.

Did I mention my husband slept through all of this???  I believe the word “comatose” accurately describes it.

Now, before you get your hackles up (YES that is a REAL expression.  Google it if you’d like.  My boss did just a couple of days ago since he didn’t believe such a phrase existed.) you must know that my husband rises very early in the morning for work.  He functions with a level of energy that would easily outrun a 20 year old.  Then he comes home before I do in the evening so most nights he has dinner ready when I get home.  You should, indeed, feel at least minor annoyance with me for complaining that he slept through this, but I’m just bein’ real here.  In spite of him having perfectly good reason to sleep like a rock, I still felt frustrated and alone and a lil’ bit angry that he didn’t lend a hand with El-Scream-o.

By this morning, I was in tears.  Dwayne was heading to his mom’s house with the kids.  He was off today.  I missed my mom.  I wanted MY mom.  I wanted to be at home with my children. Nothing made sense and the sadness was taking over.  He dropped me off at work, and I exited the car as fast as I could.  I cried in my coffee cup when I got inside, then sucked it up and started work.  Throughout the day, my head pounded and my heart weighed 1,000 pounds in my chest.  I went ahead and let myself feel it.  I refused to check out, but tried during the spare moments I had, to sort out what I was feeling.

I chalked up a good bit of today’s angst to last night’s lack of sleep.  The rest, I talked to God about, and we’re one step closer, one day closer to wholeness.

Some days, my friends, will be good ones.  And some days won’t be good at all.  Every day is still a gift, an opportunity to learn, a chance to grow.  Even the bad ones can bring breakthroughs.

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Round Two

  By Rebecca | August 3, 2012 - 9:57 pm |
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OK, I’m back.  Squirt some water in my mouth and hand me a towel while I tell ya something else I’m learning “in the ring”…

Anticipating pain is often worse than the actual pain.

When my kids have to get immunizations, I never tell them ahead of time.  I refuse, for one, to listen to all the whining and worrying and constant attempts to get out of the shot.  I feel just as guilty about them having to get it as they do apprehensive about getting it.  As an expert on shots (I took three each day, in the belly, for ten months while bringing my youngest son into the world) I can tell you that the anticipation of the actual shot is worse than the shot itself.  I just can’t have my kids going through a whole day knowing that in a few hours, there will be a needle stick.  Might as well stab them with a sword.  They’ll go through the same pain once they’ve agonized about the impending shot all day.  I remember as a kid what fear there was in the possible shot at the doc’s office.

But now I’m grown and I’ve given myself three painful injections in the stomach every day for a ten month period of time.  Where once I swooned at the alcohol smell and the sight of a needle, now shots are nothing to me.

Emotionally, however?  Different story.  Instead of dealing with pain, I run.  I wring my hands, furrow my brow, eat chocolate, go out with the girls, hide, ANYTHING but face it and deal with it.  I’m convinced that many, many people are eating, drinking, or internet surfing themselves sick, simply trying to avoid pain.  Eating is one of my choice methods.  I’ve even been known to pick the occasional fight with a certain gorgeous husband of mine rather than deal with my anticipated pain.

But guess what’s going on while I’m running scared, wondering how I’ll EVER live if I face the pain of adultery, of rejection, or betrayal or failure?  I’M STILL FEELING THAT PAIN, only worse because I prolong it with anticipation.  It’s still there in the pit of my stomach, waiting to hijack my emotions at the next vulnerable moment.  Waiting for that last straw so it can come exploding out like lava from a volcano. It’s not as though I’m actually escaping pain with my avoidance methods.  So why run?  Why not just brace myself and face it?

I’m not saying dealing with major trauma is simply a matter of gritting your teeth and facing up to the pain.  I know that things are much more complicated than that.  I know that some pains ARE too much to be faced all in one sitting.  I’m only making the point here that running isn’t any good either.  I’m saying that the pain is already there, and if I haven’t died from the anticipation of feeling it, I probably won’t die from the actual feeling either.  Especially since what I imagine is often worse than what actually is.

Plus, DEALING with pain actually gives me some element of control over it.  Running only makes me a fugitive and allows the pain, or my need to avoid pain, to control my life, and I end up more screwed up than I ever intended.  I may not be able to conquer it all at once, but facing up to it… simply deciding to stop running… means I’m back in the driver’s seat.

I like the driver’s seat. (Imagine my slow grin)

Now, buckle up for round three.

 

 

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Ringside

  By Rebecca | August 2, 2012 - 8:49 pm |
4 Comments

Alright, so I’ve told you, dear readers, that I’m fighting some monsters from whom I’ve been running. I’ve decided to share with you some things I’m learning. Picture us, ringside, me in my bright pink boxing attire (I’m thin and gorgeous with biceps for this dream. I’m not sweating but merely glistening.) I’ll just be sharing with you some lessons I’m learning in the fight.

Round One: The hurtful actions of another say NOTHING about me.

My first marriage involved repeated incidents of infidelity. I left that marriage with the idea that my first husband’s cheating habits were a big ol’ billboard to the world. They said “Rebecca is UGLY! She’s inadequate! She’s undesirable and gross!!” A few miles down the road, another billboard boasted,”Rebecca is a FOOL! She has NO CLUE.” Then another saying, “Rebecca is stupid and fat and definitely NOT SEXY.” I’ve carried this idea into my new marriage, living in total fear that my new husband will see the billboards and change his mind once he knows these things about me. I’ve let it affect my confidence and my ability to love.

Guess what?? There are NO SUCH BILLBOARDS. My first husband’s cheating habits say this: My first husband cheated.

That’s it.

There is not one piece of information about ME contained therein.

Sure it’s part of my story, part of my darkest moments, and I can’t change what happened, but as far as making a statement about ME… it doesn’t.

Ick… I shudder to think how I’ve worn it like a badge. I’ve identified with it and allowed myself to believe that the cheating MUST have happened because I’m deformed in some way. Not true.

I hope you are rolling your eyes right now, thinking, “DUUUUH! How could it have taken you this long to figure this out???” But if you aren’t rolling your eyes, then…Please. Please don’t get stuck in the tar baby I’ve been fighting with all these years. If someone has hurt you, if you’ve been abused, if you’ve been betrayed… please don’t let those hurtful actions define YOU. Sure it might make you FEEL rejected, unloved, miserable and worthless. But that doesn’t mean you ARE rejected, unloved, miserable and worthless.

Really the only actions that can define me are my own. The only ones that say anything about ME are the ones I carry out. OK, so maybe I’ve been a wimp about it sometimes. Maybe I’ve hidden from my pain. Maybe I’ve had a lot of bravado but haven’t really dealt with things as bravely as some might have. I’ve tried to trust God, and I’ve questioned Him, too. I’ve made rash decisions in painful moments. I’ve checked out of life rather than face my pain head-on. I’ll take these statements any day over the billboards quoted above.

Man, I bet the road of life is full of some amazing scenery now that those ol’ lyin’ billboards are out of the way.

OK, there’s the bell! Time for round TWO!

 

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Sore Eyes

  By Rebecca | August 1, 2012 - 8:19 pm |
2 Comments

My eyes are sore from crying.  Literally, blinking is noticeable.  There’s some stuff… yucky stuff… that’s been chasing me for years.  I just can’t run anymore, so here I sit in my pirogue in the midst of a swamp full of tangled up emotions.

I’ve blogged parts of my journey in the past, and going back, you can read through the pain of my divorce, you can see the craziness of Katrina, you can witness the joy of writing a book.  You can read about the person I was, the person I wanted to be, the person I certainly thought everyone expected.  You can read how in the past 7 years I’ve been through two major hurricanes, a book release, seven moves, life threatening embolisms, a divorce, single parenting, remarriage, a life-threatening pregnancy, new baby, new job, and more.  What you can’t read is that though I processed some of my pain through my writing, I mostly got busy with life and ran as hard as I could from the hurt and stress.

For a while now, I’ve written irregularly because, frankly, I’ve often felt too depressed to write anything positive and subjecting the world to my garbage was getting old.  Somewhere… along about the time my divorce was final and I moved to Florida for a while, I got tired of feeling like a bad car accident being gawked at by passers by.  Those things have a way of causing major traffic jams due to rubbernecking, you know.  I felt like I wanted my life to myself, so I shut down.  Those close to me are nodding their heads at this because they know it.  They’ve exchanged concerned conversations over it with furrowed brows.  They’ve prayed and worried and wondered what was going on with me.  They’ve put me to bed on their couches and waited for me when I didn’t show up.  There are a few people who are severely under-recognized for their care and concern, patience and compassion for me.  If you are nodding your head as you read this, then thank you for being my friend when I couldn’t be a friend back to you.

I’ve gone on to try and build a normal life, but this summer has been especially difficult.  You see, a girl can’t run from her pain forever.  A pirogue offers little protection from swamp monsters.  (All my dearly beloved Swamp People fans know just what I mean.)  Having reached a low that not only is hurting me but my darling husband and my job and more, I’ve decided enough is enough.  It’s time to stop running from the pain, to deal with it once and for all, and to learn to fight like a grown up lady.  (Some of my dearest friends would term this “puttin’ on my big-girl panties.”)  Leery of “counseling” due to past experience, I’ve persuaded the only individual I trust who also has a counseling degree to work with me.  The journal and pen are back out on my bedside table.  The hard work has begun and… watch out world… I’m comin’ back!!!

You’ve heard the expression “a sight for sore eyes” and now I know more about what that means.  It takes a LOT of cryin’ to make sore eyes.  And when those eyes open to a friendly face, a glimpse of truth, a reason to hope, a cool cloth, a mother’s touch, a sister’s hand, a husband’s strong arms, a baby’s laugh, a friend’s understanding, or a word from God, the comfort is exquisite.  These sore eyes have seen all of the above, and I’m most humbly grateful for the friends, family, bosses, coworkers, and fellow believers who have been these beautiful sights to me.

Hear my slow, shuddering sigh as I pick myself up and head back to life.

 

 

 

 

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