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Road Trip

Michelle, Me, Matthew, and Amanda (top right)

My husband, James, and I are about to set out for a road trip, heading for Savannah, Georgia. Neither of us have ever been and we are both getting pretty excited. Last night, after Wednesday bible class, good friends were telling me of their experience with the historic town. Their stories fueled my excitement even more. My mind is racing back and forth like a squirrel in the road, trying to decide what to pack. James and I aren’t planners. We like to go with the flow, letting someone else do the planning. Two non-decisive people trying to pick highways and hotels can get pretty interesting. We can get in some heated discussions just trying to pick a restaurant…not trying to get our own way…aggravated that the other one won’t pick!

I love the spontaneity of the open road, trusting that the right hotel will have an open spot for me; I will find a nice juicy hamburger at the little dive on the right; I won’t run out of gas before the next station; my car won’t have engine trouble or a flat tire; someone will help me if I need help. Give me a map that has been folded and unfolded. Let my eyes scan the roads for my next destination. Give me interesting things to find that I didn’t even know I wanted to find before I left my driveway. Color my world with tinted sunglasses that give the reds a deeper hue, polarizing the blue sky and contrasting it with white fluffy clouds, while cutting down the glare of the sun’s bouncing rays off the car ahead of me.

One of my favorite road trips was one I took with my three children and my young brother-in-law (who was only six months older than my oldest daughter) back in 1995. It was spring break for the Dallas school district but I was in the midst of my home-schooling project. I had convinced their father to let me teach my children at home after two years of persuading. I was worried about the environment they were being exposed to on a daily basis, as well as the flaws I felt were in the curriculum at the time. Part of their new homeschool studies was Texas history. We had been reading about the Alamo and I had decided it would be exciting for them to see it for themselves.

This trip was an adventure in more ways than one. For instance, not only had I been homeschooling, but my ex-husband and I had just started our own business. Money was more than tight. We developed a thing my oldest daughter, Michelle, worried her pretty little red head about…”THE DEBT”! It hung over our heads like our own personal storm cloud, threatening to come flooding down on us to wash us and our dreams away. I was driving an old Ford van that we had bought used from a good friend. It was clean but we had to replace the motor in it just a few weeks before my planned trip. It had no seats except the one vinyl bucket-style driver’s seat. I had the kids load up their beanbag chairs they had gotten for Christmas, along with one tent, pillows, sleeping bags, a flashlight, a cooler, peanut butter, jelly, bread, and lots of Pop Tarts.

This journey was one of many that my children and I would make together. Their father worked almost non-stop. I knew that if we were to have any adventures, we would have to go on…just us. I wasn’t afraid to venture out without a man. Not sure, why. My brother once told me that I had Jesus riding around with me. I told him that I thought he was right. I have always felt protected. Jesus is my man. He holds my hand when there is no other to do it. He sends my help when I need it.

Once, on another road trip, I had a tire blow out while driving down the interstate highway between Texas and Louisiana. As soon as I pulled over, a truck driver pulled his semi over behind me. He told me he had seen my tire in distress and had been trying to get my attention. He put my spare on for me and got me back on the road out of pure kindness. I had two little children in the back seat and I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t “been there”.

Another time, my youngest daughter, Amanda, and I were on a trip through California when my car broke down. Mind you, we were far away from anyone we knew, but we just happened to break down in Santa Maria. We had arrived there safely the night before, lucky to find a room as we had arrived just before the paparazzi. When we selected this town to spend the night, we had no idea that Michael Jackson’s famous trial was to be held there the next day. Anyway…that morning we got a few miles down the road when the check engine light started flashing. We turned around and went to the dealership and were told that the alternator had gone out. The mechanics fixed it and as part of the service, washed and vacuumed the interior. An older man came out and handed me my keys and several hundred dollars in an envelope. He said, “Ma’am, I found this money under your floor mat when I was vacuuming.” He smiled as I sighed in relief at his honesty. I had forgotten in the mayhem that I had stored some money there to keep from keeping too much cash in my purse. Another case of being taken care of. Not only had the car broken down when I was near a town and not on one of the many long stretches of lonely highway we had driven on, but also an honest man was put in charge of vacuuming my car.

The spring break trip I took with those four kids back in 1995 went as smooth as butter. With my weathered map as their guide, my children navigated me from one state park to another. We stopped in Goliad State Park and camped by the river and told stories lit by our one flashlight. We heard the canon fire, like it had many years ago. We camped amongst the deer and hills of Inks Lake, the children feeding the deer out of their hands. We saw the Alamo, thronged by hundreds of other visitors that spring. We walked the famous River Walk. We drove down to the coast, intending to camp on the shores of Mustang Island, but instead stayed overnight in a Corpus Christi hotel due to the weather. We went to the ocean for the first time together that next glorious morning. What joy it was to see my children and their young uncle taking their first jump over the lapping waves, to see Amanda hold out her fearless hand to feed the hungry gulls, to see them all laugh and play in the sand, to witness their first love affair with the ocean. My son, Matthew talks about this trip to this day. All my children do. It was as special to them, as it was to me.

Road trips are a lot like life itself. You’ll be cruising along on a beautiful day and out of the blue, literally, you’ll be thrown a big curve in the road or, an obstacle will fall right in front of you. (You know, those “WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS” signs? I wonder how many people really had time to react to one of those!) I’ve been on trips, trapped in the car with ill moods and bad tempers, clenching my teeth together while all the better-left-unsaid words hammer at the back of them. There have been trips were those bitter words escaped and turned a beautiful memory into gall and regret, looking out the tinted window with eyes blurred by unshed tears, not really seeing anything but my own misery, wishing I could just jump out of the car and run as far as I could.

Would I let those roadblocks keep me from taking another adventure? No. And, I mean, NO! Life is an adventure. If there isn’t a highway, find a dirt road, a trail, or make your own path. Just get out there! Put on a pair of shades, let the sun hit your face, feel the wind in your hair. Stop along the way to explore. Maybe jump in every body of water you come to. (That’s on my bucket list!) God gave us so much to enjoy. Don’t disappoint Him by sitting around watching other people’s made-up adventures on that glaring box in your living room.

Happy Trails…

Never Say “Never”

This is a picture I took of my mother after she came home from working at the muffler shop.

All those little sayings. Little gems sparkling in a glorious crown, encircling your head with knowledge, set in gold by those who loved you enough to pass them on. They twinkle and glow if often recalled. They tarnish and dull with age if forgotten. This particular gem of wisdom came to me from my mother: “Never say ‘Never’.”

My mother. I watched her as a young girl, mesmerized. I thought her beautiful, smart, and wise beyond what I could ever achieve. Maybe all young girls think of their mother this way. I don’t know.

I sat on the commode lid like it was a front row seat to the best concert in town. I studied my mother, clothed in her frothy, peach-colored night gown with its matching robe, putting on her makeup. Baby pink tiles surrounded us with a female hue. Her mouth formed a little “O” as she put on a thick coat of black mascara. Her lips pursed alluringly as she applied orange lipstick to her cupid-like lips. I watched carefully as she strategically dotted on Estee’ Lauder’s Youth Dew cologne. I didn’t know what she was getting ready for, but I sensed a ritual that I couldn’t wait to take part in. She didn’t seem to mind my peering into her special time. With only one bathroom for a family of five, privacy wasn’t something that you thought about much. I quietly watched and learned. My mother was the best teacher a girl could have on glamour.

Even when she went to work in my father’s muffler shop and had to learn to weld so that she could put on mufflers and tailpipes, my mother put on her full makeup. Her hair was done as if she was going to worship. Her flannel shirt looked fit for Marilyn Monroe. Her jeans were in style with the times, faded and flared in the leg. Teenage boys praised my mother at school. How many girls have a mother who can look like a movie star while putting stacks on the coolest truck in town?

It didn’t matter how disheveled she was going to get. She knew it was a dirty job. Momma came home every night, exhausted. Burns scarred her skin. Grease and oil perfumed her clothes. I learned what it meant to sacrifice and work hard for the welfare of the family. When Daddy was diagnosed with a severe heart condition (which turned out to be a misdiagnosis) she ran the whole thing with what help she could get from the teenage boys they hired.

I felt a pressure to live up to my mother. At the same time, I felt that I never would. If she praised me, I was on cloud nine. If she berated me, I was the lowest of lows. Everything I did, or didn’t do, weighed heavily on my mother’s opinion.

One thing sticks out, of all the phrases spoken to me as guidance by my beautiful mother: Never say ‘never’.

You know? That is probably one of the truest statements a mother could pass on to her daughter.

I know it to be an accurate turn of words. If you say you will never do something, YOU ARE BOUND TO DO IT!

Paul wrote in Romans 7:19, “For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice.” (NKJV)

It’s like planting a seed…a weed, really. You try so hard to aim your arrow at the heart of your problem. You are focusing so hard. But, where are your sights? Are they set on things above, or are they so honed in to the very problem that you are trying to annihilate that you have blinded yourself to everything else? Are you letting it pull you like a magnet by giving it so much attention?

We must lean on God. I say this, knowing that I need it the most. We must go to Him in prayer with the knowledge that He alone is in control. It is true that we are His glorious creations. So much good can come from a pure, gentle, and giving heart. But “the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he might devour.” I Peter 5:8 (NKJV) Don’t you think that it is his wish that you become distracted with every flaw in your character? Don’t you know that he wants you to be discouraged?

If you backtrack a little in Peter’s letter, he says, “Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.” I Peter 5:6-7 (NKJV) HE CARES FOR YOU!!! Rest in His loving arms. Pray for His guidance. Ask for forgiveness and then release your grip on whatever is pulling you down. Let God pull you out of that dark hole and revel in His excellent Light.

The Handoff

I used to run. Not this attempt I call “running”, now. Real running. Real racing. Legs pumping, goal reaching, side-stitching powering forward. Definitely not the fastest. Certainly not the best, but I loved it.

There were fears I faced: not winning, not pleasing Coach Felty (whom I wanted to please like a father), not doing my best. The thing I feared more than these was the handoff; that part of the relay when it was your turn to hand the baton over to your team-mate. What if I dropped it? What if we lost precious seconds because of me?

We all have a handoff moment in our earthbound journey whether we run, or not. There comes a time when we pass what we know, what we learned, what we feel to those whose turn it is to carry on the race.

I remember when my father was on his last stretch of the track. I spent hours with him, caring for him, watching over him. He sat in a chair at the table, unable to find comfort, afraid to lie down. He wanted a cigarette in his hand and a piping hot cup of coffee in front of him to sip on. It was never hot enough and the cigarette was rarely puffed on. The weight of his sickness didn’t allow him to enjoy even these vices that used to bring him pleasure. I wanted him in these moments to speak to me. As I sang hymns to him in the dark, I waited for his words to me. They never came. He did teach me to play a domino game called Moon. To my shame, I can’t remember how to play it. I don’t know why it was ever important to him to teach me.

This thought came to me in the middle of the night, while I should have been sleeping. It nagged at me until I got up and dealt with it. I think we didn’t have a handoff moment. I think Daddy was more like someone in the crowd, cheering or a teammate, running along-side me to encourage me to do better. Daddy was a dream-chaser like me. He taught me that I could learn to do anything I wanted by reading a book or finding someone to instruct me. He taught me this by example. He also taught me to love God. I saw his struggles with being a christian. I know he wasn’t perfect. No one is, certainly not someone who loves life as much as Daddy did. There is always that fence waiting to be climbed, torn down, or simply sat on.

Being the control freak that I am, I want to take charge of my handoff moment. I want to tell my children now, while I am full of life and not distracted by pain or death some things that I need them to know.

I love you. I love you all and I love you all the same. I know children think that is something parents just say, really having a favorite, but this is my truth. From the time I knew you were in my womb, I was thrilled. When they placed you in my arms, they placed part of my heart right there were I could touch and care for it.
I know I made mistakes. I’m sorry. I’m also sorry that you will make mistakes with your own children. It is part of what makes us one of God’s creatures. I hope that you know that even so, I never wanted to do anything, say anything to hurt you.
If you don’t learn anything else from me, I hope you learn this: God loves you. Yes. You will screw up and make a mess of things from time to time. It is never too late to turn to your Maker and ask for forgiveness. He is never further away than a prayer, a earnest cry.
I tried to keep your ancestors alive for you through the stories I told. You may have tired of hearing them, but I hope you will remember. I hope that you will carry them forward like a treasured heirloom. Keep them and pass them down.

This is your baton. Hold tight to it while you run your race. Don’t forget to release it when it is time. Your children are standing there, panting with excitement, waiting for their turn. Their “track” may not be as easy as yours was. The world is a scary place. I don’t envy the environment they are being released to. Let them see that you will meet them where they are and that you will be there when it counts. I see you, standing there waiting for me. There are not any hands that I would want to pass my baton on to, more. God blessed me with three beautiful souls. I know you will run faster than me. That is why God put you where you are. A good coach always puts the fastest runner last. Now, go!

“…and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus…” Hebrews 12:1-2 (NKJV)

To others that may read this, other than my own children, I hope you take some thought about passing your own baton. Maybe there is someone’s forgiveness you need to ask. Maybe there is someone to whom you held a great love, but never told them. Maybe you know a soul that doesn’t know Jesus and your heart aches with the Spirit’s urging to speak to them, to share the story of your Savior.

Not long ago, my mother told me that she, like me, had waited for some word or instruction from my father. She honored his request to be cared for and to die at home. This was at great cost to her. In the 1980’s, hospice came about once a week. My father’s cancer was quick in its work and my father suffered much because there was no one there who was qualified to monitor his pain medicine. He was never put on morphine. His pain was excruciating and Momma did the best she could. They spent all their final time together. She never got the words she craved.

After his passing, she searched the house, going through books and papers, drawers, everywhere she thought he might have hidden a last letter to her. It was never found. It was never written.

I believe flowers are better appreciated by the living than by the dead. All the money we spend on funeral flowers to ease our own suffering could have just as easily be spent on flowers that they could have enjoyed. Imagine your loved one receiving a beautiful bouquet of their favorite flowers with a note written in your own hand. See, in your minds eye, them smile as they read your words, as they press their nose in to the soft, velvety petals knowing that they are loved.

We have the power to spread so much joy. I pray that we will all take the time to honor that gift while God lets us hold it. How do we best honor it? By giving it away.

“And remember the words of the Lord Jesus, that He said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Acts 20:35 (NKJV)

“A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.” Proverbs 25:11 (NKJV)

A Letter of Faith

My last blog post was dark. It came from a very dark place. My heart has been covered in a black mourning cloth…mourning things that happen…life…things that can’t be changed.

I am blessed beyond measure to be married to a wonderful man. He loves me even with all my flaws. He remembers me as I was and occasionally, gets to see a glimpse of that girl.

That girl loved God. He was the guiding force for her whole life. She was known for her faith.

What I said about my heart being dried up, not able to give…well, that was true. I’ve pushed everyone away, just a bit. When I felt vulnerable, I did something to get distance. I had become one of those bitter women no one wants to be around. I tried to hide her. I put on my smile, one of my gifts from that girl I was. I said, “I’m fine.” I was the queen of FINE.

My prayer time was short and to the point; full of pleas for help and daily forgiveness. I knew I wasn’t in a graced state of mind. I didn’t fully engage in my worship. It was too hard. True worship requires openness. Concentrating on God’s Holy Word was difficult. The Holy Spirit had a constant battle on His hands.

Susan Ashton sang a song called, *”Grand Canyon”. In it she sings, “I know that I’m a long way from where I need to be when there’s a grand canyon between You and me…” That’s what it feels like when you shut yourself off.

*written by Wayne Kirkpatrick

I’m confessing this, to whoever reads it. I want forgiveness. I woke up this morning physically sick from the bitter gall I’ve been swallowing. I want that girl back!

Thanks and praise and eternal gratitude to my Heavenly Father for the gifts of forgiveness and redemption.

I realize this is not a story, poem, or word of wisdom. This is me. This is my life. This is my letter of faith to you. If any wisdom can be gained from it, I hope it will be that you keep your heart open. The heart, the soul, is a thing to be used. Like silver, it becomes more beautiful the more it is worn or handled. Don’t let yourself tarnish from the inside out. It will eventually show.

Outside it is raining…a dark, dreary day. Inside my heart, there is sunshine. I am so blessed. Every day, every moment, every loved one is a gift. I pray that I will never slip into that dark place, again.

To the Man Driving By

I pushed through. Through flesh, blood, and water. Came into this world full of blinding lights, opened my quivering lips, and emptied my lungs. Tried to make my tiny voice heard.

“Hush, hush little baby…Don’t say a word…”

Let me cry!

My heart was a fertile, fresh-plowed field. Had never seen the man sowing seed. Had never had the raven, black and shiny, drop his seed of thorns and thistles. My earth was rich and easily worked. Full of nutrients and goodness put there by my Lord. The sun shown bright, its heat soaking into my layers. The rain quenched, just enough. I was ready.

Man / Woman sow but occasionally let a stray seed mix in with the good crop. They work hard. Care for tender plants. A foot strays, accidentally. Foliage crumples under the weight.

This heart wants to provide. It wants to nourish. The black bird comes with his friends. They laugh and “Caw” as they drop one seed after another. One, especially beautiful, winks with his onyx stone eye. Man / Woman get their hoes. The sharp blade wacks at tender legs. The shoots fall, but roots go deep.

Hear me cry.

The season of harvest is near. The sun is merciless in its heat and pressure. I crack and pull back from all roots, good and evil, that try to fill my heart. I no longer give what I’ve got. There’s not much left. The environment was not kind to this field. The tares and thorns are taking over. Man / Woman can’t keep up.

You’ll drive by. You’ll see my overgrown mess of a garden. You’ll think of how I used to be and wonder what happened. See the black birds in the trees on the borders of my patch of soil? Hear their cry? They are really laughing. They think they’ve won.

Please, stop your truck. Get a tractor. Plow me under. Light a fire. Burn it all and give me a fresh start. Just a little love. A little care. A little protection. Do you have what it takes to be a farmer? If you do, I know I’ve got one good crop left in me.

Moonlit Memories

The moon came a little closer. I think the man who lives there was mildly curious about what had been keeping me. My visits to spy on him have been more rare these days.

It is awing, is it not? This relationship we form with the light God formed in the nighttime sky? We gaze at him in ways we are not allowed to with his older brother, the sun. He seems to enjoy the attention and changes his look to spur us on in our beholding. Sometimes he glows with the color he borrowed from the sun. Sometimes he is blue, silver, or eerily white. When he is full of himself, he shows his smiling face and we smile back. He’s infectious that way.

For me, his appeal comes with the memories we have shared. You may feel the same. It’s like watching a movie that seems to have stolen bits of your life and played them out for all of the world to see. You cry, not because of the character’s woes, but because their misery has pricked you with memory’s sharp thorn.

*I see my love, lit with lunar glow, bowing his head towards mine. The fields are almost clear as day and my gown glows as if heavenly. What romance can not succumb to such a setting? What heart can help but beat a little faster?

*The ocean beats upon the shore. Waves try to reflect the moon. Water, ever-changing, distorts its image but the abstract is just as lovely. Stars twinkle and wink, hoping to distract my attention.

*Lying spread out flat on St. Augustine mattress. The blackness above letting bits and pieces of heaven’s glory spark above me. Lightening bugs float starlike above the earth, on the same plane as me. My friend, The Man on the Moon, grins as my mother calls me to come inside.

He has been companion to midnight walks, camping trips, solitary swims, and cries in the abyss. His surface reflects his surroundings and his shape nightly transforms. He is a lot like me, only he is silent, rock-hard, and strong. He remains true to us all whether we pay him any attention, or not.

I am happy he came a little closer the other night. I’ll try to be more faithful in my nocturnal visits and more grateful for the moonlit memories.

Rocking Baby

Back and forth. Back and Forth.

Pressing hard against the back of the rocker.

Feet lifting slightly off the floor as I tip my weight.

Baby nestled snugly against my breast.

The weight in my arms shifts only slightly as I rock.

Back and Forth.

I rock this child, this life so dear. A ritual as important to me as to him. I draw comfort from the warmth of his tiny body. The smell of baby shampoo and milk are scents of hope; a hope that time would halt its pilgrimage forward, just for now.

I sing low and soft, letting the vibration of my chest and voice remind him of when he was in Momma’s womb, sounds muffled through tissue and water. The swishing of the rocker on the wooden floor like the pumping of Momma’s heart in his ears.

“Go to sleep, now dear love…” *

*Brahms Lullaby

Newness of Life

I recently found out that someone close to our family has been diagnosed with lung cancer. This information, on top of my own mother’s battle with leukemia, lymphoma, and lung cancer over this past year, has left me thinking a lot about the disease. I know many of you have dealt with some form of this rotting, wasting, life-eating illness either yourself, or with a loved one. I realize the word itself provokes nightmarish fears for us and those we care about. My heart aches with each mention of it.

The year I turned 45, I was given the diagnosis of chronic lymphocytic leukemia which had already enlarged most of my lymph glands. I dreaded the diagnosis I would hear after one year of tests and a previous diagnosis of fibromyalgia. A dark cloud hung over me as I celebrated my grandson’s birthday, my youngest daughter’s glorious fall wedding on top of a mountain in Arkansas, my 45th birthday, itself. Thanksgiving was just around the corner. So much life to celebrate. I tried, but I was exhausted.

In between my birthday and Thanksgiving, I received a call from the surgeon who had done my biopsy. It was late in the afternoon. My friend, Marian had come to help me at my shop. Unpaid, she worked and held me up. When the call came and they insisted I come to their office that very day to talk to the doctor, I told Marian, “This can’t be good.” She said, “I’m coming with you.” And, she did. We closed up shop and drove about an hour to get to his office.

Once there, the doctor very gently told me the lymph gland was malignant, but if you have to have cancer, this is the best kind to have. “We caught it early”, he said. He referred me to an oncologist who in turn recommended bone marrow biopsies. This lead to a specific diagnosis of CLL and gave him a course of treatment to recommend. Dr. Kirby, kindness himself, said, “You can get another opinion, but this is what I would suggest to a member of my own family.” I told him that I believed that God was in charge and that this whole process had led me to him. I talked it over with my family, did my research on the proposed drugs, and decided to go with the chemotherapy regimen.

Ignorance is bliss—isn’t that what they say? I had done my research. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what was on my bumpy road. I sat in a recliner one week of the month for six months, tubes and needles feeding me poison and antibodies, playing card games with my oldest, pregnant daughter. She drove all the way from Arkansas and spent those weeks away from her beloved husband to keep me distracted and upbeat. My other children had jobs that prevented them from being there for every treatment, but they did many thoughtful things to give me comfort and were there for me when they could be. My grandchildren were like a golden trophy held out for me to obtain and live for. Once my course was set, I trusted God.

The poison went in and did its work. It killed off the cancer cells, but was no respecter of cells. It murdered the good ones as well. I received shots to boost my white count. They would rise weakly, only to fall flat on their faces. They were pooped. I had asked too much of them. It was during this time that death started to look like my very near future. Maybe I should have just rested knowing that heaven was on the other side, but I am a weak sinner. I love life. I love my family. There was so much that I felt I hadn’t done.

I read a book and found out about a holistic clinic in Dallas. They didn’t accept insurance because insurance companies won’t pay for holistic therapies. I felt like hope was wrapped up in their treatment plan. I was to detox and eat only certain foods, plus take supplements. I was a good patient and followed their plan to the letter. By the time I went back for my blood work at Texas Oncology, my blood count was finally out of the danger zone. Finally, I could do things, normal things, like go the movies, stay in my pew if someone had a coughing fit in church, floss my teeth, go shopping, shave my legs without worrying about cutting myself. It has never dipped back down. I am still in remission.

I wish I could say that I learned my lesson, that I take super-duper good care of myself, eat the perfect diet, do yoga and meditation, and pray…well, I do pray and I do half-heartedly try to be good. But, that “loving life” thing keeps getting me.

Well, like I stated from the beginning, this has all been on my mind—a lot. Thinking one thing usually leads to another and I’ve come to this conclusion, right or wrong. I think that cancer is like sin. There I’ve said it! Just mull this over: all of us, according to scientists, have cancerous cells dormant in our bodies. It plays nice with all the other cells, pretending it is harmless. Then, one day, you let the stress of business, children, marriage, or some other illness get you down and the evil cells say “Whoo-hoo!!! It’s time to take over, boys!”

Our souls, pure from birth, develop cracks like our skin develops wrinkles. Sure they are just tiny little cracks at first. You can’t even see them. Oh, but Satan is so tricky! A crack is all he needs. Just like cancer, or the opposing poison in my veins, he wants to take over. He sees that crack and waits, patiently waits until you open it just wide enough for him to get his wedge in. He works at it until he himself is in and BOOM, before you know it, the cancerous sin is trying to take over. Keeping sin at bay is a lot harder than fighting off cancer. A lost battle with either one is serious, but which would you rather lose—death to the body, or death to the soul?

How do you fight it? Same as cancer, friend. You get down on your knees and ask your God for help. You let Jesus’ blood wash you clean. And once He gets it out, you fill that space back up with Good. Let God’s Spirit direct your path. Stay on it. Stay in the Word. And if you wander off, (like I, to my shame, do) you fall back on your knees. God loves you. He wants you at home, just like my family did. He will be faithful to lift you up if you come to Him and worship Him.

I realize that all who want a cancer cure will not find it. I know many battles will be lost, because let’s face it, we all have to go some way, don’t we? I know this sounds extremely harsh to the ear. I am sorry. We may wish we could pick our fate, but all is not in our hands. The good news is, God has laid out a plan. He is the Kind Doctor. He knows what will heal our souls. Get out a bible, if you haven’t already done so, and see what treatment plan He has prescribed. Then, follow His steps. He will lead you to eternal life, where there is no sickness or dying. Isn’t that the healing we all really need?

“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” Revelations 21: 4 (NKJV)

Romans 6:3-5 says, “Or do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”(NKJV)

NEWNESS OF LIFE…personally, I like the sound of that!

Love to you all!

The Source, The Force

I’ve been going through some of my journals looking for inspiration. Something to write. Some topic worthy of reading, worthy of writing, worthy of time. I came to a sad realization. Most of my writing has been done in a depressed state of mind. Very gloomy. I don’t like to think of myself that way. Depression runs in my family. I wanted to break its pattern, but it rears its ugly, unwanted head when I least want it. Most of my best poems were written when the sadness enveloped me in a darkness so thick that my words came out on the page in the smallest and tiniest of handwriting. Even my hand felt the grip of fear on my throat and heart.

Why do humans write poetry? I believe it’s because poetry is the only way we are able to express our true feelings…especially grief…in that guttural, clipped tone truest to our heart.

Writing, like the writing here, has a flow. Sentences ramble on but they sound normal and well thought out.

I can write a poem. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. And yet, the reader , not even knowing the story behind the words, can feel the emotions behind them. It’s there in the style. The way it is read in a rhythm like the beating of a heart, the pounding of a fist, the tapping of a foot.

I need to write. It’s like another prayer. A prayer I can remember. I can look back and see that yes, God did bring me out of that situation, that feeling, that pit of despair.

There have been many times in my life that, although I thought I was depending on God, I was trying to depend on myself. I was the queen of self-help books. I had a whole library. Believe me, if there was a way to “fix” yourself, I would have found it. I found myself swinging back and forth, bouncing on everyone else’s moods and feelings, as well as my own. I wasn’t acting. I was reacting. I was letting someone else be “the force”.

If I truly let God be the source, the force, I will only have Love to bounce off of.

I believe this is the key to the joy that I have been missing. All that Love! Focus on that. Live for Him. Listen to what He has to say. Remember His love. Remember He has waited for you like no other. He craves you like no other. Everything He has done in your life, since the day you were born, was done to bring you to Him. You don’t even have to wait until the end of your life here on earth to enjoy His love. He is with you always, even until the end of the earth. Matthew 28:20 (paraphrased) That means He is with you, now. He’s watching over you and all you care about. He loves you no matter how many times you’ve lost sight of Him.

Your goal for today:

Remember His love! Think of how many ways He is showing you His love.

Comfort

Comfort me.

Lay your hand, your touch

On me

Until it feels heavy

Until it stops this feeling

This knot in my stomach.

Lay love

On me like a quilt

Like the ones

In my grandmother’s chifforobe

Taken out one by one

Smoothed out with her hands.

Each one

Pieced together with care

Your words

Let them join one

To another with the same

Care and unity of purpose

Weighted down

‘Til my bones no longer ache

Your love becomes

A physical thing

I can’t move

For the restraint of.

Warm me

With soft feelings

Worn by time

And yet, just as desired

As the day

You first said them.