Oct 182016
 

Growing up my cousins were our neighbours on two sides. We played and shared and went frog hunting and tadpole catching in the ponds on our property. We ice skated with neighbour kids in winter and then one spring when I was 9 the police came and searched and searched some more for my older cousin who went missing.

They found his body 3 days later at the bottom of the highest cliff about a kilometer into our backyards, across the highway. They said that he had no stomach contents and that he had likely only been dead a few hours.

The official cause of death was suicide, the unofficial was blunt force trauma to his skull, presumably as he fell. How a 17 year old goes without food or water when a corner store and unlocked houses are within shouting distance, for several days never sat well with me. It didn’t sit well with the retired police chief who offered to look into it as a homicide and it didn’t sit well with my grandpa either.

My aunt and uncle didn’t want the help though, so the ruling was as is and the priest denied my cousin his last rites, because you can’t receive more than a blessing if you have taken your own life.

I tended his grave for years, going and wiping the fresh cut grass from the stone and making sure the solar light I bought was still lighting at night, the shepherds hook it hung on something I knew would help guide him to the Light and keep him there.

I don’t believe that suicide is a sin. I know a lot of people do, including the church. I have faith in a God who does not punish those who are mentally ill, and if you have ever been depressed or suicidal you know that there is no such thing as “rational” when in that state of mind. The act of suicide isn’t to cause pain, it’s a final and desperate attempt to end your own.

Whether suicide or homicide I have prayed that as my cousin flew to the ground below that he felt no fear, only peace and maybe even a moment of joy knowing that this act was the pathway to freedom from what we call life.

Oct 092016
 

Funny how over the years the words “Post-It” have caused flashes of ugly little squares of paper with a sticky back to flood the brain. Then you go to buy the darned things and see the cute owls and the off brands and you literally stand there wasting time debating price, color and cuteness all for a note that likely won’t stick.

A reminder that will be lost before it’s been forgotten.


I look through my Bible tabbed with Post-It’s the same way that my daughter has her textbooks tabbed. Interesting how something that I had only began doing that she didn’t know about is something I had spotted her doing the same. I wonder if this is normal or if its some form of inherited colour-coding mother-daughter neurotic trait. Lord knows our lives closely mimic each other without intention.

I guess it doesn’t matter too much though if we aren’t purposely trying to be like the other.

I don’t want her to be a yellow or pink or acid green Post-It note that everyone has or can achieve. I want her to be unique. Her own shade with her own tackiness.

I want her to make her own mistakes and be victorious over Satan slain. Even if each of us must crush that cursed serpents slithering head with the heel of boots of steel made for hard work again and again.

Oct 082016
 

The thoughts in my head muddled up and I sounded like an episode of Gilmore Girls where everything makes sense if you listen, I mean really listen, but that type of thought easily can come across as manic -even when it’s not. It’s just that -thoughts. They need a way to escape sometimes and that means typing 100 words a minute or speaking so fast that my words are muddled together and I am rewriting the dictionary as they flow from my tongue jumbled and broken like my tongue has been possessed by the infamous Dr Seuss.

It’s like my desk. To anyone who is told to find something on my desk they would likely stand there staring in a near panic unwilling to touch anything, yet I can navigate it with my eyes closed, a chat window or two open, the phone ringing and telling the animals to be quiet so I can hear.

What appears to be a muddled mess is often an organized truth. Perhaps this is why there are Bible versions now that are written chronologically, so they make sense to the people whose brains need the timeline and the order that escapes them the way a cleared surface paralyzes me leaving me wondering what to do.


I tend to have a lot to say and the reason is because I don’t want to think. Thinking brings back flashes of pain and transports me back to a place where a simple word hurts or Job can be read as a suicide letter. Being in my head is hard work, even for the thoughts. So instead they spew out of me like the possessed girl from The Exorcist with her head on backwards, levitating while spewing shades of evil from her mouth.

I don’t want to be a shade of evil.

I often fear that I am.

And, that’s when the thoughts get muddled. When I am asked to go to bed because I don’t feel well or I am extra tired and the past has snuck in and I ask “am I being punished?” or utter the words “but I wasn’t being bad.”

No, sweet child, you weren’t bad, you are tired. 11 years since escaping and the thoughts still blend together and I get trapped in an inbetween that most can’t comprehend. The words “get over it” are hell to the ears and sting harder than any whip could, causing the holes in my soul to gape open and spill out of me, like a gutted deer during hunting season, and I pray that I am not the prey while secretly feeling like I am always the one in the crosshairs.

I crave the gentle caress of being lain down on fresh sheets, with eyes half closed and blankets pulled up over me tightly. The kiss to my forehead being all I need to know I am loved, safe and that tomorrow will be alright. Because, even when tomorrow is horrible it becomes yesterday fast…

Oct 072016
 

My faith has been through the wringer lately, and I may have been failing the test, letting myself fall, letting the world step in the way, letting myself give in to things I know not to do. And yet, here I am writing as part of this crazy group and I feel the cradle around me, knowing that like the prodigal son, I am always welcomed back, a feast is prepared and my presence is worth a celebration to the One true Father -our Father, yours and mine!

How wonderful to be His. To come back from the darkness and see His Light brightly shining at the end of what seemed like driving a tunnel in a car that has broken headlights. Yet, I know it is easy for me to break, shatter into a billion pieces and watch the scars scab over but never really go away.

You can glue the mirror back together again, but it never reflects the same. It’s always more fragile than it was before and the tiny shards that we couldn’t pick up and see leave scarred cracks where the glue resides, a wholeness that isn’t really complete and as best as I try to be whole I have to accept that I am only as whole as I am in Christ and that while my tests may be failed, and I may fail this journey called life, I will one day be wholly whole, in His divine presence as I am greeted at the pearly gates and welcomed into the Heavenly realm.

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
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Oct 022016
 

The strawberry plants in pots on the deck didn’t have much of a yield this year and now their leaves are vibrant reds against the greens and yellows with feelers reaching across the wood of the deck and towards the table where we didn’t eat outside because some people are afraid of bugs, but where I enjoyed my morning coffee and fetch with the dogs just the same.

The air crisp and cold this week unlike last week when the fans were all on and the air conditioning tempting. The sky has been painted in hues of blue, green and grey as the atmosphere tries to decide if the rain is the story it wants to paint of if its that of the sun setting golden behind golden leaved trees.

The wind whistles and whips and tears many of those leaves off all in a matter of a few hours and yet while out for a drive I am surprised to see that some trees stand naked and stark, a grey that is reminiscent of one who is dying -that pale colorless flesh reserved just for those who are extremely ill. And the backdrop is vibrant yellow, green and the sun pokes through just long enough for the next batch of clouds to roll in filled with the water of life that will supply these trees through their roots for the months that winter will provide.

Keeping the natural spring that all the animals congregate around, regardless of the mercury, spewing naturally warmed water into a pool for them to drink from. And I am reminded that God takes care of the Raven and I can pass my worries and anxieties and fears to Him because that Raven was an animal created for us {wo}men to care for while He cares for me directly!

“Do you hunt the prey for the lioness
and satisfy the hunger of the lions
40 when they crouch in their dens
or lie in wait in a thicket?
41 Who provides food for the raven
when its young cry out to God
and wander about for lack of food?
~Job 38:39-41~

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
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Oct 012016
 

I hadn’t planned on this tiresome walk, the one that has left my legs feeling uselessly cramped and the fire inside my muscles screams for a break as I drag heavy feet along as I shuffle, seemingly without a cause.

And, the words roll across eyes tightly closed the way credits run so fast at the end of a movie and I am reminded that “even though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I feel fear no evil” because “His staff and His rod will guide me ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE{Psalm 23} and my cup will be filled to overflowing and when I fall face first into that sandy valley He will heal the pains I feel and the steps will become easier and I will become lighter and the journey won’t feel so long.

Because, getting to know Him is a lifetime of work and yet no work at all because as our Creator, He already knows us and us Him and while we often hide it or deny it or ignore it, His presence is always in us, regardless of the roads we walk.

Creating a relationship with the One who saved me is beautiful, knowing that He has always been faithful to me, even when I wasn’t is a miracle. A journey I will likely walk 1000 times more and each time I take those first aching steps I will be reminded that He is the crutch that will help me to stumble along.

A compilation of 150 blog posts from the Five Minute Friday Community. The stories found in these pages span a diverse range of experiences, but share a common thread: A Love For the Bravely Written Word.
$12.99 USD
Sep 172016
 

I never knew that I could or would learn to be ashamed of my nakedness again, looking at my body and feeling like it should be hidden under layers of shapeless clothes, covering the saggy-breasts and stretch marks caused by having babies, the extra weight and even cellulite on my bum and hips becoming something that make me hate the mirror all while I am supposed to sit there and look into that same piece of glass and tell myself I am beautiful and loved, when a month ago I felt beautiful, I felt loved, and now I can barely look myself in the eyes without seeing the ugliness that everyone else must see when they look at me.

I wash my face and brush my teeth and when I lock eyes with my own tears well up and trickle down my cheeks, leaving a salted surface that feels like it’s eating away the very flesh that no one should be seeing anyway.

I am ugly.

I’ve never thought those three words before. I have thought I am fat. I need to lose weight. I have health issues. I have stretch marks or what I once called lines of love since they were formed while I was growing a child inside of me with months of bedrest keeping my weight out of control.

Yet today, and right now, I want to cover the mirrors in a shroud of black. I don’t want to see my reflection, or to be seen by anyone at all. I want to tape over my webcam just in case it accidentally gets turned on so that no one can be disgusted by the “what” that I have become. I toss on clothes despite being uncomfortably hot while covered in layers of thick blankets that already hide my body, just so I don’t have to see myself.

Like my ugliness is so appalling I shouldn’t even glance with my own eyes.

A month ago I was supposed to go in and get my annual check up and asked the nurse if my doctor could do it because he knows my scars and wounds and I don’t want anyone else to see them, now I won’t be making the appointment at all because I don’t want to disgust him with my nakedness, having to touch me through latex-free gloves and swab samples from the parts that are hidden away that most definitely shouldn’t be seen.

Last night I wore a long shapeless tunic with sleeves that met my hands and a skirt that met my ankles and I felt disgusting and exposed because I was wearing flip flops instead of something that would have covered me completely, like a pair of boots.

And yet, I am supposed to believe I am beautiful and all I want to do is hide.

Words cut deeper than any razor, knife or scalpel ever could. My confidence went from healthy to non-existent but it’s not anyone’s fault but my own because I am emotional and twist the words so they hurt instead of taking them to mean whatever they are “supposed” to.

I actually thought today that I should put on some makeup, not to feel pretty or playful, but to hide the disgusting skin I am in. Instead I stayed in bed all day because no one would want to see me anyway.

Because, I am ugly.

 

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