New Year's Eve. The day when most people solidify and ready for their newly proclaimed resolutions, and reminisce on the year that is fading.
My resolutions are generally predictable and unchanging ~ get a handle on my weight and health, read a different translation of the Bible, gain more control over my finances, and the like. For 2012, the only change is my commitment to return to school. Class begins in 4 days.
Reflecting on 2011, I see, like most people, that I fell short on some of my resolutions. I stuck with my goal to fast once a month until June, which I think is longer than most people would have hung in. But when vacation time rolled around, all sensible eating went by the way of the Dodo. I did manage to lose 10 of the 20 pounds I had gained the year before, though holiday eating never helps.
The one goal I usually conquer is reading my Bible through. The religion of my youth used exclusively the old King James, but as an adult I have also read NIV and NLT. A few years ago I made the commitment to read a different translation each year, allowing me to receive the Word from many angles. For 2011 it was the Message. This is the translation my teenager, and many who are young not only in years but also in faith, reads and studies from. Since it is what my son reads, I wanted to familiarize myself with this translation. As a person who has already read the more "grown-up" translations, this one left me wanting. Yet, I can see why it is so popular among young people and young Christians ~ it is a wonderful, common language introduction to the Word of God. On the flip side, just as a baby eventually graduates to solid food, there needs to come a time in a person's spiritual growth that demands less-watered-down sustenance. The goal for 2012 ~ The Books of the Bible (chronologically), NIV. No, it is not a different translation than one I have read before, but it is a different layout, still giving me a different perspective.
2011 was an odd year for our family in that we were able to take a real vacation for the first time in 6 years. A long-time patient of mine gifted our family with the use of a timeshare anywhere we wanted to go. Josh was a strong advocate for the beach. I have been to the beach. I wanted to go somewhere I had not been before, and might not have this kind of opportunity to visit again. So, we went to Colonial Williamsburg and the Historic Triangle. And it was awesome!! At least for me. I knew each of the boys enjoyed aspects that interested them individually, and the pool at the resort was worth the stay. On the heels of that trip, we also got to visit Washington DC with another family. Considering that we are not a vacationing family overall, I think we have all had our fill of travel for while. The goal for 2012 ~ I have relented to Josh and am planning a long weekend for just the 2 of us at an oceanfront campground. Also, we are tentatively planning a trip to Philly with the family that invited us to DC.
In most other ways, 2011 was an unremarkable year. Josh and I continue our work with our current employers and for the greater Kingdom. The Boyz are a year older, though I cannot vouch for a year wiser. As happens in life, we have said farewell to some relationships and hello to others. We seem to have a better handle on our finances, though there is still plenty of recovery still to take place. All in all, our lives move forward with the hope of betterment still to come.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
One in a Million
If I had a nickle for every time I've heard, "Can your husband teach my husband how to do that?", I'd be independently wealthy.
I have been blessed with many gifts, not the least of which being a wonderful husband. We have known each other more than 18 years, been together for 16 and married for 14. When we got married I was 19 and he was 20, and everyone thought we were only getting married because we'd had a child. On our 10th anniversary, we renewed our vows, and on that day both sets of parents admitted to us that they never expected us to reach double digits. My first thought was, "Thanks for the vote of confidence." My second thought was, "Nah nah nah nah nah nah!" Immature, I know, but they deserved it.
For all those years, my husband has faithfully been by my side. He stuck with me through 3 years of severe depression, during which I almost killed our son twice, hit my husband in the head with a tea kettle, and contemplated suicide. He has stuck with me through the messiest financial blunders, the craziest of my moods, and the most painful health issues. When our life situations have gotten the ugliest, we have gotten each other through. And we are stronger as individuals and as a unit for it all.
One of the many things that makes my husband so endearing is that he is one of the last of a dying breed ~ he is a romantic. In our world of Women's Lib, chivalry is all but a lost art. And being a strong-willed and fiercely independent woman myself, allowing chivalry to happen for me is not always easy. But my hunny finds the small ways. I often get texts just saying "I love you" or "been thinking of you" or " you are so hot!" He has no problems being playful in the presence of others. He will get a mischievous look in his eye and slap my bottom or tickle me. He is always complimentary, even when I am least deserving. And these are the little things that other women envy, wishing their own husbands were just a little more thoughtful, or just a little less reserved in the expression of their adoration.
I am frequently reminded how obvious it is that my husband adores me. (And just as often I have to ask myself why, but that's another entry.) We have one friend in particular who gets very uncomfortable when we are affectionate with each other is our silly ways. "Will you guys cut it out?!", she will ask in exasperation. I keep reminding her that she's really just jealous because her husband isn't like this. And she admits to it every time. We've had other women tell us that it is almost embarrassing to watch the way my husband loves on me, but it's because they wish their own husbands were so sweet. I can't count how many people have told us that they want what we have in our relationship.
Which is a little disconcerting. I don't particularly like being that kind of an example. It means people are scrutinizing our relationship. It means that there is pressure to perform now. Sure people see and might be envious of the romantic stuff, but our life together has had it's rough spots, too. But maybe that's all the more for people to wonder at. Some major life changes have occurred during the years we've had together, and miraculously, the same changes that might weaken or crumble other marriages couldn't break ours.
Have you seen the movie "Hitch"? Will Smith's character plays a dating consultant, giving advice to guys looking to woo the women they have fallen for. It's all common sensical stuff, but it's little thoughtfulnesses and confidence builders that some guys just seem to forget. I think my husband was the inspiration for this movie. Maybe he should give a "Thoughtful Husbandry" workshop. How many women do I know that would sign their husbands up for that class?!
I have been blessed with many gifts, not the least of which being a wonderful husband. We have known each other more than 18 years, been together for 16 and married for 14. When we got married I was 19 and he was 20, and everyone thought we were only getting married because we'd had a child. On our 10th anniversary, we renewed our vows, and on that day both sets of parents admitted to us that they never expected us to reach double digits. My first thought was, "Thanks for the vote of confidence." My second thought was, "Nah nah nah nah nah nah!" Immature, I know, but they deserved it.
For all those years, my husband has faithfully been by my side. He stuck with me through 3 years of severe depression, during which I almost killed our son twice, hit my husband in the head with a tea kettle, and contemplated suicide. He has stuck with me through the messiest financial blunders, the craziest of my moods, and the most painful health issues. When our life situations have gotten the ugliest, we have gotten each other through. And we are stronger as individuals and as a unit for it all.
One of the many things that makes my husband so endearing is that he is one of the last of a dying breed ~ he is a romantic. In our world of Women's Lib, chivalry is all but a lost art. And being a strong-willed and fiercely independent woman myself, allowing chivalry to happen for me is not always easy. But my hunny finds the small ways. I often get texts just saying "I love you" or "been thinking of you" or " you are so hot!" He has no problems being playful in the presence of others. He will get a mischievous look in his eye and slap my bottom or tickle me. He is always complimentary, even when I am least deserving. And these are the little things that other women envy, wishing their own husbands were just a little more thoughtful, or just a little less reserved in the expression of their adoration.
I am frequently reminded how obvious it is that my husband adores me. (And just as often I have to ask myself why, but that's another entry.) We have one friend in particular who gets very uncomfortable when we are affectionate with each other is our silly ways. "Will you guys cut it out?!", she will ask in exasperation. I keep reminding her that she's really just jealous because her husband isn't like this. And she admits to it every time. We've had other women tell us that it is almost embarrassing to watch the way my husband loves on me, but it's because they wish their own husbands were so sweet. I can't count how many people have told us that they want what we have in our relationship.
Which is a little disconcerting. I don't particularly like being that kind of an example. It means people are scrutinizing our relationship. It means that there is pressure to perform now. Sure people see and might be envious of the romantic stuff, but our life together has had it's rough spots, too. But maybe that's all the more for people to wonder at. Some major life changes have occurred during the years we've had together, and miraculously, the same changes that might weaken or crumble other marriages couldn't break ours.
Have you seen the movie "Hitch"? Will Smith's character plays a dating consultant, giving advice to guys looking to woo the women they have fallen for. It's all common sensical stuff, but it's little thoughtfulnesses and confidence builders that some guys just seem to forget. I think my husband was the inspiration for this movie. Maybe he should give a "Thoughtful Husbandry" workshop. How many women do I know that would sign their husbands up for that class?!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Koinonia ~ Final Thoughts
Waking up on Sunday morning was still a struggle, even though I'd actually gotten some sleep. Once up and moving, though, I felt pretty good. It's amazing what healing prayer and a little rest can do for the body.
It was still dark, and a bit chilly, as I walked from the dorm to the dining building. Coffee was brewed, oatmeal and grits were cooked, and the walk back to the prayer room was dimly lit by the red hues of the very early sunrise coming through the trees. There was no hesitation this time when I got to the door, no apprehension about the possibility of the suggestion of staying for prayer. In fact, there was a lightness within me that I hadn't felt in weeks.
As the day progressed, and our work wrapped up, I reflected more on the previous 24 hours ~ and I became frustrated with myself. I had spent the entire first half of the weekend letting my demon get the better of me, letting it tell me that I wasn't worth healing, that everyone else was more important. I let my demon convince me that I would not be able to handle the battle if I called down the thunder, as if I would even be the one fighting.
Ironically, I neglected the inspiration for the tattoo on my hand. In Aramaic it reads "be still". Most people immediately think of the Psalm that says "be still and know that I am the Lord", but for me, the significance comes from Exodus. As the Isrealites were pursued by the Egyptians, they were halted by the Red Sea, and there they complained to Moses that he should have left them in Egypt, where they'd had it so much better as slaves. Imagine, they actually thought it was better to be beaten and abused instead of crossing a sea into the Promised Land! In the midst of their grumblings, Moses reminded the Isrealites that God would fight for them, if only they would be still and allow Him to.
"The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still." Exodus 14:14 Interestingly, this verse is immediately followed-up by "Then the LORD said to Moses, 'Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on.'" In other words, yes, the Lord will for us, but sometimes we need to make a move. We can't just wallow in our pity party and cry to God, waiting for His deliverance to be plopped in our lap. We must get off our duff and take a step ~ which usually needs to be out of His way. It took being prodded by my fellow kitchen workers, being pushed by my husband, and a lot of self-pep-talk for me to take that step. But once I made it, I then only needed to keep myself out of God's warpath. I may have been the battleground, but I was not the warrior.
Throughout the rest of the retreat, my heart was able to fully acknowledge and bask in the presence of the spirit. Thankfully, this was more than enough to overcome the disappointment I'd felt for succumbing to that small dark voice for so long. I felt to some extent like I had allowed myself to be robbed of this washing in the spirit during that first day, but I needed to let that go, knowing that the potential guilt was another potential stumbling block.
The last few hours that we were all together were some of the most intriguing. Another teammate, who had been serving in an entirely different capacity, told me that she'd felt a nudge to pray with me all weekend, but she'd not been particularly obedient about listening. She had served on the team when I was a participant, but we never really spoke that weekend, and since we were serving in different areas on this team, our paths never really crossed. So I'm not sure why she felt nudged toward me. Also during that time, several people told me how beautiful I was. This compliment always leaves me disconcerted. I told Josh that I'm used to hearing it from him, and I always appreciate hearing him say it, but I'm always uncomfortable when it comes from other people. When he asked me why I told him it was because I don't see it ~ I don't believe it about myself. I don't believe I'm ugly, but beautiful is not a word I would ever use to describe myself. Finally, I knew I was in for it when the soul-peeping disciple asked if we might get together sometime after the weekend to talk more.
Once again, God showed up in full force. He always does at these junctions in our journey. "For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them." Matt 18:20 Imagine when 45-60 gather for days at time. That's why I love to serve at these events ~ because God pours so much into me that I can't help but pour it out into others. My body leaves these weekend exhausted, but my soul leaves renewed.
It was still dark, and a bit chilly, as I walked from the dorm to the dining building. Coffee was brewed, oatmeal and grits were cooked, and the walk back to the prayer room was dimly lit by the red hues of the very early sunrise coming through the trees. There was no hesitation this time when I got to the door, no apprehension about the possibility of the suggestion of staying for prayer. In fact, there was a lightness within me that I hadn't felt in weeks.
As the day progressed, and our work wrapped up, I reflected more on the previous 24 hours ~ and I became frustrated with myself. I had spent the entire first half of the weekend letting my demon get the better of me, letting it tell me that I wasn't worth healing, that everyone else was more important. I let my demon convince me that I would not be able to handle the battle if I called down the thunder, as if I would even be the one fighting.
Ironically, I neglected the inspiration for the tattoo on my hand. In Aramaic it reads "be still". Most people immediately think of the Psalm that says "be still and know that I am the Lord", but for me, the significance comes from Exodus. As the Isrealites were pursued by the Egyptians, they were halted by the Red Sea, and there they complained to Moses that he should have left them in Egypt, where they'd had it so much better as slaves. Imagine, they actually thought it was better to be beaten and abused instead of crossing a sea into the Promised Land! In the midst of their grumblings, Moses reminded the Isrealites that God would fight for them, if only they would be still and allow Him to.
"The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still." Exodus 14:14 Interestingly, this verse is immediately followed-up by "Then the LORD said to Moses, 'Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on.'" In other words, yes, the Lord will for us, but sometimes we need to make a move. We can't just wallow in our pity party and cry to God, waiting for His deliverance to be plopped in our lap. We must get off our duff and take a step ~ which usually needs to be out of His way. It took being prodded by my fellow kitchen workers, being pushed by my husband, and a lot of self-pep-talk for me to take that step. But once I made it, I then only needed to keep myself out of God's warpath. I may have been the battleground, but I was not the warrior.
Throughout the rest of the retreat, my heart was able to fully acknowledge and bask in the presence of the spirit. Thankfully, this was more than enough to overcome the disappointment I'd felt for succumbing to that small dark voice for so long. I felt to some extent like I had allowed myself to be robbed of this washing in the spirit during that first day, but I needed to let that go, knowing that the potential guilt was another potential stumbling block.
The last few hours that we were all together were some of the most intriguing. Another teammate, who had been serving in an entirely different capacity, told me that she'd felt a nudge to pray with me all weekend, but she'd not been particularly obedient about listening. She had served on the team when I was a participant, but we never really spoke that weekend, and since we were serving in different areas on this team, our paths never really crossed. So I'm not sure why she felt nudged toward me. Also during that time, several people told me how beautiful I was. This compliment always leaves me disconcerted. I told Josh that I'm used to hearing it from him, and I always appreciate hearing him say it, but I'm always uncomfortable when it comes from other people. When he asked me why I told him it was because I don't see it ~ I don't believe it about myself. I don't believe I'm ugly, but beautiful is not a word I would ever use to describe myself. Finally, I knew I was in for it when the soul-peeping disciple asked if we might get together sometime after the weekend to talk more.
Once again, God showed up in full force. He always does at these junctions in our journey. "For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them." Matt 18:20 Imagine when 45-60 gather for days at time. That's why I love to serve at these events ~ because God pours so much into me that I can't help but pour it out into others. My body leaves these weekend exhausted, but my soul leaves renewed.
Koinonia ~ the Event
I never sleep well away from home, especially when my sleeping arrangement is a cot or mattress on the floor, which is usually the arrangements at these retreats. Friday night was no exception. Though it was after midnight by the time I got to bed, and though I was exhausted, sleep did not come easily. Combine that with the fact that my wake-up time was 545 and Saturday started off on a dissonant note. The wonderful thing about dissonance is that it can work as long as it fits into the harmony that surrounds it. Thankfully, that was the case. We had gotten so much prep done the night before that the morning ran pretty smoothly. And we were fortunate to work with an experienced kitchen crew.
Uncharacteristically, I am told, there was quite a bit of down time in the kitchen between meals. There is always a flurry of prep immediately before a meal, an adrenaline rush during the serving, and then the seemingly never ending parade of dishes during clean-up. But the crew was awesome and efficient, which allowed time for naps, which I took advantage of, and visiting the prayer room, which everyone else took advantage of. Personally, I was not looking forward to visiting the prayer room.
Earlier in the morning, before the official rush of brunch, some light breakfast foods were prepped and taken to the disciples in the prayer room. While we were there, my fellow kitchen worker suggested that we stay for a few minutes to be prayed over. Ok, I thought, there is safety in numbers and I felt better being prayed for as a unit rather than an individual at that point. Once again we were anointed with oil. The disciple that prayed for us sat on the other side of my co-worker and spoke so softly that I couldn't always make out what was being said ~ which was fine because the headache I was getting interfered with my concentration anyway. This was the second time my head felt like it might explode.
Throughout the rest of the day, as down time presented itself, I was encouraged to visit the disciples. I opted to nap instead. One of my roomies brought her young kitten and, though he was confined to a kitty playpen or was sleeping his owners bunk, he was a comforting presence. I love being surrounded by my own pets when I'm feeling beaten down. They don't have to be in my lap or touching me otherwise, just their presence on the back of the chair or couch is comforting enough.
As I was coming back from my nap, Josh was coming back from his turn with the disciples. He wasn't wearing his glasses, so I knew he'd been crying, but by the look on his face I also knew the tear were for positive reasons. He seemed overwhelmed, in a good way, by the prayer experience, and at once both exhausted and energized. That's the strange thing about prayer, it can be draining physically while at the same time rejuvenating spiritually. At some point, the spiritual energy refuels the physical and the body is able to get back to work. On this spiritual high, Josh was all the more persistent that I visit the disciples. Thankfully, there was work to be done now and I was able to buy time.
Truth be told, I was afraid to visit the prayer room on behalf of myself. First of all, there is a feeling of selfishness when I ask for prayer for myself. As a healthcare professional, I understand and take for advantage of "care for the caregiver". If a person fails to care for themselves, they cannot give themselves fully to the care of others. I understand and embrace this on a physical level, with no problems asking others to assist in my bodily healing, so why do I feel so guilty focusing on my own spiritual care? I am almost hyper-vigilant about taking care of my body so that I can take care of the bodies of my patients. Why can't I do the same for my spirit, so that I can more fully take care of the spirits of those around me?
Secondly, I knew there was a battle raging within me ~ and I wasn't confident that I could withstand what may come of intense prayer. My last round of spiritual warfare was fresh in my mind and the thought of experiencing that kind of pain again was not appealing to me. According to scientific law, for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. I was terrified that when God showed up to fight the battle within the demon inside would rise to the occasion with everything it had, and that I would be ripped apart.
Dinner prep and service came and went, as did the other non-food related commitments of the staff for the evening. Finally, I had run out of reasons to put off going to the disciples, and since I had told Josh I would go after the events of the evening wound down, he wouldn't let me go to bed until I went to the disciples.
There are 12 disciples on the retreat weekend who are essentially prayer warriors, praying around the clock for individuals who seek them out, but also for the participants and the group at large. Since the retreat is 48 hours long, and no one expects these 12 folks to go that long with no rest, the disciples man the prayer room in shifts. As luck would have it, the disciple who stared into my soul the week before was there, staring into my soul again.
I sat in the chair of honor, so to speak, and was asked what I was requesting prayer for. I couldn't answer the question. The tears were already fighting to escape, but the words were not. Someone asked if I needed healing, and I could only nod. Then I was asked what the healing was for, but I still couldn't answer. I looked to Josh, hoping he would speak for me, and even though he knew what I'd been struggling with, he said nothing. After a moment of silence, touch was upon me and the praying began. There were a few general prayers for healing lifted up before Josh finally spoke directly to the release he knew I needed.
That's when I was hit ~ literally, it seemed. A pain suddenly arose that felt as if I'd taken a baseball launched from a pitching rifle to the left side of my head ~ and I'm pretty sure I winced. A moment later, there was the warmth of a hand perfectly over the pain, and right there, along the side of my forehead, I could physically feel the battle for my mind.
I don't know how long I sat there, feeling the pain in my head and the ripping at my heart. It felt like forever. Then, the pain in my head faded, so subtly that it took me a moment to acknowledge it, and the tearing at my heart was replaced with peace. Once the spirit in the room settled, the conversation of what others discerned ensued. It was intriguing what others were able to see in me. I haven't processed it fully yet, but everything that was said resounded with me.
Sleep came quickly that night, despite being away from home and on a cot. I was physically exhausted from the work of the day and emotionally drained for the experience of prayer. The allergy meds and PM pain killer helped, I'm sure. Finally, I was able to rest.
Uncharacteristically, I am told, there was quite a bit of down time in the kitchen between meals. There is always a flurry of prep immediately before a meal, an adrenaline rush during the serving, and then the seemingly never ending parade of dishes during clean-up. But the crew was awesome and efficient, which allowed time for naps, which I took advantage of, and visiting the prayer room, which everyone else took advantage of. Personally, I was not looking forward to visiting the prayer room.
Earlier in the morning, before the official rush of brunch, some light breakfast foods were prepped and taken to the disciples in the prayer room. While we were there, my fellow kitchen worker suggested that we stay for a few minutes to be prayed over. Ok, I thought, there is safety in numbers and I felt better being prayed for as a unit rather than an individual at that point. Once again we were anointed with oil. The disciple that prayed for us sat on the other side of my co-worker and spoke so softly that I couldn't always make out what was being said ~ which was fine because the headache I was getting interfered with my concentration anyway. This was the second time my head felt like it might explode.
Throughout the rest of the day, as down time presented itself, I was encouraged to visit the disciples. I opted to nap instead. One of my roomies brought her young kitten and, though he was confined to a kitty playpen or was sleeping his owners bunk, he was a comforting presence. I love being surrounded by my own pets when I'm feeling beaten down. They don't have to be in my lap or touching me otherwise, just their presence on the back of the chair or couch is comforting enough.
As I was coming back from my nap, Josh was coming back from his turn with the disciples. He wasn't wearing his glasses, so I knew he'd been crying, but by the look on his face I also knew the tear were for positive reasons. He seemed overwhelmed, in a good way, by the prayer experience, and at once both exhausted and energized. That's the strange thing about prayer, it can be draining physically while at the same time rejuvenating spiritually. At some point, the spiritual energy refuels the physical and the body is able to get back to work. On this spiritual high, Josh was all the more persistent that I visit the disciples. Thankfully, there was work to be done now and I was able to buy time.
Truth be told, I was afraid to visit the prayer room on behalf of myself. First of all, there is a feeling of selfishness when I ask for prayer for myself. As a healthcare professional, I understand and take for advantage of "care for the caregiver". If a person fails to care for themselves, they cannot give themselves fully to the care of others. I understand and embrace this on a physical level, with no problems asking others to assist in my bodily healing, so why do I feel so guilty focusing on my own spiritual care? I am almost hyper-vigilant about taking care of my body so that I can take care of the bodies of my patients. Why can't I do the same for my spirit, so that I can more fully take care of the spirits of those around me?
Secondly, I knew there was a battle raging within me ~ and I wasn't confident that I could withstand what may come of intense prayer. My last round of spiritual warfare was fresh in my mind and the thought of experiencing that kind of pain again was not appealing to me. According to scientific law, for every action there is an equal but opposite reaction. I was terrified that when God showed up to fight the battle within the demon inside would rise to the occasion with everything it had, and that I would be ripped apart.
Dinner prep and service came and went, as did the other non-food related commitments of the staff for the evening. Finally, I had run out of reasons to put off going to the disciples, and since I had told Josh I would go after the events of the evening wound down, he wouldn't let me go to bed until I went to the disciples.
There are 12 disciples on the retreat weekend who are essentially prayer warriors, praying around the clock for individuals who seek them out, but also for the participants and the group at large. Since the retreat is 48 hours long, and no one expects these 12 folks to go that long with no rest, the disciples man the prayer room in shifts. As luck would have it, the disciple who stared into my soul the week before was there, staring into my soul again.
I sat in the chair of honor, so to speak, and was asked what I was requesting prayer for. I couldn't answer the question. The tears were already fighting to escape, but the words were not. Someone asked if I needed healing, and I could only nod. Then I was asked what the healing was for, but I still couldn't answer. I looked to Josh, hoping he would speak for me, and even though he knew what I'd been struggling with, he said nothing. After a moment of silence, touch was upon me and the praying began. There were a few general prayers for healing lifted up before Josh finally spoke directly to the release he knew I needed.
That's when I was hit ~ literally, it seemed. A pain suddenly arose that felt as if I'd taken a baseball launched from a pitching rifle to the left side of my head ~ and I'm pretty sure I winced. A moment later, there was the warmth of a hand perfectly over the pain, and right there, along the side of my forehead, I could physically feel the battle for my mind.
I don't know how long I sat there, feeling the pain in my head and the ripping at my heart. It felt like forever. Then, the pain in my head faded, so subtly that it took me a moment to acknowledge it, and the tearing at my heart was replaced with peace. Once the spirit in the room settled, the conversation of what others discerned ensued. It was intriguing what others were able to see in me. I haven't processed it fully yet, but everything that was said resounded with me.
Sleep came quickly that night, despite being away from home and on a cot. I was physically exhausted from the work of the day and emotionally drained for the experience of prayer. The allergy meds and PM pain killer helped, I'm sure. Finally, I was able to rest.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Koinonia ~ Pre-K
Last April, Josh and I were blessed to attend a Koinonia spiritual retreat. Koinonia is similar to the Walk to Emmaus and Kairos retreats that we are also involved in, but Koinonia is shorter in its time-frame and a little more free in its structure. To be honest, I don't remember many details of that weekend, but I very clearly remember the spirit being present. I also remember Josh asking me how soon I thought it would be before we were asked to be on staff. I told him probably for the next weekend 6 months later.
Can I call it, or what?
Yes, Josh and I were called to be on the facilitating team for the October Koinonia weekend. We were given the option of working in the kitchen or as "disciples" in the prayer room. Thankfully, Josh committed us to kitchen duty. It's were we seem to be most suited. We always work in the kitchen for Emmaus weekends and I usually seem to end up in the food room for Kairos weekends, so we figure it's where we are called to be.
Being on a team for a retreat like this asks for a commitment of several weeks of team building meetings. The requirements differ from one ministry to the next, but the function is the same ~ to build a relationship between team members in order to more fully present Christ to the participants. We were not too terribly far into the team meetings when the darkness started to creep in.
The events of the early summer seemed to have left a door open a crack for a spiteful spirit to sneak in and hook its claws in me. All through this team building experience I struggled with spite and envy to degrees which do not ordinary rise up in me. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake it. During our last team meeting, as I continued to struggle with my demon, the disciples prayed over the rest of the team. As I moved from one pair to the next, feeling the laying of hands on my shoulders, I could also feel the conflict within, as if I were being pulled apart on the inside. When I finally reached the last pair to pray over me, one of them looked at me as if they could peer into my soul and see the evil that had taken up residence there. And it scared me.
One of the problems non-believers have with believers is the prevalence of "counterfeit Christians". Since accepting Christ for the second time I have tried to walk the talk. Now, here I was trying to hide my demons, embarrassed that I was less than perfect to serve. Not only was I battling spite and envy, but now I was burdened with the guilt of hiding it.
The few days immediately before the retreat weekend were the hardest for me. Circumstances at work were less then wonderful, events at home had me upset and resentful, and the hour long drive to the retreat was spent is anger, stewing and brooding. In hindsight, I can almost hear Satan laughing.
We got the the camp and set up our sleep arrangements, then headed toward the kitchen. There was a potluck dinner provided for the team and the hour(ish) before the official start of the weekend was spent in last minute prep and prayer. Once again the disciples prayed over each of the other crews within the larger team. One put anointing oil on each of our foreheads and prayer was offered up for endurance and protection. While they prayed over the other crews, I started to get a headache. When they finally made their way to the kitchen crew, anointing oil was placed on my head ~ and I thought it might explode from the pain. I chalked it up to sinus pressure and took some meds. The kitchen crew then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening in prep for the weekend.
Can I call it, or what?
Yes, Josh and I were called to be on the facilitating team for the October Koinonia weekend. We were given the option of working in the kitchen or as "disciples" in the prayer room. Thankfully, Josh committed us to kitchen duty. It's were we seem to be most suited. We always work in the kitchen for Emmaus weekends and I usually seem to end up in the food room for Kairos weekends, so we figure it's where we are called to be.
Being on a team for a retreat like this asks for a commitment of several weeks of team building meetings. The requirements differ from one ministry to the next, but the function is the same ~ to build a relationship between team members in order to more fully present Christ to the participants. We were not too terribly far into the team meetings when the darkness started to creep in.
The events of the early summer seemed to have left a door open a crack for a spiteful spirit to sneak in and hook its claws in me. All through this team building experience I struggled with spite and envy to degrees which do not ordinary rise up in me. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake it. During our last team meeting, as I continued to struggle with my demon, the disciples prayed over the rest of the team. As I moved from one pair to the next, feeling the laying of hands on my shoulders, I could also feel the conflict within, as if I were being pulled apart on the inside. When I finally reached the last pair to pray over me, one of them looked at me as if they could peer into my soul and see the evil that had taken up residence there. And it scared me.
One of the problems non-believers have with believers is the prevalence of "counterfeit Christians". Since accepting Christ for the second time I have tried to walk the talk. Now, here I was trying to hide my demons, embarrassed that I was less than perfect to serve. Not only was I battling spite and envy, but now I was burdened with the guilt of hiding it.
The few days immediately before the retreat weekend were the hardest for me. Circumstances at work were less then wonderful, events at home had me upset and resentful, and the hour long drive to the retreat was spent is anger, stewing and brooding. In hindsight, I can almost hear Satan laughing.
We got the the camp and set up our sleep arrangements, then headed toward the kitchen. There was a potluck dinner provided for the team and the hour(ish) before the official start of the weekend was spent in last minute prep and prayer. Once again the disciples prayed over each of the other crews within the larger team. One put anointing oil on each of our foreheads and prayer was offered up for endurance and protection. While they prayed over the other crews, I started to get a headache. When they finally made their way to the kitchen crew, anointing oil was placed on my head ~ and I thought it might explode from the pain. I chalked it up to sinus pressure and took some meds. The kitchen crew then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening in prep for the weekend.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Gimme That Ol' Time Religion
My husband is in the beginning stages of church planting. As part of this process, we have meetings every 2 weeks with the ragtag band of misfits (don't take that as an insult, they fit right in with us) who have committed to support this effort.
One of my husbands strongest attributes is his ability to network literally anywhere and everywhere he goes. The kitchen he works in was recently renovated, and new equipment was part of the make-over. Having received and installed the new pizza oven, the old model was sold to a local small business owner. Mikey's Late Night Slice is a whole in the wall pizzeria in the Short North of Columbus that caters to the night owls of OSU campus and the Brewery District. And they have rockin' pizza.
Due to its eclectic atmosphere ~ and awesome pizza ~ we decided to have our last meeting at Mikey's. Considering the target clientele, our posse arrived early in the night, so we were able to snag the large table in the indoor eating area ~ which backs up to Studio 83, a gallery of local artists. At 8:30 on a Friday, the Short North is just waking up, but there was plenty of activity to be seen through the front glass windows.
We sat eating for a short while, just catching up on the happenings of the past 2 weeks. Then we progressed to the study and talk of church, with almost an entire pizza still sitting in the box on the table in front of us. At some point, a man had come into the dining area and was simply standing at the end of our table. Being the man he his, my husband said hello and asked what we could do for the gentleman. The man replied, "I was just wondering, if y'all were finished eating, if you would be willing to give the leftovers to help out a homeless man?" Without hesitation, my husband handed the man, who did look very much in need, the box of pizza that was missing only a single slice.
Confession time. I was more than just a little uncomfortable with the situation. Having been mugged by a man pretending to need directions, my first reaction in this type of scenario is to withdraw ~ tuck in anything that might possibly be latched onto and back away. Had the decision been left to me, I'm not so sure the guy would have gotten to box of pizza. Thank God the decision was not mine to make.
While on the topic of confessions...
To add to the already odd dynamic of having a church meeting in the hopping section of the Short North and being solicited my a homeless man, one of our misfit supporters felt the need to make a confession. At a more conventional church meeting in a more traditional setting, this confession would have been met by wide-eyed silence and judgement. Here we talked through what was going on, reassured our misfit that they were loved none-the-less for feeling the need to be real and transparent.
Hands down, this was the strangest church meeting I personally have ever attended. God moved that night in ways I never would have seen coming. And just when I think I have seen it all, I know he's going to do it again.
One of my husbands strongest attributes is his ability to network literally anywhere and everywhere he goes. The kitchen he works in was recently renovated, and new equipment was part of the make-over. Having received and installed the new pizza oven, the old model was sold to a local small business owner. Mikey's Late Night Slice is a whole in the wall pizzeria in the Short North of Columbus that caters to the night owls of OSU campus and the Brewery District. And they have rockin' pizza.
Due to its eclectic atmosphere ~ and awesome pizza ~ we decided to have our last meeting at Mikey's. Considering the target clientele, our posse arrived early in the night, so we were able to snag the large table in the indoor eating area ~ which backs up to Studio 83, a gallery of local artists. At 8:30 on a Friday, the Short North is just waking up, but there was plenty of activity to be seen through the front glass windows.
We sat eating for a short while, just catching up on the happenings of the past 2 weeks. Then we progressed to the study and talk of church, with almost an entire pizza still sitting in the box on the table in front of us. At some point, a man had come into the dining area and was simply standing at the end of our table. Being the man he his, my husband said hello and asked what we could do for the gentleman. The man replied, "I was just wondering, if y'all were finished eating, if you would be willing to give the leftovers to help out a homeless man?" Without hesitation, my husband handed the man, who did look very much in need, the box of pizza that was missing only a single slice.
Confession time. I was more than just a little uncomfortable with the situation. Having been mugged by a man pretending to need directions, my first reaction in this type of scenario is to withdraw ~ tuck in anything that might possibly be latched onto and back away. Had the decision been left to me, I'm not so sure the guy would have gotten to box of pizza. Thank God the decision was not mine to make.
While on the topic of confessions...
To add to the already odd dynamic of having a church meeting in the hopping section of the Short North and being solicited my a homeless man, one of our misfit supporters felt the need to make a confession. At a more conventional church meeting in a more traditional setting, this confession would have been met by wide-eyed silence and judgement. Here we talked through what was going on, reassured our misfit that they were loved none-the-less for feeling the need to be real and transparent.
Hands down, this was the strangest church meeting I personally have ever attended. God moved that night in ways I never would have seen coming. And just when I think I have seen it all, I know he's going to do it again.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Feast & Famine
Working as a massage therapist for the last 9 years I have noticed a definite pattern to the general flow of the busyness of my work. From mid-June to about mid-October is famine season. The days are long and the weather is beautiful, and people spend longer hours enjoying the gifts of Mother Nature. It is also high season for vacations, and people spend their expendable income in other places. August is probably the most barren since people are squeezing in last minute rendezvous and parents are shopping for back to school and paying school fees through the nose. October is the begining of the feast season as the days get shorter and colder and the fall lawn maintenance causes muscle strains, all of which encourage people to meander back to the massage table. January rocks with holiday gift certificate redemptions, and February follows suite with Valentine's Day. March and April fade a little, unless there is some big snow storm that causes a flurry of auto accidents, but May sees a spike with Mother's Day.
Feast and famine ~ it's the nature of the beast.
It is also the nature of my spiritual life.
The first 6 years of my life were a spiritual feast. I was raised in faith until my parents split. After the divorce, there were 4 years of famine. When I turned 10 my mother wanted me to be baptized and reintroduced me to faith. In the years that followed, she and my siblings slipped away, but I stayed ~ until I turned 17. In my junior year of high school, I began to question certain beliefs of the faith in which I was raised, which was apparently frowned upon. "There are just some things we are to take on faith." I was black-marked, the rumor-mill ran at full tilt, and I left the church of my youth. And entered into the most extended period of spiritual famine I have experienced to date. A famine of 9 years.
Since recommitting myself to Christ, my life has been a sequence of spiritual highs and lows. I have had my share of mountain top experiences, only to have them followed-up by overwhelming spiritual attacks which cast me into the deepest, darkest pit of the soul.
Right now, I am in famine mode.
The last few month have brought with them great change in the spiritual life of our family. We have left the church that has been our family for the last 7 year in order to follow God's call in our lives. Yet, I checked out months before the official send-off. And since the send-off, we have been somewhat nomadic, having commitments here and there and everywhere that have kept us from consistently worshiping in one place. Our small group has been disbanded in the interest of focusing our energies toward a church plant, and life in general has been so stupid busy that I have put my own study on the back burner. We have been so focused on planting a church and ministering to others that I have completely neglected ministering to ME. I have spent several months in a spiritual famine.
So, now what? How can I find my way back to the feast?
History has shown me that when I finally recognize that I have been starving spiritually, I dive in and drink deep again, immersing myself in personal study and private worship. I need to attend worship services, even if not at my home church. I surround myself with people from whom I feed off of spiritually.
But this time is different. This time I don't yet have a true church home and family that I can call my Tera. I don't have keys to a building that I can lock myself into and literally, physically lay myself at the foot of the cross. This time I am not only in famine, but I am in transition. Not only am I starving, I am homeless. I thank God that I have never experienced this physically, because spiritually is rough enough.
Those of us who have been on this journey of the spirit for any length of time know that it is not a steady ascent, that it has it's peaks and valleys. I am currently in the valley, and the steep walls seem to block out the Light. But I will keep pressing onward, each step slightly higher as I climb out of the barren valley and strive toward the feast awaiting me at the next peak, knowing that it will be sufficient to sustain me through the famine in the valley that follows.
Feast and famine ~ it's the nature of the beast.
It is also the nature of my spiritual life.
The first 6 years of my life were a spiritual feast. I was raised in faith until my parents split. After the divorce, there were 4 years of famine. When I turned 10 my mother wanted me to be baptized and reintroduced me to faith. In the years that followed, she and my siblings slipped away, but I stayed ~ until I turned 17. In my junior year of high school, I began to question certain beliefs of the faith in which I was raised, which was apparently frowned upon. "There are just some things we are to take on faith." I was black-marked, the rumor-mill ran at full tilt, and I left the church of my youth. And entered into the most extended period of spiritual famine I have experienced to date. A famine of 9 years.
Since recommitting myself to Christ, my life has been a sequence of spiritual highs and lows. I have had my share of mountain top experiences, only to have them followed-up by overwhelming spiritual attacks which cast me into the deepest, darkest pit of the soul.
Right now, I am in famine mode.
The last few month have brought with them great change in the spiritual life of our family. We have left the church that has been our family for the last 7 year in order to follow God's call in our lives. Yet, I checked out months before the official send-off. And since the send-off, we have been somewhat nomadic, having commitments here and there and everywhere that have kept us from consistently worshiping in one place. Our small group has been disbanded in the interest of focusing our energies toward a church plant, and life in general has been so stupid busy that I have put my own study on the back burner. We have been so focused on planting a church and ministering to others that I have completely neglected ministering to ME. I have spent several months in a spiritual famine.
So, now what? How can I find my way back to the feast?
History has shown me that when I finally recognize that I have been starving spiritually, I dive in and drink deep again, immersing myself in personal study and private worship. I need to attend worship services, even if not at my home church. I surround myself with people from whom I feed off of spiritually.
But this time is different. This time I don't yet have a true church home and family that I can call my Tera. I don't have keys to a building that I can lock myself into and literally, physically lay myself at the foot of the cross. This time I am not only in famine, but I am in transition. Not only am I starving, I am homeless. I thank God that I have never experienced this physically, because spiritually is rough enough.
Those of us who have been on this journey of the spirit for any length of time know that it is not a steady ascent, that it has it's peaks and valleys. I am currently in the valley, and the steep walls seem to block out the Light. But I will keep pressing onward, each step slightly higher as I climb out of the barren valley and strive toward the feast awaiting me at the next peak, knowing that it will be sufficient to sustain me through the famine in the valley that follows.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
You Want a Piece of Me?
So does everyone else, it seems.
The last 4 days have been the perfect example of the importance of saying no. My life runs at the speed of light sometimes, and the with the demands on my time prioritization is a priority. I'm a wife and mother of 2 boys, I have a job outside the house, even more jobs within, and I'm involved in more than one ministry. Throw trying to stay physically, mentally and spiritually healthy into that mix and there just aren't enough hours in the day.
Last Thursday my husband called me as I was leaving my office to ask if I wanted to meet some friends 45 minutes away for bowling with our kids. Since the kids were off from school and I was off from work on Friday we went. And we had a wonderful time. Friday was stupid busy. My oldest son ended up in the doc's office, grocery shopping needed to be done ~ which is never a small task since it only gets done every 2 weeks ~ and then prep for pizza and game night ~ which also happens every 2 weeks. Somehow I managed to squeeze in a workout before half of our guests decided to arrive about an hour early. We had 20some people in our house Friday night, and we were finally kicking them out after 10pm.
Saturday morning, a free breakfast certificate was burning a hole in my husband's pocket. Then my son's allowance was burning a hole in his. And clean up from Friday night was still waiting for me. Saturday night we had people over for dinner again, and then took them to church with us. Sunday I actually got to rest a little ~ before heading out to a team building meeting for a ministry weekend we are involved in. We got home in enough time to put dinner in the over for the guests that were coming Sunday evening to discuss my husband's ideas for church planting.
Thank God for Monday. Back to the relaxation of my treatment room (I'm a massage therapist, for those who might not know.) I only worked a half-day due to my boys having dental appts (more busy) and I thought the rest of my evening would be just chilling at home. Silly me. In the 45 minutes that I tried to workout I received several texts and a phone call from people wanted to see me that evening. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!!!! I have been entertaining and surrounded by people all weekend!!!! Can't I be left ALONE for ONE evening?!! Here is where I demonstrate my ability to say NO. No, we cannot get together before our lunch date on Friday. No, I cannot meet you at a your friend's house to pray for them ~ I don't know them, anyway, so you'll have to pray for YOUR friend without me. No, I don't want to go out for dinner ~ I don't mind making dinner and being in the quiet of my own home with my boyz.
As I write this, it is Tuesday morning. My day off. And I have a ministry meeting 45 minutes away this afternoon ~ after I clean my house, do the laundry, and try to get a workout. Tomorrow evening we will have people over again, and then again on Friday (after my lunch date), and on Sunday we will be out of town. I hope no one other than my boyz want something from me Thursday or Saturday because the answer is going to be a resounding NO!
The last 4 days have been the perfect example of the importance of saying no. My life runs at the speed of light sometimes, and the with the demands on my time prioritization is a priority. I'm a wife and mother of 2 boys, I have a job outside the house, even more jobs within, and I'm involved in more than one ministry. Throw trying to stay physically, mentally and spiritually healthy into that mix and there just aren't enough hours in the day.
Last Thursday my husband called me as I was leaving my office to ask if I wanted to meet some friends 45 minutes away for bowling with our kids. Since the kids were off from school and I was off from work on Friday we went. And we had a wonderful time. Friday was stupid busy. My oldest son ended up in the doc's office, grocery shopping needed to be done ~ which is never a small task since it only gets done every 2 weeks ~ and then prep for pizza and game night ~ which also happens every 2 weeks. Somehow I managed to squeeze in a workout before half of our guests decided to arrive about an hour early. We had 20some people in our house Friday night, and we were finally kicking them out after 10pm.
Saturday morning, a free breakfast certificate was burning a hole in my husband's pocket. Then my son's allowance was burning a hole in his. And clean up from Friday night was still waiting for me. Saturday night we had people over for dinner again, and then took them to church with us. Sunday I actually got to rest a little ~ before heading out to a team building meeting for a ministry weekend we are involved in. We got home in enough time to put dinner in the over for the guests that were coming Sunday evening to discuss my husband's ideas for church planting.
Thank God for Monday. Back to the relaxation of my treatment room (I'm a massage therapist, for those who might not know.) I only worked a half-day due to my boys having dental appts (more busy) and I thought the rest of my evening would be just chilling at home. Silly me. In the 45 minutes that I tried to workout I received several texts and a phone call from people wanted to see me that evening. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!!!! I have been entertaining and surrounded by people all weekend!!!! Can't I be left ALONE for ONE evening?!! Here is where I demonstrate my ability to say NO. No, we cannot get together before our lunch date on Friday. No, I cannot meet you at a your friend's house to pray for them ~ I don't know them, anyway, so you'll have to pray for YOUR friend without me. No, I don't want to go out for dinner ~ I don't mind making dinner and being in the quiet of my own home with my boyz.
As I write this, it is Tuesday morning. My day off. And I have a ministry meeting 45 minutes away this afternoon ~ after I clean my house, do the laundry, and try to get a workout. Tomorrow evening we will have people over again, and then again on Friday (after my lunch date), and on Sunday we will be out of town. I hope no one other than my boyz want something from me Thursday or Saturday because the answer is going to be a resounding NO!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Gone Camping ~ The Rest of the Story
Saturday morning greeted us with our husky having escaped. Though his lead was long enough for him to get in the tent and move around inside, my son let him off the lead Friday night after they had gone to bed. Bandit is not a dumb dog ~ and he has been tent camping many, many times before. Thus, he has figured out how to paw the zipper to the tent door-flap enough to create an opening big enough to get his nose through. It's freedom from there. There were several moments of panic as we recognized that the campgrounds was off of a stretch of 2-lane state highway that has no reason to slow down. Also, this was not our familiar neighborhood, and the phone number on his collar was for the home phone, not one of our cell numbers. I took a flying walk through the grounds to see if he was romping though to no avail. As I was heading back to our site, I saw our son take off down the road and knew the dog had been spotted. No worse for ware, though knowing he was in very deep trouble, the dog was dragged by his collar back to the site. All before we'd even made the coffee.
Saturday was still hot. We spent the morning sitting in the shade reading or playing Apples to Apples. After lunch we visited the swimming lake. Dinner was everyone's favorite ~ campfire pizza pies. By this time our neighbors for the rest of the weekend had arrived and the sun was hiding behind gray clouds. It did rain on us for a few minutes, but nothing to really dampen our plans to hangout and relax by the campfire.
Sunday was cooler. Our little guy wanted to go back to the swimming lake, but there was enough of a chill in the air to prevent that. My in-laws joined us for lunch, which turned out to be a pleasant visit. Though, I did hear that they almost didn't make it because of a spat ~ over what I wasn't told. We got to see our nieces, too, which is always a reminder as to why I am so grateful to have boys. Sunday evening rained on us again, but it was short and painless for the most part. We were still able to cook dinner over the campfire and chill.
Monday morning was COLD ~ as in I-can-see-my-breath cold. And our 14-year-old only packed t-shirts. "It was hot on Friday when I packed." He was quite chilly that morning. We didn't have any plans for Memorial Day other than getting home, so we were planning on a low-key breakdown and mosey home. Then we changed our mind. We didn't make any extraordinary efforts, but we did move with a purpose. We loaded up after a fantastic breakfast and headed home.
Despite the laziness of camping, there is an insane amount of work in the prep and clean-up ~ and I was beat. Of course, the fact that our camping neighbors were night owls probably contributed to my exhaustion since their rustling around at their site at all hours tended to keep me from continuous sleep. We unloaded the gear and began the task of washing bedding and organizing in the garage, and suddenly no longer had the energy for it. I was in bed, out cold by 845 that evening ~ even before by kids. I finally stirred again 9 hours later when the clock on my nightstand announced the arrival of the beginning of my workday.
All in all, I'd say we had a good trip. But I am not too upset that we won't make it out again this season.
Saturday was still hot. We spent the morning sitting in the shade reading or playing Apples to Apples. After lunch we visited the swimming lake. Dinner was everyone's favorite ~ campfire pizza pies. By this time our neighbors for the rest of the weekend had arrived and the sun was hiding behind gray clouds. It did rain on us for a few minutes, but nothing to really dampen our plans to hangout and relax by the campfire.
Sunday was cooler. Our little guy wanted to go back to the swimming lake, but there was enough of a chill in the air to prevent that. My in-laws joined us for lunch, which turned out to be a pleasant visit. Though, I did hear that they almost didn't make it because of a spat ~ over what I wasn't told. We got to see our nieces, too, which is always a reminder as to why I am so grateful to have boys. Sunday evening rained on us again, but it was short and painless for the most part. We were still able to cook dinner over the campfire and chill.
Monday morning was COLD ~ as in I-can-see-my-breath cold. And our 14-year-old only packed t-shirts. "It was hot on Friday when I packed." He was quite chilly that morning. We didn't have any plans for Memorial Day other than getting home, so we were planning on a low-key breakdown and mosey home. Then we changed our mind. We didn't make any extraordinary efforts, but we did move with a purpose. We loaded up after a fantastic breakfast and headed home.
Despite the laziness of camping, there is an insane amount of work in the prep and clean-up ~ and I was beat. Of course, the fact that our camping neighbors were night owls probably contributed to my exhaustion since their rustling around at their site at all hours tended to keep me from continuous sleep. We unloaded the gear and began the task of washing bedding and organizing in the garage, and suddenly no longer had the energy for it. I was in bed, out cold by 845 that evening ~ even before by kids. I finally stirred again 9 hours later when the clock on my nightstand announced the arrival of the beginning of my workday.
All in all, I'd say we had a good trip. But I am not too upset that we won't make it out again this season.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Gone Camping ~ Prep and Day 1
With Josh having spent the majority of the summer preaching on Saturday evenings, we didn't really get to camp this year. So, on a kind of a whim, we decided a week beforehand to go camping over Labor Day weekend.
The fun began even before the weekend. That Wednesday evening Josh tells me that Ty is going to try to "negotiate" his way out of going. What on earth gave him the idea that this was negotiable? We were planning on spending 3 nights over an hour away. Why would he think he was going to be able to convince me to let him stay home? He said he was going to offer to clean the whole house. In 3 day he'd better have scrubbed every wall, dusted every book on every shelf and then the shelves themselves, washed anything that even resembled laundry, pulled every dish out of every cupboard and scrubbed them till they sparkled ~ and that would have been just Friday evening. On Saturday, he would have to scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush, scrub the carpet in his bedroom, scoop and scrub litter boxes, prime and paint the hall upstairs... You get the point. There was no way he was staying home. Let the pouting, grumbling and surly attitude begin.
Then Josh and I talked about the camping menu. I told him that we were pretty broke but if we used food we already had, and maybe picked up a few extras that are always camping favorites, we could probably swing it. The suggested menu involved picking up more than I had anticipated, and when I brought up the need to scale it back a little Josh was put out. More pouting. I offered to let him get everything he wanted if he could find a way to make the money appear. I think he may have sold his soul, but somehow he came up with it.
Friday was CRAZY. I spent all of my day in packing and prep. Because we hadn't really been camping this season, there was a lot of replacing odd supplies ~ paper products, broken tent pegs, and the like. The only other time we camped this year was with a group of friends at a nearby state park ~ the the storms were WICKED. Almost frightening. The rain pounded pretty hard and I swear lightning struck out site. We found out that the seams on our tent needed to be resealed. Two stores didn't have the sealer, and I finally ended up at a sporting goods store just to get this one item. It was worth it, though.
We get all packed up and hit the road, Josh and myself quite happy about finally going camping. It was somewhere around 90 degrees when we got to the campgrounds Friday evening, and setting up camp in the heat was laborious. But finally, FINALLY we were there and enjoying the anticipation of just chilling for a few days.
The fun began even before the weekend. That Wednesday evening Josh tells me that Ty is going to try to "negotiate" his way out of going. What on earth gave him the idea that this was negotiable? We were planning on spending 3 nights over an hour away. Why would he think he was going to be able to convince me to let him stay home? He said he was going to offer to clean the whole house. In 3 day he'd better have scrubbed every wall, dusted every book on every shelf and then the shelves themselves, washed anything that even resembled laundry, pulled every dish out of every cupboard and scrubbed them till they sparkled ~ and that would have been just Friday evening. On Saturday, he would have to scrub the bathrooms with a toothbrush, scrub the carpet in his bedroom, scoop and scrub litter boxes, prime and paint the hall upstairs... You get the point. There was no way he was staying home. Let the pouting, grumbling and surly attitude begin.
Then Josh and I talked about the camping menu. I told him that we were pretty broke but if we used food we already had, and maybe picked up a few extras that are always camping favorites, we could probably swing it. The suggested menu involved picking up more than I had anticipated, and when I brought up the need to scale it back a little Josh was put out. More pouting. I offered to let him get everything he wanted if he could find a way to make the money appear. I think he may have sold his soul, but somehow he came up with it.
Friday was CRAZY. I spent all of my day in packing and prep. Because we hadn't really been camping this season, there was a lot of replacing odd supplies ~ paper products, broken tent pegs, and the like. The only other time we camped this year was with a group of friends at a nearby state park ~ the the storms were WICKED. Almost frightening. The rain pounded pretty hard and I swear lightning struck out site. We found out that the seams on our tent needed to be resealed. Two stores didn't have the sealer, and I finally ended up at a sporting goods store just to get this one item. It was worth it, though.
We get all packed up and hit the road, Josh and myself quite happy about finally going camping. It was somewhere around 90 degrees when we got to the campgrounds Friday evening, and setting up camp in the heat was laborious. But finally, FINALLY we were there and enjoying the anticipation of just chilling for a few days.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Pudds of the Past
We always had animals growing up. Nice was the dog who was anything but to anyone other than us. Babe was a bear-sized dog who thought she was a lap-dag. Killer and Bleak were cats who eventually moved into the next door neighbor's house because she fed them better than we did. Puss-Face was a crazy, bad-ass cat who literally ruled the neighborhood. These were just a few of the many cats, dogs, hamsters, gerbils and other hodge-podge pets we grew up with.
Retard (yes, it was a cruel name but fitting for him as a kitten) was my favorite childhood cat. He attached himself to me in that special way that totally endears our animals to us. As a kitten, he really was not the brightest bulb in the box. Once, my brother was running a bubble bath, and the cat was balancing along the edge of the tub, batting at the bubbles as they climbed the tub wall. He must have decided that the bubbles along the edge weren't good enough, because he then launched himself into the middle of the tub. I'm fairly certain he had no clue that there was water under all those tantalizing bubbles. He make a little splash, being a little kitty, and broke the surface looking very surprised. He paddled somewhat frantically to the edge of the tub, clambered out, and as coolly as a soaked kitty could, he sauntered away from the tub, refusing to even shake himself off. One of many such events.
He used to like to run through the apartment and launch himself onto the screen door, much like Garfield would hang on the screen door in the old comics. Then Mom put the storm glass in. I happened to be sitting at the table as he came racing into the kitchen and leapt at the "screen". I never laughed so hard in my life as when he slammed against the glass and then thud onto the floor. He sat there, staring at the door, pondering what the hell had just happened. He then looked as if he'd shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
When I moved out of Mom's house she wanted me to take all of the cats with me. Retard was an indoor-outdoor cat and I was moving to a second-story apartment. I was afraid he might try to jump off the balcony to chase after something and was leery of taking him with me. The parents of a friend of ours has a horse barn and was looking for a hunting cat to keep the rodents out of the barn. I knew he would be perfect. I drove the hour to the property, loved on him one last time, and turned him loose. Then I cried the entire drive back home. Fourteen years later, as I write this, tears roll down my cheek. Retard lived a good life in the horse barn. He was spoiled rotten but his people and loved by the horses ~ not so much by the rodents.
In my adult life, I've had a total of 6 cats and a dog. Four of the cats and the dog are still with us, though we're pretty sure the old, fat cat and the dog have their days numbered.
My first 2 cats were my babies before I had babies. We got them while I was still in high school, but Mom made me take them when I moved out. Tubby and Abby were my girls.
At her zenith, Tubby weighed in at 25lbs. She was huge. For years we thought she was a munchkin because her legs were so short. When the vet finally put her on a diet and she began to loose weight she suddenly developed these legs! Her belly was that big. Tubby was an incredibly lovable teddy-bear type of cat. She would curl up in the crook of my arm at night, holding onto my arm as I held on to her. I have never seen a cat with her patience. When my first son was a toddler, he put her through some paces. He would "walk" her, holding onto her tail like it was a leash as she walked around the room. He straddled her once, trying to ride her like a very small horse. My favorite was when she would be sleeping in a sunbeam, he would crawl over, put his head on her large, pillowesque belly and lie down with her. Never once did Tubby make an aggressive move toward any of the children in our lives as they poked, prodded and chased her.
Tubby eventually ended up with diabetes, just like grossly overweight people tend to, and was on insulin for that last 3 years of her life. Eventually, her kidneys failed, and though she was not an outdoor cat, she decided to spare me the heartbreak of finding her lifeless and went off to pass. Again, years later, I write with tears in my eyes and on my cheeks.
Abigail was the most beautiful Himalayan that ever graced the earth. Diminutive as the breed goes (she was neglected and malnourished by her first owners), she was quite the little lady, with fur like silk and the face of an angel. She was not as tolerant of the kids, but she dealt with them by keeping out of their reach. She would find a lofty perch and observe, never engage. She was a prissy, compulsive groomer. When the incision from her spay became infected the vet put her in a cone-collar to keep her from licking. Unfortunately, it kept her from grooming, too. In the 2 weeks she was made to wear this collar, Abigail seemed to go bonkers from withdrawl. She would go through the motions of grooming ~ she would lick the inside of her cone as if grooming her chest or flank, she would lick her paw and wipe the cone as if cleaning her head and ears. She couldn't keep up with her extensive beauty regime and began to look incredibly scraggly. The other cats we had at the time tried to help, grooming her as best they could, but she still looked pretty rough. When the collar finally came off, she sat for literally 2 hours grooming herself ~ then proceeded to cough up the biggest hairball I have ever seen.
Abigail also had her own little health quirk ~ a heart murmur. The vet estimated that she would live to be about 6. When Tubby passed before her, Abigail was coming up on her 10th birthday. Six months after her sister-of-the-heart, Abigail also passed ~ of a lonely broken heart.
For the first time ever in my life, I was without a pet. We decided to be without for a while, first to let me mourn the loss of my babies, but then to just let our home settle. But having 2 kids who never knew life without pets, the nagging soon began, and we got the first of our current animals.
Retard (yes, it was a cruel name but fitting for him as a kitten) was my favorite childhood cat. He attached himself to me in that special way that totally endears our animals to us. As a kitten, he really was not the brightest bulb in the box. Once, my brother was running a bubble bath, and the cat was balancing along the edge of the tub, batting at the bubbles as they climbed the tub wall. He must have decided that the bubbles along the edge weren't good enough, because he then launched himself into the middle of the tub. I'm fairly certain he had no clue that there was water under all those tantalizing bubbles. He make a little splash, being a little kitty, and broke the surface looking very surprised. He paddled somewhat frantically to the edge of the tub, clambered out, and as coolly as a soaked kitty could, he sauntered away from the tub, refusing to even shake himself off. One of many such events.
He used to like to run through the apartment and launch himself onto the screen door, much like Garfield would hang on the screen door in the old comics. Then Mom put the storm glass in. I happened to be sitting at the table as he came racing into the kitchen and leapt at the "screen". I never laughed so hard in my life as when he slammed against the glass and then thud onto the floor. He sat there, staring at the door, pondering what the hell had just happened. He then looked as if he'd shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
When I moved out of Mom's house she wanted me to take all of the cats with me. Retard was an indoor-outdoor cat and I was moving to a second-story apartment. I was afraid he might try to jump off the balcony to chase after something and was leery of taking him with me. The parents of a friend of ours has a horse barn and was looking for a hunting cat to keep the rodents out of the barn. I knew he would be perfect. I drove the hour to the property, loved on him one last time, and turned him loose. Then I cried the entire drive back home. Fourteen years later, as I write this, tears roll down my cheek. Retard lived a good life in the horse barn. He was spoiled rotten but his people and loved by the horses ~ not so much by the rodents.
In my adult life, I've had a total of 6 cats and a dog. Four of the cats and the dog are still with us, though we're pretty sure the old, fat cat and the dog have their days numbered.
My first 2 cats were my babies before I had babies. We got them while I was still in high school, but Mom made me take them when I moved out. Tubby and Abby were my girls.
At her zenith, Tubby weighed in at 25lbs. She was huge. For years we thought she was a munchkin because her legs were so short. When the vet finally put her on a diet and she began to loose weight she suddenly developed these legs! Her belly was that big. Tubby was an incredibly lovable teddy-bear type of cat. She would curl up in the crook of my arm at night, holding onto my arm as I held on to her. I have never seen a cat with her patience. When my first son was a toddler, he put her through some paces. He would "walk" her, holding onto her tail like it was a leash as she walked around the room. He straddled her once, trying to ride her like a very small horse. My favorite was when she would be sleeping in a sunbeam, he would crawl over, put his head on her large, pillowesque belly and lie down with her. Never once did Tubby make an aggressive move toward any of the children in our lives as they poked, prodded and chased her.
Tubby eventually ended up with diabetes, just like grossly overweight people tend to, and was on insulin for that last 3 years of her life. Eventually, her kidneys failed, and though she was not an outdoor cat, she decided to spare me the heartbreak of finding her lifeless and went off to pass. Again, years later, I write with tears in my eyes and on my cheeks.
Abigail was the most beautiful Himalayan that ever graced the earth. Diminutive as the breed goes (she was neglected and malnourished by her first owners), she was quite the little lady, with fur like silk and the face of an angel. She was not as tolerant of the kids, but she dealt with them by keeping out of their reach. She would find a lofty perch and observe, never engage. She was a prissy, compulsive groomer. When the incision from her spay became infected the vet put her in a cone-collar to keep her from licking. Unfortunately, it kept her from grooming, too. In the 2 weeks she was made to wear this collar, Abigail seemed to go bonkers from withdrawl. She would go through the motions of grooming ~ she would lick the inside of her cone as if grooming her chest or flank, she would lick her paw and wipe the cone as if cleaning her head and ears. She couldn't keep up with her extensive beauty regime and began to look incredibly scraggly. The other cats we had at the time tried to help, grooming her as best they could, but she still looked pretty rough. When the collar finally came off, she sat for literally 2 hours grooming herself ~ then proceeded to cough up the biggest hairball I have ever seen.
Abigail also had her own little health quirk ~ a heart murmur. The vet estimated that she would live to be about 6. When Tubby passed before her, Abigail was coming up on her 10th birthday. Six months after her sister-of-the-heart, Abigail also passed ~ of a lonely broken heart.
For the first time ever in my life, I was without a pet. We decided to be without for a while, first to let me mourn the loss of my babies, but then to just let our home settle. But having 2 kids who never knew life without pets, the nagging soon began, and we got the first of our current animals.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Napmares?
Ever since I was a very young child I've had nightmares. I can actually remember some of them in vivid detail, as if they'd happened recently.
There was the one in which we were having a party and monsters were killing all the guests ~ as though it were a party game. There was the one where a neighbor girl was playing in the snow and something reached out of the drift next to her to rip her head off. One of the less gory but still creepy involved muppet-like specters drifting in through my bedroom window then down the hall and into my parents' room.
In January 2000, I was robbed at gunpoint while getting my then 3-year-old out of the car. Very few things are as terrifying as having a gun pointed at the child in your arms. Thankfully, the assailant got spooked when I subconsciously backed into the clearing of the parking lot where anyone driving by could see us and took off with nothing more than my purse. I thought he'd gotten nothing that couldn't be replaced. I was mistaken ~ as I soon realized that peace of mind does not accompany post-traumatic stress syndrome.
As part of PTSS, I suffered some of the most horrific, gory, blood-n-guts nightmares ~ and I dream in color. It was as if I were sitting in a theater watching a hack-em-up without any power to walk away. I saw bodies broken in half and stuffed into very small spaces, people blown up or disintegrated in barrels and bathtubs full of acid, adults hacked to pieces by little kids. Sometimes I was an active participant in the saga, others I was merely a spectator. But in all of them I was horrified.
Eventually, I ended up in therapy for PTSS and my nightmares. Therapy was actually very helpful. Unfortunately, I still suffer periods of nightmares, though the frequency and intensity have diminished over time. Unfortunately, also, I haven't quite figured out all of my triggers. Some of them are obvious ~ a scene in a movie or descriptive visualization in a book or conversation. But other times they come on without warning or obvious provocation.
Over the last year or so, I've had several nightmares involving my late grandmother. My grandmother and I didn't always have the best relationship, but at the time of her passing I believe we were very much at peace with each other ~ so to have nightmares with her confuses me. In one she was pregnant, furthering my confusion, but then most dreams don't make much sense in the waking hours. There was another one in which I was at a family shin-dig and seemed to be possessed my something that caused me to violently scream every time I saw my grandmother. In one scene I even apologized to her before whatever was inside of me took over, causing me to scream with such intensity that my body levitated from the floor.
I've been wicked tired lately ~ can't tell if it's just the craziness of my life or my chronic fatigue kicking into high gear ~ and I've been napping. Can a person have napmares? Or would they be called daymares? In any case, I had a freaky dream involving my grandmother while napping. I didn't even think I was sleeping deeply enough to dream. In the dream, I had just received word of grandma's passing. I walked into the bathroom of her house, where my mother and sister were sitting staring into a bathtub full of murky water. After respecting the silence for a moment or two, I asked if grandma was in the tub. Both my mother and sister said that they didn't know, but they continued to stare with sorrowful expression into the tub as if she were. Okaaaaaaaaaaaay....?
I love my grandmother, even though she is no longer with us. I am sure that she was on my mind because I was talking with a friend very recently about people who have passed and mentioned her. But why I only dream of her in frightening or creepy scenarios when I think of her kindly on a conscious level I don't pretend to understand. And why I dream at all while napping is also puzzlement.
There was the one in which we were having a party and monsters were killing all the guests ~ as though it were a party game. There was the one where a neighbor girl was playing in the snow and something reached out of the drift next to her to rip her head off. One of the less gory but still creepy involved muppet-like specters drifting in through my bedroom window then down the hall and into my parents' room.
In January 2000, I was robbed at gunpoint while getting my then 3-year-old out of the car. Very few things are as terrifying as having a gun pointed at the child in your arms. Thankfully, the assailant got spooked when I subconsciously backed into the clearing of the parking lot where anyone driving by could see us and took off with nothing more than my purse. I thought he'd gotten nothing that couldn't be replaced. I was mistaken ~ as I soon realized that peace of mind does not accompany post-traumatic stress syndrome.
As part of PTSS, I suffered some of the most horrific, gory, blood-n-guts nightmares ~ and I dream in color. It was as if I were sitting in a theater watching a hack-em-up without any power to walk away. I saw bodies broken in half and stuffed into very small spaces, people blown up or disintegrated in barrels and bathtubs full of acid, adults hacked to pieces by little kids. Sometimes I was an active participant in the saga, others I was merely a spectator. But in all of them I was horrified.
Eventually, I ended up in therapy for PTSS and my nightmares. Therapy was actually very helpful. Unfortunately, I still suffer periods of nightmares, though the frequency and intensity have diminished over time. Unfortunately, also, I haven't quite figured out all of my triggers. Some of them are obvious ~ a scene in a movie or descriptive visualization in a book or conversation. But other times they come on without warning or obvious provocation.
Over the last year or so, I've had several nightmares involving my late grandmother. My grandmother and I didn't always have the best relationship, but at the time of her passing I believe we were very much at peace with each other ~ so to have nightmares with her confuses me. In one she was pregnant, furthering my confusion, but then most dreams don't make much sense in the waking hours. There was another one in which I was at a family shin-dig and seemed to be possessed my something that caused me to violently scream every time I saw my grandmother. In one scene I even apologized to her before whatever was inside of me took over, causing me to scream with such intensity that my body levitated from the floor.
I've been wicked tired lately ~ can't tell if it's just the craziness of my life or my chronic fatigue kicking into high gear ~ and I've been napping. Can a person have napmares? Or would they be called daymares? In any case, I had a freaky dream involving my grandmother while napping. I didn't even think I was sleeping deeply enough to dream. In the dream, I had just received word of grandma's passing. I walked into the bathroom of her house, where my mother and sister were sitting staring into a bathtub full of murky water. After respecting the silence for a moment or two, I asked if grandma was in the tub. Both my mother and sister said that they didn't know, but they continued to stare with sorrowful expression into the tub as if she were. Okaaaaaaaaaaaay....?
I love my grandmother, even though she is no longer with us. I am sure that she was on my mind because I was talking with a friend very recently about people who have passed and mentioned her. But why I only dream of her in frightening or creepy scenarios when I think of her kindly on a conscious level I don't pretend to understand. And why I dream at all while napping is also puzzlement.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Basic Instructions...
I truly believe I am in one of my happiest states of mind when I am in prison. I love my incarcerated sisters and miss them when I'm on the outside. Unfortunately, by the end of Aug they will be even further away.
I've had the opportunity to be in prison twice this past week. Sunday was the Kairos monthly reunion, and though attendance was WAY low, spirits were high. Wednesday I was blessed to return to this facility for the last time. The ladies were putting on a play, and for folks of limited means, they did a fantastic job! Think about it ~ your resources are slim pickin's in prison. But these ladies made a set, backdrops and costumes (some of which were downright hilarious.)
Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. Sound familiar? This play is about the life of Talia, a fictional character who had been dealt her share of low blows and questioned Christ's presence in her life. The story opens with a scene at a bus stop where Talia is trying to find her next fix, when she is assaulted and shot, crying out to Jesus as she falls. As unconscious Talia lies there, spirit Talia looks down in dismay and is greeted by the Jesus she called out for. Talia accuses Jesus of not being there for her as He had promised and abandoning her in her greatest needs throughout her life. Jesus then walks Talia through her life and shows her how He really was with her all long.
B.I.B.L.E. (the play) is an original work, written and directed by primary 3 residents ~ but they refuse to take full credit. Each scene was inspired by experiences in the real lives of other inmates, each scene one of many on the path that led them to incarceration. Of course, the free-world community that had been invited in didn't know this at first. We enjoyed the humor and wit with which the play had been written, knowing that these scenes are truth somewhere out there. But my heart broke with the realization that "somewhere" was much closer than I had realized.
Kudos to the ladies of Franklin Pre-Release Center for their wonderful talent and performance!! I love them all, and pray for their continual walk in His grace. They may not be free in this world, but He will see to it that they are free in eternity. I look forward to ministering to them again once the transition to the new facility is complete. Until then, my heart and prayers go with them. To my incarcerated Kairos sisters ~ God Bless!!
I've had the opportunity to be in prison twice this past week. Sunday was the Kairos monthly reunion, and though attendance was WAY low, spirits were high. Wednesday I was blessed to return to this facility for the last time. The ladies were putting on a play, and for folks of limited means, they did a fantastic job! Think about it ~ your resources are slim pickin's in prison. But these ladies made a set, backdrops and costumes (some of which were downright hilarious.)
Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth. Sound familiar? This play is about the life of Talia, a fictional character who had been dealt her share of low blows and questioned Christ's presence in her life. The story opens with a scene at a bus stop where Talia is trying to find her next fix, when she is assaulted and shot, crying out to Jesus as she falls. As unconscious Talia lies there, spirit Talia looks down in dismay and is greeted by the Jesus she called out for. Talia accuses Jesus of not being there for her as He had promised and abandoning her in her greatest needs throughout her life. Jesus then walks Talia through her life and shows her how He really was with her all long.
B.I.B.L.E. (the play) is an original work, written and directed by primary 3 residents ~ but they refuse to take full credit. Each scene was inspired by experiences in the real lives of other inmates, each scene one of many on the path that led them to incarceration. Of course, the free-world community that had been invited in didn't know this at first. We enjoyed the humor and wit with which the play had been written, knowing that these scenes are truth somewhere out there. But my heart broke with the realization that "somewhere" was much closer than I had realized.
Kudos to the ladies of Franklin Pre-Release Center for their wonderful talent and performance!! I love them all, and pray for their continual walk in His grace. They may not be free in this world, but He will see to it that they are free in eternity. I look forward to ministering to them again once the transition to the new facility is complete. Until then, my heart and prayers go with them. To my incarcerated Kairos sisters ~ God Bless!!
Monday, July 18, 2011
A Weighty Subject
Since I was a teenager I have believed that I was born about 500 years too late. Not only do I love Renaissance music, but the art is fantastic. I absolutely love the models the great artists chose ~ real women. Round, voluptuous, chubby ~ call them what you will, they were real, healthy women. With perfect creamy pale porcelain skin they were the standard of beauty and desirability.
By stark contrast, today's seeming societal standard of beauty is exactly the opposite ~ scrawny, waif-like, hard-bodied and sun baked. During the Renaissance era this body type was turned away from, being the look of poverty, hard work in the blazing sun. The pale, round figure was much more desired being the symbol of wealth and lavish living.
Guess which category I fall into?
I have struggled with weight my entire life. Of 3 kids, I was the chubby one. Both my brother and sister were scrawny bean-poles growing up. And they were relentless at times about pointing out my distinction. I can't remember ever in my young or older adult life being a single-digit size. My one saving grace ~ weight distribution.
Though I have been a plus-size for a decent chunk of my life, most people claim they didn't see it. I see it every time I look in the mirror, try on a pair of jeans or swim suit, or need to be fitted for a bride's-maid dress. The women on my maternal side are all built the same ~ they carry their extra weight in their bellies and butts, with stick legs and arms, looking pregnant when they are not. God is so kind to spare me such a physique. I, thankfully, am built more like the women on my paternal side ~ a little more squared-off, though carrying some extra padding around the butt and thighs. Generally, I am a size smaller on the top half than on the bottom half, which is part of the reason why I buy nothing that is all one piece. (The other part is that I have a long torso, so either the waist doesn't fall where it should or I have a permanent wedgie.)
Anyone remember Get In Shape Girl!? I was probably one of their first customers. I had every kit they made ~ the book, the audio cassettes (yes, this program is that old), the hollow dumbbells that you added water or sand to in order to customize your program, the jump-rope, the ribbon-wand ~ I had and religiously used every one. And I was probably 10-years-old. The war on weight begins young for most girls. Is it any wonder so many of them end up with eating disorders?
And the war rages on. The weapons have changed over the years ~ cycling, Nordic Track, running, kick boxing, Latin dancing, Zumba, weight training, South Beach Diet, calorie counting ~ you name it, I've probably tried it. And at this writing I am still about 15lbs over weight and a size above where I was 18 months ago.
Yo-yoing is such a treat. I have bounced all over between a size 10 and 18. I will start to make some real progress, feel pumped about loosing a few pounds... and then I either get sick or hurt myself, fall of the wagon and choke on the dust as it blazes off without me. Catching up to it is hard enough, but getting back on is even harder, because by the time I get to it, it's doubled back to the starting line.
Despite it all, I am comfortable in my skin. There is certainly room for improvement, and frustration is always with me, but being chubby isn't all bad. My husband absolutely loves my body, just as it is. In fact, he gets upset if my hind-side looses roundness when I ever do loose weight. There are a great number of men out there, specifically within certain ethnic groups, that find the round, curvy female figure incredibly attractive. One woman told me that her son-in-law was concerned that her daughter was loosing too much weight after having a baby. Her daughter and I share a very similar build.
So take heart, all you who wage the weight war with me, and seek out men with (really) old fashioned standards.
By stark contrast, today's seeming societal standard of beauty is exactly the opposite ~ scrawny, waif-like, hard-bodied and sun baked. During the Renaissance era this body type was turned away from, being the look of poverty, hard work in the blazing sun. The pale, round figure was much more desired being the symbol of wealth and lavish living.
Guess which category I fall into?
I have struggled with weight my entire life. Of 3 kids, I was the chubby one. Both my brother and sister were scrawny bean-poles growing up. And they were relentless at times about pointing out my distinction. I can't remember ever in my young or older adult life being a single-digit size. My one saving grace ~ weight distribution.
Though I have been a plus-size for a decent chunk of my life, most people claim they didn't see it. I see it every time I look in the mirror, try on a pair of jeans or swim suit, or need to be fitted for a bride's-maid dress. The women on my maternal side are all built the same ~ they carry their extra weight in their bellies and butts, with stick legs and arms, looking pregnant when they are not. God is so kind to spare me such a physique. I, thankfully, am built more like the women on my paternal side ~ a little more squared-off, though carrying some extra padding around the butt and thighs. Generally, I am a size smaller on the top half than on the bottom half, which is part of the reason why I buy nothing that is all one piece. (The other part is that I have a long torso, so either the waist doesn't fall where it should or I have a permanent wedgie.)
Anyone remember Get In Shape Girl!? I was probably one of their first customers. I had every kit they made ~ the book, the audio cassettes (yes, this program is that old), the hollow dumbbells that you added water or sand to in order to customize your program, the jump-rope, the ribbon-wand ~ I had and religiously used every one. And I was probably 10-years-old. The war on weight begins young for most girls. Is it any wonder so many of them end up with eating disorders?
And the war rages on. The weapons have changed over the years ~ cycling, Nordic Track, running, kick boxing, Latin dancing, Zumba, weight training, South Beach Diet, calorie counting ~ you name it, I've probably tried it. And at this writing I am still about 15lbs over weight and a size above where I was 18 months ago.
Yo-yoing is such a treat. I have bounced all over between a size 10 and 18. I will start to make some real progress, feel pumped about loosing a few pounds... and then I either get sick or hurt myself, fall of the wagon and choke on the dust as it blazes off without me. Catching up to it is hard enough, but getting back on is even harder, because by the time I get to it, it's doubled back to the starting line.
Despite it all, I am comfortable in my skin. There is certainly room for improvement, and frustration is always with me, but being chubby isn't all bad. My husband absolutely loves my body, just as it is. In fact, he gets upset if my hind-side looses roundness when I ever do loose weight. There are a great number of men out there, specifically within certain ethnic groups, that find the round, curvy female figure incredibly attractive. One woman told me that her son-in-law was concerned that her daughter was loosing too much weight after having a baby. Her daughter and I share a very similar build.
So take heart, all you who wage the weight war with me, and seek out men with (really) old fashioned standards.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
What's In a Name?
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."
~ Juliet in Romeo and Juliet
Working in customer service for a few years, I came across some very interesting and unique names. Some of my favorites: Dr. Mi Kwak, Dr Payne, and Dick Withers. Then there were the foreign names that I did not even attempt to pronounce, and the one that had 22 letters and only 2 vowels.
But what is a name, really? Is it a title to live up to? Is it something to strike fear in our hearts upon hearing in its entirety? Is it a torture tool for cruel children (and some very immature adults)? My kids both have monosyllabic names so that I don't trip too much over my tongue when yelling at them. The name given to a child has the potential to be detrimental to social and emotional health and must be considered with great care.
For those who don't know, my full name is Ariel Paige Sebastian Boyer. Growing up, I wasn't impressed with my name. It was far too easy to make fun of. The Smurfs were popular in my young years and I was frequently called Asreal. Then there was the less imaginative Air-head, and probably my brother's favorite, Scary-smell. In addition to hating my sibling-given nicknames, having Paige for a middle name always make me feel like a book ~ "Ariel" and "Sebastian" were the covers and "Paige" was in the middle.
And then, the absolute worst thing for name happened ~ Disney released The Little Mermaid. As if sharing my first name with the main character wasn't bad enough, my last name shared the limelight in the movie as well. Let the mermaid jokes begin. In high school I made a bet with my friends that I would give $50 to anyone who could tell me a mermaid joke I hadn't already heard. I have yet to pay out. I have often joked (only half-joked, really) that I would love to sue Disney for pain and suffering. As a performing artist (in high school, at least) I should have at least gotten a job at Disney with no questions asked. The name Ariel was in the movie Footloose and in Shakespeare's Tempest but does anyone make that association? I hated wearing my name tag at my after-school job because anyone who came in with a little girl would bend low to their daughter and say, "Guess what her name is!" Can I tell you how happy I was to marry young and change at least my surname? What was once a beautifully unique name has become as common as next, high schools and college campuses are teeming with Ariel's, and we owe all thanks to Mr. Disney.
There is another lesser known, yet very popular, place to find the name Ariel. Isaiah 29:1 says, "Woe to you Ariel, Ariel, the city where David settled." Yes, Ariel is in the Bible as an alternate name for Jerusalem, God's chosen city, the City of David. (Granted, the city is being cursed in this verse, but if you take a moment to read the chapter, there is a happy ending.) Jerusalem was the city God chose for his permanent earthly dwelling, where Solomon built the Lord's temple. It was in Jerusalem that the Lord saw fit to fill the temple with His glory. It is an interesting parallel that Christ has chosen me, Ariel the person, in which to make an earthly dwelling, as well.
In it's original Hebrew, Ariel means "lion of God". The city Jerusalem was in the land of Judah ~ Jesus is often referred to as the "lion of Judah". I like the idea that I have this tie to Christ. The lion is king of the jungle, Christ is King of His followers, and my name suggests that I have very large paw-prints to fill. Taking a female slant, the lioness is the huntress, the fighter and protector of her pride (family). That doesn't sound like me, does it? Yet, the lioness submits to her mate, the ultimate head of the pride, the lion ~ just as I, a believer, am to submit to my King.
All things considered, Ariel is a great and powerful name, one to be worn with grace and pride. Hopefully, I can live up to it.
By any other name would smell as sweet."
~ Juliet in Romeo and Juliet
Working in customer service for a few years, I came across some very interesting and unique names. Some of my favorites: Dr. Mi Kwak, Dr Payne, and Dick Withers. Then there were the foreign names that I did not even attempt to pronounce, and the one that had 22 letters and only 2 vowels.
But what is a name, really? Is it a title to live up to? Is it something to strike fear in our hearts upon hearing in its entirety? Is it a torture tool for cruel children (and some very immature adults)? My kids both have monosyllabic names so that I don't trip too much over my tongue when yelling at them. The name given to a child has the potential to be detrimental to social and emotional health and must be considered with great care.
For those who don't know, my full name is Ariel Paige Sebastian Boyer. Growing up, I wasn't impressed with my name. It was far too easy to make fun of. The Smurfs were popular in my young years and I was frequently called Asreal. Then there was the less imaginative Air-head, and probably my brother's favorite, Scary-smell. In addition to hating my sibling-given nicknames, having Paige for a middle name always make me feel like a book ~ "Ariel" and "Sebastian" were the covers and "Paige" was in the middle.
And then, the absolute worst thing for name happened ~ Disney released The Little Mermaid. As if sharing my first name with the main character wasn't bad enough, my last name shared the limelight in the movie as well. Let the mermaid jokes begin. In high school I made a bet with my friends that I would give $50 to anyone who could tell me a mermaid joke I hadn't already heard. I have yet to pay out. I have often joked (only half-joked, really) that I would love to sue Disney for pain and suffering. As a performing artist (in high school, at least) I should have at least gotten a job at Disney with no questions asked. The name Ariel was in the movie Footloose and in Shakespeare's Tempest but does anyone make that association? I hated wearing my name tag at my after-school job because anyone who came in with a little girl would bend low to their daughter and say, "Guess what her name is!" Can I tell you how happy I was to marry young and change at least my surname? What was once a beautifully unique name has become as common as next, high schools and college campuses are teeming with Ariel's, and we owe all thanks to Mr. Disney.
There is another lesser known, yet very popular, place to find the name Ariel. Isaiah 29:1 says, "Woe to you Ariel, Ariel, the city where David settled." Yes, Ariel is in the Bible as an alternate name for Jerusalem, God's chosen city, the City of David. (Granted, the city is being cursed in this verse, but if you take a moment to read the chapter, there is a happy ending.) Jerusalem was the city God chose for his permanent earthly dwelling, where Solomon built the Lord's temple. It was in Jerusalem that the Lord saw fit to fill the temple with His glory. It is an interesting parallel that Christ has chosen me, Ariel the person, in which to make an earthly dwelling, as well.
In it's original Hebrew, Ariel means "lion of God". The city Jerusalem was in the land of Judah ~ Jesus is often referred to as the "lion of Judah". I like the idea that I have this tie to Christ. The lion is king of the jungle, Christ is King of His followers, and my name suggests that I have very large paw-prints to fill. Taking a female slant, the lioness is the huntress, the fighter and protector of her pride (family). That doesn't sound like me, does it? Yet, the lioness submits to her mate, the ultimate head of the pride, the lion ~ just as I, a believer, am to submit to my King.
All things considered, Ariel is a great and powerful name, one to be worn with grace and pride. Hopefully, I can live up to it.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Daddy Dearest
"You need a license to buy dog or drive a car, hell, you need a license to catch a fish. But they'll let any butt reaming asshole be a father." ~ Todd (Keanu Reeves) in Parenthood
Harsh words, but only because they are true. Think about all the stories of dead-beat dads out there. Some of you might even know some of these guys. Someone said, "Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a Dad."
Growing up, I had a great dad. He was my biggest fan and cheerleader ~ almost to the point of embarrassment. He did his best to raise 3 kids at the poverty level, and yet managed to give us many of the extras kids love. Dad did everything he could to be at the events that were important to me and supported everything I pursued, even when the distance was considerable.
And then, I grew up.
When we moved over 150 miles away from my dad, and my kids were very young, I tried very hard to visit as often as was possible. It is important to me that my kids know their family. But after years of being the one to make the 320+ mile round trip and making all the phone calls, I got tired. The highways and phonelines run both ways, last time I checked. So I took a break and was no longer the one to initiate contact. Which is to say that there was no contact ~ for almost a year.
Then my dad decided to remarry and I became pregnant with my second son, and I thought it was important to keep the relationship intact. But it was more of the same one-way effort, which again became tiring.
One Halloween, the family was at my brother's house for Trick or Treat. Dad had to drive through my town to get to my brother's place, but he never let me know that he was passing through. Ok. He knew he would see us there. I told Dad that there was only weekend in Dec that I could come up for the holidays and asked if he would be around. That was hunting season, but he was usually back from the woods by afternoon. We were staying with Josh's sister anyway, so we could get together with Dad for a late lunch or dinner and not interrupt anyone's plans.
The week before we were supposed to visit, I called Dad to make sure everything was still a go. No response. I tried again a few days later. Again, no response. Dad finally called when we were enroute to my sister-in-law's house to say that he had been hunting with my brother all week and he could save me a trip by stopping by on his way home. That would have been a great plan ~ had he told me when I first called him several days earlier. Or I could have taken the boys over to my brother's house any day that week to not only see their grandfather, but also their cousins. Instead, we were carrying on with the plans that were originally made (since other family was expecting us) and we never did see Dad for Christmas that year.
But then, this was not the first holiday season that we missed visiting my dad. There was the year that he changed his phone number and didn't tell me. When I called the number I'd be using for him I reached a bowling alley. I sent him a card wishing him happy holidays and letting him know that I no longer had his number ~ only then did he call me. And he makes a few visits to my brother's house every year ~ once again, he has to pass through my town to get to my brother ~ yet, he never thinks to let me know that he is passing through, never asks if he could stop by to see his grandkids, never suggests that we meet up at my brother's house.
I haven't seen my father since that Halloween, nor have I talked to him since that Christmas. I have made the obligatory phone calls on his birthday and Father's Day, but had to leave messages. He did call to wish me a happy birthday this year, but he has a habit of calling late and I was already in bed. Have I gotten a phone call just because he hasn't heard from me? Have my boys gotten Christmas or birthday cards? Have my brother's kids? Hmmm.
This all sounds like jealousy, and maybe that's a miniscule piece. But it's more my spiteful nature getting the upper-hand. Do I love my father? Absolutely. But, my father doesn't seem to care to make the effort to keep the relationship going, why should I be the only one to work at it?
Harsh words, but only because they are true. Think about all the stories of dead-beat dads out there. Some of you might even know some of these guys. Someone said, "Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a Dad."
Growing up, I had a great dad. He was my biggest fan and cheerleader ~ almost to the point of embarrassment. He did his best to raise 3 kids at the poverty level, and yet managed to give us many of the extras kids love. Dad did everything he could to be at the events that were important to me and supported everything I pursued, even when the distance was considerable.
And then, I grew up.
When we moved over 150 miles away from my dad, and my kids were very young, I tried very hard to visit as often as was possible. It is important to me that my kids know their family. But after years of being the one to make the 320+ mile round trip and making all the phone calls, I got tired. The highways and phonelines run both ways, last time I checked. So I took a break and was no longer the one to initiate contact. Which is to say that there was no contact ~ for almost a year.
Then my dad decided to remarry and I became pregnant with my second son, and I thought it was important to keep the relationship intact. But it was more of the same one-way effort, which again became tiring.
One Halloween, the family was at my brother's house for Trick or Treat. Dad had to drive through my town to get to my brother's place, but he never let me know that he was passing through. Ok. He knew he would see us there. I told Dad that there was only weekend in Dec that I could come up for the holidays and asked if he would be around. That was hunting season, but he was usually back from the woods by afternoon. We were staying with Josh's sister anyway, so we could get together with Dad for a late lunch or dinner and not interrupt anyone's plans.
The week before we were supposed to visit, I called Dad to make sure everything was still a go. No response. I tried again a few days later. Again, no response. Dad finally called when we were enroute to my sister-in-law's house to say that he had been hunting with my brother all week and he could save me a trip by stopping by on his way home. That would have been a great plan ~ had he told me when I first called him several days earlier. Or I could have taken the boys over to my brother's house any day that week to not only see their grandfather, but also their cousins. Instead, we were carrying on with the plans that were originally made (since other family was expecting us) and we never did see Dad for Christmas that year.
But then, this was not the first holiday season that we missed visiting my dad. There was the year that he changed his phone number and didn't tell me. When I called the number I'd be using for him I reached a bowling alley. I sent him a card wishing him happy holidays and letting him know that I no longer had his number ~ only then did he call me. And he makes a few visits to my brother's house every year ~ once again, he has to pass through my town to get to my brother ~ yet, he never thinks to let me know that he is passing through, never asks if he could stop by to see his grandkids, never suggests that we meet up at my brother's house.
I haven't seen my father since that Halloween, nor have I talked to him since that Christmas. I have made the obligatory phone calls on his birthday and Father's Day, but had to leave messages. He did call to wish me a happy birthday this year, but he has a habit of calling late and I was already in bed. Have I gotten a phone call just because he hasn't heard from me? Have my boys gotten Christmas or birthday cards? Have my brother's kids? Hmmm.
This all sounds like jealousy, and maybe that's a miniscule piece. But it's more my spiteful nature getting the upper-hand. Do I love my father? Absolutely. But, my father doesn't seem to care to make the effort to keep the relationship going, why should I be the only one to work at it?
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Long Road Home
The week following this ordeal was not a pleasant one. My body was still exhausted, though functional. The dizziness of detoxing my meds was slow to leave me, as was the loopiness. Darkness still clouded my mind from time to time, and every now and then tears won their freedom. Yet, everyday was a little better. It seemed that Legion had retreated, at least for the time being.
Some days were better than others. One day at work I had messaged Josh in the afternoon saying I'd felt too loopy to drive home. He had borrowed my truck, and I don't like driving his car on a good day. I was worried that driving a vehicle I was somewhat unfamiliar with feeling the way that I was would have less than pretty results. But God is kind, and a block opened up in my schedule during which I could nap. The rest was just enough to get me home safely.
On my days off, youtube was my best friend, even though I wasn't watching. I was listening. Certain songs played in my head over and over during the previous weekend, and, of course, there was a reason. I connect with Christ most completely via music ~ it is also my strongest weapon against the enemy. You Won't Relent by Jesus Culture, Your Great Name by Natalie Grant, How He Loves Us by Kim Walker, and others were vital in keeping my sanity. What reciting the Lord's Prayer had done for my earlier battle, focusing on the lyrics of these songs did for my recovery ~ fought the darkness within. "Now the Spirit of the LORD had departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the LORD tormented him...Whenever the spirit from God came on Saul, David would take up his lyre and play. Then relief would come to Saul; he would feel better, and the evil spirit would leave him." 1Sam 16:14, 23
At this writing it is almost 2 weeks since the beginning of this battle, and though I am still coping with physical symptoms of cold-turkey quitting ~ some days are still better than others ~ my heart and spirit have finally found a peaceful safe-harbor
Some days were better than others. One day at work I had messaged Josh in the afternoon saying I'd felt too loopy to drive home. He had borrowed my truck, and I don't like driving his car on a good day. I was worried that driving a vehicle I was somewhat unfamiliar with feeling the way that I was would have less than pretty results. But God is kind, and a block opened up in my schedule during which I could nap. The rest was just enough to get me home safely.
On my days off, youtube was my best friend, even though I wasn't watching. I was listening. Certain songs played in my head over and over during the previous weekend, and, of course, there was a reason. I connect with Christ most completely via music ~ it is also my strongest weapon against the enemy. You Won't Relent by Jesus Culture, Your Great Name by Natalie Grant, How He Loves Us by Kim Walker, and others were vital in keeping my sanity. What reciting the Lord's Prayer had done for my earlier battle, focusing on the lyrics of these songs did for my recovery ~ fought the darkness within. "Now the Spirit of the LORD had departed from Saul, and an evil spirit from the LORD tormented him...Whenever the spirit from God came on Saul, David would take up his lyre and play. Then relief would come to Saul; he would feel better, and the evil spirit would leave him." 1Sam 16:14, 23
At this writing it is almost 2 weeks since the beginning of this battle, and though I am still coping with physical symptoms of cold-turkey quitting ~ some days are still better than others ~ my heart and spirit have finally found a peaceful safe-harbor
Thursday, June 16, 2011
An Ol' Time Prayer Meetin'
Monday. I never thought I'd be so happy to see the end of a weekend. Maybe, I'd reasoned, if I could get back to work in my Christian office surrounded by my Christian co-workers, my body would heal and my mind would settle. I girl can hope, right? Alas, I knew in my soul it was not meant to be, and I messaged a friend from church asking for help. Without giving her the story ~ she had seen me on Saturday night and knew I was off my nut ~ I told her that I felt the need for some serious group prayer and would she be willing to help me rally some troops. Wasting the no time, the bugle sounded and the time was set for that evening.
When I walked into our break room at work, Bobbie was making coffee. She could see plain as day that I was not well, though she assumed that it was physical illness ~ I am known for allergy and sinus issues. When Bobbie asked what was wrong, I knew she was one of the few people to which I could honestly answer the question. I gave her the Cliff's Notes version of my weekend and admitted that I was still feeling pretty shredded and doubted my ability to complete my shift. Bobbie always takes such good care of me. She sent out the APB to our substitute therapists and got my afternoon covered. I'm convinced that woman is an angel in human clothing.
Leaving work for the day, my plan was to get home and rest for a while and then maybe putter around getting things done that had been neglected over the weekend. I had lunch and lay down in bed to read and mellow ~ and woke up 3 hours later when Josh got home, feeling no better rested. Sleeping until the end of time would not have been enough rest to shake the darkness out of my soul.
Josh and I headed out to meet a few people at the church for my requested group prayer. Of course, the one person I had hoped wouldn't be there was. And his was the only other car in the lot when I pulled in. Lovely. A few minutes later, however, a few other kind souls arrived and the telling of my story began. I ended up in a chair surrounded by loving spirits, the warmth of their hands resting on me as they prayed. One person brought up the trial of Job, how God had allowed Satan to destroy his life though Job was not deserving. I felt comfort knowing that these folks where with me in this battle, and yet I felt no release
And I have to confess that in my heart of hearts I believe that release was hindered in part because of the one person I hoped wouldn't be there. I believe he was there for the show it, for the sake of appearances, as opposed to truly getting dirty routing the evil at hand. It interested me that though he started off with a hand on my shoulder, as the intensity of the situation escalated he backed off while others drew in. By the wind-down, he was no where near me ~ a good several feet away. Hmm. Did the Spirit lead him to step away to pray more privately? Or did the situation make him so uncomfortable that he had to physically remove himself from it? Hmm...My guess would be the latter.
When I walked into our break room at work, Bobbie was making coffee. She could see plain as day that I was not well, though she assumed that it was physical illness ~ I am known for allergy and sinus issues. When Bobbie asked what was wrong, I knew she was one of the few people to which I could honestly answer the question. I gave her the Cliff's Notes version of my weekend and admitted that I was still feeling pretty shredded and doubted my ability to complete my shift. Bobbie always takes such good care of me. She sent out the APB to our substitute therapists and got my afternoon covered. I'm convinced that woman is an angel in human clothing.
Leaving work for the day, my plan was to get home and rest for a while and then maybe putter around getting things done that had been neglected over the weekend. I had lunch and lay down in bed to read and mellow ~ and woke up 3 hours later when Josh got home, feeling no better rested. Sleeping until the end of time would not have been enough rest to shake the darkness out of my soul.
Josh and I headed out to meet a few people at the church for my requested group prayer. Of course, the one person I had hoped wouldn't be there was. And his was the only other car in the lot when I pulled in. Lovely. A few minutes later, however, a few other kind souls arrived and the telling of my story began. I ended up in a chair surrounded by loving spirits, the warmth of their hands resting on me as they prayed. One person brought up the trial of Job, how God had allowed Satan to destroy his life though Job was not deserving. I felt comfort knowing that these folks where with me in this battle, and yet I felt no release
And I have to confess that in my heart of hearts I believe that release was hindered in part because of the one person I hoped wouldn't be there. I believe he was there for the show it, for the sake of appearances, as opposed to truly getting dirty routing the evil at hand. It interested me that though he started off with a hand on my shoulder, as the intensity of the situation escalated he backed off while others drew in. By the wind-down, he was no where near me ~ a good several feet away. Hmm. Did the Spirit lead him to step away to pray more privately? Or did the situation make him so uncomfortable that he had to physically remove himself from it? Hmm...My guess would be the latter.
Monday, June 13, 2011
"My Name is Legion"
Then Jesus asked him, “What is your name?”
“My name is Legion,” he replied, “for we are many.” Mark 5:9
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I was more drained than before ~ and yet less burdened. I knew beyond doubt that I was under spiritual attack and that this was by no means over. Josh asked if I felt better. Well, I'd said, in order to answer that question, I'd have to make a confession. I finally told Josh what I had done regarding my meds and my experience in the bath. I felt improved, to be sure, but by no means well.
I went and lay on the couch beside Josh, and though I wanted to keep talking through what I was experiencing, he told me to be still (something I don't do well, hence the tattoo reminder.) As we lay there on the couch in the rec room Josh started praying over me. He has done this before when I have had particularly disturbing nightmares, and I'd felt a definite release, like a weight lifting off of my body. This experience was slightly different. There are no words to describe what was going on in and around me. I could feel the conflict within, and though my body felt again like a lead weight, I could feel Josh quivering, his hands shaking as they scanned my body. I could hear faint mutterings and knew he was praying in tongues ~ only the 2nd time I'd ever heard him do this. The pattern resumed ~ the darkness welling up in me and the light crashing in. Over and over again. At last, there was a peace. The muscles in my neck went limp and my head rolled, my body sinking into the cushions of the couch. I have no idea how long Josh prayed over me, but I do know that the effort drained him to the point of feeling sick. When I voiced feeling beaten down, Josh reminded me that my body had just been a battlefield.
In hindsight, I wondered just how many attackers surrounded me. It was as if each onset of darkness was its own entity, and the light of the Lord had to individually conquer every one. I was reminded of the New Test story of the man who lived among the tombs of the Gerasenes, raving mad, so strong that he could not be bound, and cutting his body with stones. When Jesus arrived, the demons inside of the man begged Christ not to torment them. Jesus asked the demons' name and they replied, "My name is Legion, for we are many."
Could I have had my own Legion? Josh reminded me that as a believer the Spirit would not allow me to be possessed. OK. Is Legion's only purpose possession? Is it possible for Legion to attack and torment with out possessing? I think so, since I continue this battle, every day defeating another "Legion".
“My name is Legion,” he replied, “for we are many.” Mark 5:9
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I was more drained than before ~ and yet less burdened. I knew beyond doubt that I was under spiritual attack and that this was by no means over. Josh asked if I felt better. Well, I'd said, in order to answer that question, I'd have to make a confession. I finally told Josh what I had done regarding my meds and my experience in the bath. I felt improved, to be sure, but by no means well.
I went and lay on the couch beside Josh, and though I wanted to keep talking through what I was experiencing, he told me to be still (something I don't do well, hence the tattoo reminder.) As we lay there on the couch in the rec room Josh started praying over me. He has done this before when I have had particularly disturbing nightmares, and I'd felt a definite release, like a weight lifting off of my body. This experience was slightly different. There are no words to describe what was going on in and around me. I could feel the conflict within, and though my body felt again like a lead weight, I could feel Josh quivering, his hands shaking as they scanned my body. I could hear faint mutterings and knew he was praying in tongues ~ only the 2nd time I'd ever heard him do this. The pattern resumed ~ the darkness welling up in me and the light crashing in. Over and over again. At last, there was a peace. The muscles in my neck went limp and my head rolled, my body sinking into the cushions of the couch. I have no idea how long Josh prayed over me, but I do know that the effort drained him to the point of feeling sick. When I voiced feeling beaten down, Josh reminded me that my body had just been a battlefield.
In hindsight, I wondered just how many attackers surrounded me. It was as if each onset of darkness was its own entity, and the light of the Lord had to individually conquer every one. I was reminded of the New Test story of the man who lived among the tombs of the Gerasenes, raving mad, so strong that he could not be bound, and cutting his body with stones. When Jesus arrived, the demons inside of the man begged Christ not to torment them. Jesus asked the demons' name and they replied, "My name is Legion, for we are many."
Could I have had my own Legion? Josh reminded me that as a believer the Spirit would not allow me to be possessed. OK. Is Legion's only purpose possession? Is it possible for Legion to attack and torment with out possessing? I think so, since I continue this battle, every day defeating another "Legion".
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Incapacitated
Sunday morning arrived much earlier than anticipated, and brought with it liquid lead, which it fed to me intravenously. I felt as if my body was no longer attached to my mind ~ heavy, burdensome, exhausting to move. I was dizzy to the point of nausea when I stood and God forbid I make a quick movement. Had I been drinking the night before I would have sworn I had the worst hang-over known to man. It was exhausting to get dressed and ready for church, and I was so loopy that I was afraid to drive. I collapsed into the car and fought hard to prevent succumbing to the darkness in and around me.
Once at the church, I collapsed into a pew and literally wanted to die. My body felt as if it were not my own ~ disconnected, not responsive to what my mind willed for my body to do. Ironically, the sermon topic was exhaustion over doing good. I can't tell you much more about it because I couldn't listen. Whatever had a hold of me refused to allow me to pay attention, and I fought the urge to break down and sob. It took everything in me to keep from making a tearful spectacle of myself. After service, more than one concerned soul asked if I was OK. I lied, of course, claiming that I was just overly tired from a particularly long week.
The truth of the matter, I would come to discover, ran far deeper than detoxing medication. Our family had been invited to an all day party at a friend's house Sunday afternoon. I told Josh to take the boyz over and I would meet them there after I'd slept for a while. Two hours later, just as I was getting the strength to swing my legs out of the bed, my cell phone rang. Josh was wondering if I was going to make it over at all. I did make it ~ and felt like a salty, anti-social 5th wheel. It wasn't that I didn't want to join in and have a good time, I literally didn't have the ability to do so. I sat, half conscious and half aware of what was going on around me, feeling like quite the pill for almost 2 hours before bowing out and making my way home. Our friend tagged me in a facebook pic ~ not one of my better photos. When I commented that it was obvious that I didn't feel well, another friend chimed in to state that it was obvious to her because I wasn't smiling, and I was always smiling.
Once home, I collapsed on the couch for another couple of hours. I tried to be productive as I lay there like a bump on a log by reading, but my eyes refused to focus. I thought that I needed to get off the couch and get some house work done, but I literally couldn't move ~ my body forbade it. As I sat there, wallowing in my pity-party, I realized that what I was experiencing went beyond detox. I could hear laughter in my head and see the accompanying darkness. I was under spiritual attack, and the devil was enjoying every minute of torturing me.
A hot bath sounded like a good place to retreat. I could close the door and run the fan so the Boyz wouldn't freak out at seeing Mommy fall apart. I lay there, debating whether to slip under the water, fighting the tears that were welling in me. And as the tears fought for their right to be expressed, my mind's eye saw blackness, darkness, evil ~ all consuming and overpowering. The light may have been on in the room, but I never would have known. Though I wasn't frightened, I was a little freaked, and the only remedy that came to mind was prayer. As I tried to pray, the blackness interfered with my focus (or lack thereof on a good day) and I couldn't get very far. So I started to recite the Lord's prayer. I knew it by heart and could force my way through it facing every distraction under the sun if necessary. As I lay there engulfed in hot water, my body twisted into a position that was less than comfortable and certainly not of my choosing, reciting the Lord's prayer, my mind's eye could see light again ~ a thin band on the horizon at first. And then suddenly encompassing my entire field of mental vision, crushing the darkness, forcing it down. And my physical being went with the darkness, sinking into the water, feeling at once like lead and completely weightless. As I acknowledged my limp, non-responsive being, I was convinced that this is what mortal death must feel like ~ conscious recognition of one's lifeless being. No words can adequately describe the feeling.
My lifeless body lay in the water for an indeterminable amount of time, then the evil returned. The fighting back tears and extreme darkness rushed back into my being with renewed vigor. Once again, all I could do was recite the Lord's prayer. And again the light came crashing into me, knocking me down, and the evil with me. I can't begin to count number of times I went through this battle in my bathtub, but each confrontation left me weary, battered, and shredded.
Once at the church, I collapsed into a pew and literally wanted to die. My body felt as if it were not my own ~ disconnected, not responsive to what my mind willed for my body to do. Ironically, the sermon topic was exhaustion over doing good. I can't tell you much more about it because I couldn't listen. Whatever had a hold of me refused to allow me to pay attention, and I fought the urge to break down and sob. It took everything in me to keep from making a tearful spectacle of myself. After service, more than one concerned soul asked if I was OK. I lied, of course, claiming that I was just overly tired from a particularly long week.
The truth of the matter, I would come to discover, ran far deeper than detoxing medication. Our family had been invited to an all day party at a friend's house Sunday afternoon. I told Josh to take the boyz over and I would meet them there after I'd slept for a while. Two hours later, just as I was getting the strength to swing my legs out of the bed, my cell phone rang. Josh was wondering if I was going to make it over at all. I did make it ~ and felt like a salty, anti-social 5th wheel. It wasn't that I didn't want to join in and have a good time, I literally didn't have the ability to do so. I sat, half conscious and half aware of what was going on around me, feeling like quite the pill for almost 2 hours before bowing out and making my way home. Our friend tagged me in a facebook pic ~ not one of my better photos. When I commented that it was obvious that I didn't feel well, another friend chimed in to state that it was obvious to her because I wasn't smiling, and I was always smiling.
Once home, I collapsed on the couch for another couple of hours. I tried to be productive as I lay there like a bump on a log by reading, but my eyes refused to focus. I thought that I needed to get off the couch and get some house work done, but I literally couldn't move ~ my body forbade it. As I sat there, wallowing in my pity-party, I realized that what I was experiencing went beyond detox. I could hear laughter in my head and see the accompanying darkness. I was under spiritual attack, and the devil was enjoying every minute of torturing me.
A hot bath sounded like a good place to retreat. I could close the door and run the fan so the Boyz wouldn't freak out at seeing Mommy fall apart. I lay there, debating whether to slip under the water, fighting the tears that were welling in me. And as the tears fought for their right to be expressed, my mind's eye saw blackness, darkness, evil ~ all consuming and overpowering. The light may have been on in the room, but I never would have known. Though I wasn't frightened, I was a little freaked, and the only remedy that came to mind was prayer. As I tried to pray, the blackness interfered with my focus (or lack thereof on a good day) and I couldn't get very far. So I started to recite the Lord's prayer. I knew it by heart and could force my way through it facing every distraction under the sun if necessary. As I lay there engulfed in hot water, my body twisted into a position that was less than comfortable and certainly not of my choosing, reciting the Lord's prayer, my mind's eye could see light again ~ a thin band on the horizon at first. And then suddenly encompassing my entire field of mental vision, crushing the darkness, forcing it down. And my physical being went with the darkness, sinking into the water, feeling at once like lead and completely weightless. As I acknowledged my limp, non-responsive being, I was convinced that this is what mortal death must feel like ~ conscious recognition of one's lifeless being. No words can adequately describe the feeling.
My lifeless body lay in the water for an indeterminable amount of time, then the evil returned. The fighting back tears and extreme darkness rushed back into my being with renewed vigor. Once again, all I could do was recite the Lord's prayer. And again the light came crashing into me, knocking me down, and the evil with me. I can't begin to count number of times I went through this battle in my bathtub, but each confrontation left me weary, battered, and shredded.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Cold Turkey with a Side of Withdrawal
Sooooooooooo...I stopped taking my antidepressants ~ cold turkey. This from a woman with a medical license and knows better. I know good and well that one should ween off of these meds over a period of time ~ and usually under a physician's observation ~ but my script ran out and I didn't have any refills left. I thought now or never.
From previous experience, when I had gone a week without medication due to lack of funds for the co-pay, I knew that I would be OK for about 6 days. Day 7 would usher in the first of wicked withdrawal symptoms ~ the "angry bitch" phase. The last time I neglected my medication and reached this phase, some very understanding (and possibly frightened) friends offered the money for my co-pay ~ most probably for their own safety and sanity sake. That evening, happy pills were happily coursing through my veins and order was restored.
As a somewhat educated, if intentionally defiant, healthcare professional, I knew that my body would need to rebalance once detoxed of medication. However, I was quite unprepared for the extent of what my body was about to put the rest of me through.
I had taken my last dose on a Friday. The work week proceeded as usual. Then Saturday hit. Thankfully, I was not scheduled to work that weekend or I might very well have unwittingly strangled a patient. As the day dragged on I became more irritable and easily agitated. By the time RAZE rolled around I was thoroughly fit to be tied and very unpleasant (understatement intended.) I knew what was happening to me, because I had been to this point before, but still had no control over my reactions, as if something had crawled inside of my body and taken over. In only one of many examples, I saw a certain car pull into the church lot and my first thought was, "You've got to be f*****g kidding me. There's no way I can be civil to that person right now." How's that for the beginning of my symptoms? As another family hung around with us after the service, the topic of discussion strayed to one the pisses me off on a good day. I remember the topic, and I remember participating in the conversation, but I have absolutely no recollection of what was said. In chatting with the same family a few days later I filled them in on what I had done regarding my meds and apologized if I had scared them during the conversation. They graciously claimed that I hadn't, that they just thought I had very strong, passionate opinions on the matter. Ya think?
Later, as my oldest son and I were walking through Wal-Mart, I suddenly felt very loopy ~ like my mind had suddenly disconnected from my body. I had to fight the urge to humiliate my son by leaning against him while we walked so that I wouldn't fall over. If the boy had a driver's license I would have handed him the keys. The "angry bitch" had played hard and was exhausted, and I was too shredded from the ordeal to worry about the uncharted territory of the following day.
From previous experience, when I had gone a week without medication due to lack of funds for the co-pay, I knew that I would be OK for about 6 days. Day 7 would usher in the first of wicked withdrawal symptoms ~ the "angry bitch" phase. The last time I neglected my medication and reached this phase, some very understanding (and possibly frightened) friends offered the money for my co-pay ~ most probably for their own safety and sanity sake. That evening, happy pills were happily coursing through my veins and order was restored.
As a somewhat educated, if intentionally defiant, healthcare professional, I knew that my body would need to rebalance once detoxed of medication. However, I was quite unprepared for the extent of what my body was about to put the rest of me through.
I had taken my last dose on a Friday. The work week proceeded as usual. Then Saturday hit. Thankfully, I was not scheduled to work that weekend or I might very well have unwittingly strangled a patient. As the day dragged on I became more irritable and easily agitated. By the time RAZE rolled around I was thoroughly fit to be tied and very unpleasant (understatement intended.) I knew what was happening to me, because I had been to this point before, but still had no control over my reactions, as if something had crawled inside of my body and taken over. In only one of many examples, I saw a certain car pull into the church lot and my first thought was, "You've got to be f*****g kidding me. There's no way I can be civil to that person right now." How's that for the beginning of my symptoms? As another family hung around with us after the service, the topic of discussion strayed to one the pisses me off on a good day. I remember the topic, and I remember participating in the conversation, but I have absolutely no recollection of what was said. In chatting with the same family a few days later I filled them in on what I had done regarding my meds and apologized if I had scared them during the conversation. They graciously claimed that I hadn't, that they just thought I had very strong, passionate opinions on the matter. Ya think?
Later, as my oldest son and I were walking through Wal-Mart, I suddenly felt very loopy ~ like my mind had suddenly disconnected from my body. I had to fight the urge to humiliate my son by leaning against him while we walked so that I wouldn't fall over. If the boy had a driver's license I would have handed him the keys. The "angry bitch" had played hard and was exhausted, and I was too shredded from the ordeal to worry about the uncharted territory of the following day.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Inspired!
Psalm 42:5 ~ Why am I discouraged? Why is my heart so sad? I will put my hope in God! I will praise Him again--my Savior and my God!
According to my study Bible, the theme of this Psalm is "thirst for God. When you feel lonely or depressed, meditate on God's kindness and love." The study notes for this verse read: Depression is one of the most common emotional ailments. One antidote for depression is to meditate on the record of God's goodness to His people. This will take your mind off the present situation as you focus your thoughts on God's ability to help you rather than on your inability to help yourself." Do I hear an AMEN?!
Of course not. When we are truly depressed we don't want to focus on the goodness given to us. We are much more likely to wallow in our pity-party of one.
I am currently on my fifth read through of the Bible, and every time I read it, I read it with different eyes. One night I giggled while reading the Old Testament story of Balaam and his donkey. Balaam was summoned by King Balak, an enemy of Isreal, to come and call curses on the people of God. Along the way, Balaam's donkey saw the angel of the Lord blocking their path and thrice tried to keep her master from encountering the angel's wrath. Balaam saw the donkey's actions as defiance and beat her each time. The third time, according to Numbers 22, the Lord gave the donkey speech to ask Balaam what she had done to deserve the beating. "And Balaam answered the donkey..." And that's where I lost it. If I were to discipline my dog and he turned to ask me in plain English, "But Mooooooooooooooooooooooom, what did I do?" I'm not going to answer him, I'm going to call the nut house. This was the 4th time I had read the passage and never once read it with those eyes.
Now, on my fifth go through, my eyes are changed yet again. Our small group is studying Psalms and when I came across 42 it spoke to me in a way I'd never heard before. Off and on my entire adult life I have depended on medicine to control my depression. Here the psalmist depended only on God. I felt so small, so defiant for seeking something other than God to make me feel whole. God made me this way, certainly He is all I need to be well and whole in body as well as in spirit. I was convinced that I could get off of my meds with the Lord at my side.
According to my study Bible, the theme of this Psalm is "thirst for God. When you feel lonely or depressed, meditate on God's kindness and love." The study notes for this verse read: Depression is one of the most common emotional ailments. One antidote for depression is to meditate on the record of God's goodness to His people. This will take your mind off the present situation as you focus your thoughts on God's ability to help you rather than on your inability to help yourself." Do I hear an AMEN?!
Of course not. When we are truly depressed we don't want to focus on the goodness given to us. We are much more likely to wallow in our pity-party of one.
I am currently on my fifth read through of the Bible, and every time I read it, I read it with different eyes. One night I giggled while reading the Old Testament story of Balaam and his donkey. Balaam was summoned by King Balak, an enemy of Isreal, to come and call curses on the people of God. Along the way, Balaam's donkey saw the angel of the Lord blocking their path and thrice tried to keep her master from encountering the angel's wrath. Balaam saw the donkey's actions as defiance and beat her each time. The third time, according to Numbers 22, the Lord gave the donkey speech to ask Balaam what she had done to deserve the beating. "And Balaam answered the donkey..." And that's where I lost it. If I were to discipline my dog and he turned to ask me in plain English, "But Mooooooooooooooooooooooom, what did I do?" I'm not going to answer him, I'm going to call the nut house. This was the 4th time I had read the passage and never once read it with those eyes.
Now, on my fifth go through, my eyes are changed yet again. Our small group is studying Psalms and when I came across 42 it spoke to me in a way I'd never heard before. Off and on my entire adult life I have depended on medicine to control my depression. Here the psalmist depended only on God. I felt so small, so defiant for seeking something other than God to make me feel whole. God made me this way, certainly He is all I need to be well and whole in body as well as in spirit. I was convinced that I could get off of my meds with the Lord at my side.
Wow, That's Depressing
I have a long, glorious history with depression. If women were to be completely honest with themselves, I'd bet money that the vast majority of us do, whether we can to admit it or not. The first bout with depression that I can remember hit me when I was a freshman in high school. I remember my drafting teaching ~ a man ~ approaching me in the hall one morning before school and asking if everything was OK. My initial response was my usual one: Fine, I'm just tired. A half-truth, to be sure. But in hindsight, that teacher kept an eye on me the rest of the year, occasionally checking in with me to see how I was fairing.
My worst and most prolonged bout of depression began when I found out I was pregnant right after I graduated from high school. My world crashed down around me. I felt like God was punishing me for some hideous sin I had yet to recognize and repent of. I'd heard from my friends all about their unprotected sex lives and how, up to this point, they'd managed to remain blissfully baby-free. Yet, I had given my virginity in immediate exchange for a birth-control baby. My life was over. I had sworn I'd never have kids. (God has such an evil sense of humor.) I had to wait to go back to school. The rug had just been very nastily pulled out from under my freedom. And I did not handle it well.
There was a lot of crying, a lot of screaming, a lot of believing that God hated me and was out to ruin what was left of my pathetic life. Though the thought of abortion never entered my mind, the thought of giving the baby up for adoption did. The baby's daddy ~ who is now and forever will be my loving husband ~ refused to let it happen. And so I relented, and was miserably depressed throughout my pregnancy.
All through my pregnancy I had hoped that there would be an immediate bond of heavenly love between the baby and myself that would magically lift this darkness from heart. I sank even deeper when that immediate bond was not immediately there. And sink I continued to do, for 2.5 years.
By the time I finally sought help for my depression, I had almost killed my son twice and was myself suicidal. I will never justify a woman killing her child, but I do understand what drives her to the brink. I've been there ~ it's a dark, deep, debilitating place that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And if I hadn't had people in my life to keep me from shaking my son or throwing him down the stairs, he would be in heaven and I would be behind bars. At the deepest point of the pit, after falling asleep in the bath tub more than once hoping I would slip under and wishing I knew a lethal concoction of OTC drugs, I was so warped in my depressed thinking that my twisted line of reasoning went something like this: It would be so selfish of me to kill myself and leave my baby here as a burden for everyone else to raise, so I'll have to take him with me. Sounds like a murder/homicide to me. I was so demented that I actually thought this was a good and doable plan!
One day, when my son was 2, he took off for the street. I was so frightened and angry when I caught him that I carried him by his upper arms all the way back to our apartment. It was when I took his shirt off of him for his bath that night that I saw the bruised ringlets I'd left on his arms from squeezing him so tightly. It was the first visual evidence to me that I had gone over the edge. Out of sight, out of mind ~ if I couldn't see it, it wasn't real. Now I had seen the mark of the devil, and knew I needed to remove him from me. But how?
Enter pharmaceuticals. Yes, I started taking an anti-depressant. And it helped me feel like a normal human being again. Combined with talk therapy, my treatment make me feel human again. And over the years, I have gone off and back on the meds. At times I feel so overwhelmed with life that I need something to keep me on an even keel. Paxil seems to do the trick.
My worst and most prolonged bout of depression began when I found out I was pregnant right after I graduated from high school. My world crashed down around me. I felt like God was punishing me for some hideous sin I had yet to recognize and repent of. I'd heard from my friends all about their unprotected sex lives and how, up to this point, they'd managed to remain blissfully baby-free. Yet, I had given my virginity in immediate exchange for a birth-control baby. My life was over. I had sworn I'd never have kids. (God has such an evil sense of humor.) I had to wait to go back to school. The rug had just been very nastily pulled out from under my freedom. And I did not handle it well.
There was a lot of crying, a lot of screaming, a lot of believing that God hated me and was out to ruin what was left of my pathetic life. Though the thought of abortion never entered my mind, the thought of giving the baby up for adoption did. The baby's daddy ~ who is now and forever will be my loving husband ~ refused to let it happen. And so I relented, and was miserably depressed throughout my pregnancy.
All through my pregnancy I had hoped that there would be an immediate bond of heavenly love between the baby and myself that would magically lift this darkness from heart. I sank even deeper when that immediate bond was not immediately there. And sink I continued to do, for 2.5 years.
By the time I finally sought help for my depression, I had almost killed my son twice and was myself suicidal. I will never justify a woman killing her child, but I do understand what drives her to the brink. I've been there ~ it's a dark, deep, debilitating place that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And if I hadn't had people in my life to keep me from shaking my son or throwing him down the stairs, he would be in heaven and I would be behind bars. At the deepest point of the pit, after falling asleep in the bath tub more than once hoping I would slip under and wishing I knew a lethal concoction of OTC drugs, I was so warped in my depressed thinking that my twisted line of reasoning went something like this: It would be so selfish of me to kill myself and leave my baby here as a burden for everyone else to raise, so I'll have to take him with me. Sounds like a murder/homicide to me. I was so demented that I actually thought this was a good and doable plan!
One day, when my son was 2, he took off for the street. I was so frightened and angry when I caught him that I carried him by his upper arms all the way back to our apartment. It was when I took his shirt off of him for his bath that night that I saw the bruised ringlets I'd left on his arms from squeezing him so tightly. It was the first visual evidence to me that I had gone over the edge. Out of sight, out of mind ~ if I couldn't see it, it wasn't real. Now I had seen the mark of the devil, and knew I needed to remove him from me. But how?
Enter pharmaceuticals. Yes, I started taking an anti-depressant. And it helped me feel like a normal human being again. Combined with talk therapy, my treatment make me feel human again. And over the years, I have gone off and back on the meds. At times I feel so overwhelmed with life that I need something to keep me on an even keel. Paxil seems to do the trick.
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