Back to the Salt Mines...

Well, tomorrow is the day. After nearly a month off work, I head back to the job. Wow, when I was working full time, how often did I wish I could have a few weeks off to “get some things done”?

Of course, having two hands would have made it a little easier to facilitate some goals. Maybe other goals just weren’t realistic, such as a publishing agent discovering my work and offering me a $10,000 advance to start writing a book. Maybe some other day… said with a heavy sigh.

I really do love being home. I love being able to take my time in the mornings and not have to hurry. I’ve been able to spend more time in the Word and more time in prayer. It’s been nice to do laundry when it was convenient, not when I needed a work shirt. The dogs have loved having me home, and it has been especially good for Neo to be able to go outside frequently during the day. Roger has enjoyed spending more time with me. I’ve been able to spend more time on Facebook, or on my phone playing Trivia Crack, Wordox, Words With Friends… wait, I didn’t mean to say that…

Seriously, I really have achieved a thing or two - I’ve sold a few online articles, and also made a few bucks doing things on websites such as CrowdSource and mTurk. That would be emphasis on the word few, by the way. But if I can sit at the computer for 15 minutes and make 15 cents as opposed to sitting here for 15 minutes and make nothing, I figure I came out a few bucks ahead. I have even written a few short pieces that have been sent off to literary publications that pay decently. The chances of acceptance at such places are slim, but hey, at list I did something toward my long-term goal, right?

The time flew by, and although I love my co-workers, I’m not ready to go back. Aside from the pain my injury caused, my body has been much kinder to me since I have been keeping a regular schedule and not standing on concrete for 8 hours a day lifting, bending, squatting, et cetera. I have actually lost a few pounds, because I’ve had the time to exercise a bit (emphasis on the word bit…) and tend to eat healthier when I’m relaxed and busy doing things I enjoy. 

But, funny thing, I like to have a roof over my head (even one that leaks) and food in my fridge. So for at least a couple more years, I guess I’ll be my boss’s property. Unless, you know… I get that $10,000 deal.

All good things must come to an end...

The Problem of Hatred

The last week I worked before taking medical leave, I had the pleasure of training a new girl in the bakery. She was an absolute sweetheart – eager to learn, and quick to smile. Her work ethic was like no other; she sincerely wanted to do all she could, and do it properly.

During this time period, the tragic church shooting occurred in Charleston, South Carolina. As we were bagging bread, my trainee brought up the subject, and confided that “being shot because of the color of her skin” was her worst fear.

Her skin is beautiful. Fashioned by God Himself, it is the color of dark, rich coffee. The thought that this girl, with her 18-year-old innocent brown eyes, musical laugh and sparkling personality could be wiped out for that reason (or any reason, really) is simply unfathomable. 

Hatred and bigotry is running rampant in the world; one of the tools of our enemy, whose goal is to divide and destroy. A beautiful friend of mine has shared the quote “It’s not a skin problem; it’s a sin problem,” and that is so true. The devil doesn’t care who we hate – blacks; Muslims; gays; Mexicans; Irish; ex cons; drug users; rich people; poor people… he just wants us to focus on anything besides the fact that all mankind is lost and in need of redemption by the cross of Jesus.

The good news is that Jesus came to save people of every skin color. The only color that matters to Him is the red of His precious blood, which covers all who will accept Him as Savior. Through His death and resurrection, people of all races and culture are made one and are bound together in love, to be part of an eternal family. I wish more people could understand. 

Photo by Digitalart, courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When the Dog Bites...

Two weeks ago today, my hand was injured. I’m uncomfortable telling people what happened, because it makes my best friend look bad.

The truth is, Neo, my beloved dog is getting old. See, you’re jumping to conclusions already, aren’t you? No, his mind is still fully functional, although his body is starting to give out. He has lost most of his hearing; his vision is cloudy; and he has arthritis and hip dysplasia to the point where he often requires help getting up, as well as some assistance in walking.

Of all the dogs we have had, Neo has always been the Alpha. He has been the largest, I have had him the longest, and, well, he has simply established himself as “Top Dog”. There have been a few skirmishes over the years, but nothing major.

Lately though, Scamp (who is slightly over half Neo’s size and four years younger) has been sensing Neo’s decline in strength and mobility and also feeling some jealousy due to the extra attention Neo receives. Scamp has begun to occasionally challenge him for the alpha position. And he doesn’t fight quite fair. He comes up growling behind Neo, who can’t hear him; gets the side of Neo’s neck and latches on. He is always situated so that Neo can do nothing to him, and my poor old dog usually ends up with several bloody spots on his ear, not to mention the despondence of being emasculated. The first time it happened, he refused to eat for about a day afterward. He later regained his spirit, and still does what he can to show his dominance, but loses whenever there is a challenge.

I love this dog; I can’t just sit and watch him get chewed up. The first couple of times it happened, I was able to get Scamp to let go by lifting up his back legs. When that didn’t work any longer, I began to have success in prying the smaller dog’s jaws apart, while simultaneously squeezing his mouth. That particular maneuver is what I was trying to accomplish on the day I got hurt. I had been at it for a good minute or two, with no success.

It all happened so quickly I don’t really know the details. I recall worrying that I was going to be late for work. I also remember that my back was sticky with sweat, and I very rarely perspire; even when I’m extremely hot. The next thing I knew, I heard a snarl, and my wrist had been pierced in two places by large, angry dog fangs. Apparently, Neo had had enough, and decided to lash out at Scamp (who was unscathed through the whole thing). Stunned, I jumped back and yelled, “Neo! That was ME!” I remember noticing that my wrist was swollen to the point that it looked as though there was a golf ball under my skin. I was thinking I was going to have to bandage it really good for work. 

I think I remember Scamp letting go right about then, but Neo immediately snarled at him, causing him to latch right back on. Okay, I’ll admit, I’m obviously not the sharpest crayon in the box… I knelt back down and seized Scamp’s mouth once again. I don’t know if my presence gave Neo courage or if he just saw movement in front of his face and assumed it was Scamp. At any rate, the next think I knew, my left hand was in Neo’s mouth. He not only bit hard, but he shook my hand around as though it was a rag doll, all the while thinking that the young whippersnapper who was trying to take his title was finally getting what he deserved.

I don’t remember how I finally got my hand loose; I assume he felt the lesson had been learned and let go, even though Scamp still had him. Looking at the two deep gashes in my hand, I finally got a clue and abandoned my efforts to stop the one-sided brawl. I wrapped my hand in towels and woke Roger. He came in the kitchen, used his “dad voice”, and Scamp immediately let go and lay down. And yes, I did decide that next time I will use a broom, or throw water or something.

As mentioned, I hate telling the story, because I don’t want people to think I have a mean dog, or an old dog who is losing it and needs to be gotten rid of. He had no idea he bit me. In fact, the next day, I was petting him and he happened to catch a whiff of blood under the bandages. He gently sniffed the area, and looked up at me with question and concern in his eyes, “How did you get hurt, Mom? When did this happen?”

I will admit, though, I’m more careful now. I usually bring food and water to Neo wherever he is laying, because it’s so hard for him to get up. If another of the dogs comes near while he is eating or drinking, I now make sure my hands are out of the way. Things like that, which never would have occurred to me before with my gentle dog. 

For a few days, I had to resort to asking for help from people. Roger has had to help me with numerous things, and either my mother-in-law or my daughter-in-law has been putting my hair into a ponytail just about every day. And thank goodness for stretchy pants and flip flops!

Although my hand is still healing, I’m now to the point where I can do most things for myself and wear pants with a zipper and button. I’ll be off work for a little longer, but I have to admit, I am enjoying my days. I have even made a few bucks freelancing. 

Best of all, I know God is in control. No matter what life dishes out or how disastrous it seems to me, He knew it was coming and prepared for it. I really love being His child.

Still my best friend

Eight Years Later...

I didn’t want to go to work today. Okay, I never want to go to work, and now that graduation season is upon us, the bakery is stark raving crazy. But that had nothing to do with why I wanted to stay home today.

Today marks eight years since my oldest son went home to Jesus. Eight years that those of us in Matt’s world have been deprived of his blue eyes; his quick smile; his practical jokes; his kindness… so much more. Nothing has been the same since; our family is broken.

My heart aches not only for myself, but for everyone else who loved Matt, especially my kids and grandkids. Even more so this year, because some of my kids just lost their dad less than a month ago and are now facing this painful anniversary. I wanted to stay home today and hold them. I wanted to hold Tyler and Valarie. I wanted to hold Jen. I just wanted to make everything better for everyone. Of course, even if I had stayed home from work, I have no power to change what happened or to make anything better – I guess it’s just a mom thing to feel the need to do so.

When the unthinkable happened, and I lost my child, the section of my heart that mourns for him without ceasing was walled off; the pool of anguish locked safely away, permitting me to go about my daily life with a smile. Occasionally, a minor leak springs up, and a few tears fall, but the barrier is always quickly repaired. Once a year, on this day, I open the gate. The sorrow hits me full force, like a dam breaking and I find myself submerged in a torrent of tears. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but it’s also therapeutic, and it’s what I wanted to do all day long. Prompted by the memorial video, I let myself get lost in memories and weeping until I can’t cry any more. Then the grief recedes and the gate is once again shut – life goes on.

My life goes on because of God’s grace. I can’t even imagine getting through this without Him. I am also grateful to Him for the other kids (and grandkids) He gave me. He knew I would need each one of them to help sustain and encourage me after losing Matt.

The Bible says that the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death (I Corinthians 15:26). The fact that this enemy will be destroyed lets me truly rejoice. Even though I weep now, I have hope. One day I know I will see Matt’s smiling face in Heaven. 

Waiting in Heaven...

The Prodigal Son is Home

First of all, I stole this title. I would love to take credit for it because it’s so perfect, but in fact it’s something Beau said in the wake of his father’s death.

I would also like to admit that this is awkward. I was the ex-wife. We had been divorced for many years, my choice. Yet when these events unfolded, somewhere beyond the aching in my heart for each of the grieving children, I realized that there were a number of other feelings stirring within me. Being a writer, I decided to explore these feelings by putting the proverbial pen to paper in the form of a letter…

Dear Alan,

When we met, I was a newly saved, misfit teenager. I was looking for a new life… adventure… love. You came to a Bible study I attended, and spoke about how God had delivered you from drugs and alcohol. You seemed so confident, so sincere and grateful. I remember looking at you with starry eyes, and thinking that I had never heard such a testimony in person before.

Sadly, your deliverance was short-lived and you soon relapsed. I forgot my fascination with you and became best friends with your sister. I continued to seek God, although I longed for a boyfriend who would share my faith. Obviously, you and I did get together at some point – I’m not really sure how long after our original meeting. I do remember that I invited you to a school dance, and we had a lot of fun. I think I had some idea that I could be the hand that pulled you up and led you back into the fold.

Instead, I ended up on a roller coaster ride with you. Our years together had highs, yes; but there were also many plunges into dark places. From the beginning, you let me know I was not who or what you wanted, but basically that you would settle for me. I was willing to accept that. I always felt I was never quite who or what my mother wanted either, but I still believed she loved me. You also made me feel loved. I dealt with whatever insult or injury you chose to dish out and tossed away my dreams in exchange for that feeling. I believe you did love me as much as you were capable in your own brokenness.

We had good times when we walked together with God, but most occasions were tainted by your delusions and my fear of what might happen next. I was always afraid to be happy, because whenever I let my guard down, there seemed to be a sucker-punch waiting. Yet I adored you. I prayed for you daily. And I realize that I wasn’t blameless. I never once stood up for what I believed. I said and did what I thought you wanted me to say and do, because I wanted to make sure you kept on loving me. I enabled you and failed our kids all throughout our marriage.

Then, of course, came the time when I realized that the only reason I was still with you was because I was afraid to leave. This was followed by the time when I met someone else who told me he loved me and I lost that fear.

You know, just a few weeks before your death, I was at a women’s conference. The theme was “Remedy”, and we discussed how God is the remedy no matter what our ailment. Throughout my life, I have looked for healing in so many other places. As a teenager, I looked to you as a remedy, and when I gave up on our marriage, I decided Guy was the cure for my shattered soul.

At this conference, we also discussed forgiveness. We were challenged not only to choose to forgive others, but also to search our own hearts and see if we needed to ask forgiveness from someone else. You came to my mind. I don’t know that I would ever have actually asked you in person, because… well that would have been awkward. You had spent over twenty years convinced that I would one day come back to you, and for me to approach you and ask forgiveness might have given you the wrong impression. But I would like to ask you now, Will you forgive me? I committed adultery, ended our marriage and broke up our family. At the time, I felt justified. Maybe I was justified to get out of the situation I was in, but I didn’t do it the right way, and I’m sorry.

Ironically, that’s when you figured out how much you really did love me.

I couldn’t reconcile with you, though. Yes, it was mostly because of Guy. He was my fairy tale prince and I couldn’t bear to think of life without him. But I would have been afraid anyway, I think, even though after I left, you once again gave your life to Christ. I knew how easily you could flip from one side to the other, which unfortunately continued for the rest of your life.

I regret disobeying God, but He blessed me so much more than I deserve regardless. He gave you and I such amazing kids, and you did a good job teaching them how to be saved. I have two wonderful sons from my second marriage, and I can’t regret them. Even Guy came to faith in Jesus before his death, and I don’t think that would have happened if he and I had never gotten together. He was a good husband, and Matt once said, “He taught me to respect my mom”.

Despite everything, I don’t regret my time with you, and I have long since forgiven you for any wrongs. I remember that for some reason, we hugged each other last Thanksgiving. At the time, it was slightly uncomfortable for me, because I saw so much emotion in your face. But now, I’m glad we did, since it was to be the last time we were together. I’m glad you didn’t die violently. I’m glad you didn’t die when you lived alone on the streets and no one knew where you were. I’m glad you knew your family cared about you.

I surprised myself by crying at the news of your death. At first I thought it was only for the kids. But as I probed my heart, I understood that a small part of me will always love you. I also shed tears of regret for what could have been and should have been. And you know, I never thought I would miss your obsession with getting me back, but knowing you were gone from this world, I felt a little less loved. Then I realized that only now are you truly capable of love. You are finally free from the demons that pursued you during your time on this earth.

I’m glad I know that you were saved. When I see you again, there will be no pain or bitterness between us; no awkwardness between you, Guy or Roger. There will only be joy as we worship our Lord along with our kids and all our other loved ones. You are home now, and I will be there soon.

Candy 

Went home April 8, 2015