The Friendly Beasts

Jesus our brother, kind and good, Was humbly born in a stable rude, And the friendly beasts around Him stood, Jesus our brother, kind and good.


Back then, I didn't know much about Jesus. Truthfully, I didn't know much about anything. It was December of my kindergarten year. My teacher, Miss Walker, was the prettiest, kindest person I had ever known. Each morning she greeted us with a friendly smile as we entered our classroom. She let us use the colorful magnets on the chalkboard and ride the tricycle on the shiny floors. She taught us about letters and numbers and how to play nicely with others.

"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown, "I carried His mother up hill and down; I carried her safely to Bethlehem town."  "I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.

In my home we didn't sing songs about Jesus. I was the middle child who lived with  my mother, my older brother Scotty, and my younger sister Deedee. My dad had left the summer before and what my mother played on her record player, over and over, were songs by Tammy Wynette and Freddy Fender. I knew the lyrics to the song D-I-V-O-R-C-E before I even knew what letters were. To tell you the truth, my dad being gone didn't affect me that much because he had never really spent time with me. But my mom sitting in her chair with her box of tissues, chain smoking and crying to "Before the Next Teardrop Falls" while she stared blankly off into space, now that affected my life.

"I," said the cow, all white and red, "I gave Him my manger for a bed; I gave Him my hay to pillow His head."  "I," said the cow, all white and red.


In the weeks leading up to Christmas, we were busy preparing for our school Christmas concert. Back then we were allowed to talk about the birth of Jesus in school. I even remember singing hymns and patriotic songs after we recited the Pledge of Allegiance each day. Most of my friends went to church on Sundays and to church school on Wednesdays. What I knew about church was the little I had learned when my neighbor friend, Vicky, had taken me there on two occasions the previous summer. We had glued dried split peas into a small plastic butter bowl and had played outside in the softest green grass I had ever felt. I remembered sitting on a blanket outside and singing while someone played a guitar, and that no one had smoked cigarettes or cried there. And I remembered that the people at that church had looked at me when they talked to me.

"I," said the sheep, with curly horn, "I gave Him my wool for His blanket warm; He wore my coat on Christmas morn."  "I," said the sheep, with curly horn.


On school days my brother and I would get up and dressed, then pour cereal for ourselves while our mother slept in. We then waited by the front door for the school bus to come. If our little sister woke up, we had to tell her to stay put when we left. Once she followed us out to the bus in her pink footy pajamas and I had to take her back into the house! On more than one occasion we missed the bus and had to walk to school; thankfully it was close and my brother knew the way. When winter arrived it was cold and windy and sometimes the bus going to the Catholic school would pick us up and give us a ride to the elementary school. One day a sweet, older lady in the office gave us both warm hats and mittens when we got there with red noses and fingers from the cold walk.

"I," said the dove from the rafters high, "Cooed Him to sleep that He should not cry; We cooed Him to sleep, my mate and I."  "I," said the dove from the rafters high.

Miss Walker taught us songs around the piano in our classroom. It was my favorite time of day; although I was painfully shy and saw myself as very different from the other girls, when I sang I forgot about all of that and just let myself feel. Music spoke to me, lifted me, made me feel equal. I could match the notes and rhythms I heard and singing made me delightfully happy. I learned "America the Beautiful", "You're a Grand Old Flag", and "This Little Light of Mine." I was overjoyed when we learned "Up on the Housetop" and "Jingle Bells" while preparing for Christmas with the other kindergarten classes. But the song that spoke to me the most was "The Friendly Beasts." This song was to be the big finale of our Christmas Concert. Our entire grade would sing with all of the first graders - my brother's grade! I was so proud to be singing with my big brother.

"I," said the camel, yellow and black, "Over the desert, upon my back; I brought Him a gift in the Wise Men's pack."  "I," said the camel, yellow and black.

The morning of the concert came and we went into the auditorium to rehearse. I had never been in there and couldn't believe how huge it was! We entered through the big doors and gazed up at the stage. It was hard to walk down the steeply sloped aisle in my slippery shoes. The stage curtains were green velvet and seemed to reach up to the sky. Once at the front, we got to stand on risers; first graders in back and kindergartners in front. I was in the very front row. We sang and it sounded like angels. After we finished, our teachers gave us our instructions for that night. We were to dress up and be there at 6:00, and go straight to our classrooms to wait. I was nearly jumping up and down with excitement!

After dinner that evening, my brother and I got ourselves dressed in our very best clothes. We reminded our weeping mother that we had to be at the school at 6:00, begging her to get ready so we wouldn't be late. She said she didn't want to go to a dumb concert, that she was tired and didn't feel like listening to "little brats sing Christmas songs." I started to cry. My brother got angrier than I had ever seen him get and he yelled at her, "Well you know what? We're going to that concert, even if we have to go without you!" Turning to me, he said, "Come on, Sissy. Let's go."

It was dark and snowy, but Scotty held my hand as we walked all the way there. I was scared and little tears trickled down my cheeks. My feet were cold and I felt very small in the world. When we got to the school, my brother took me to my classroom and then left to go to his. I was the first one there. Miss Walker looked at me and smiled her beautiful smile. "Come here," she said gently, and led me to the sink. She washed my face and brushed my hair, tying a white ribbon into my plain hair. "There," she said, giving me a hug, "now you're all ready."

I felt like a princess as we sang that night. I thought about that baby we sang about, that little Jesus, and how special He must have been for all of those animals to offer their kindness to Him. I thought about all of the kindnesses that had been shown to me. I thought about my teacher, those mittens, those bus rides, and the warmth of that hug and hair ribbon, and I knew in my heart that I, too, must be very special.

Thus every beast by some good spell, In the stable dark was glad to tell, Of the gift he gave Emmanuel, The gift he gave Emmanuel. 

If It Hadn't Happened That Way

Tuesday morning, November 8, 7:15am

It was foggy on the way to work that morning, the dense fog thicker than I'd ever driven in and getting thicker by the minute. I could barely see where I was going and I feared hitting a pedestrian or one of the Amish buggies that I'd frequently passed on this road. I'd been thinking hard for the past hour as I drove, worrying about finances, thinking how lean this Christmas would be. I prayed my children would understand how hard I'd been working to keep all of the bills paid and to provide for them on my own. I realized I'd have to take on the extra work hours that had been offered to me that week, even though it meant being away from the kids a little bit more each week. I felt discouraged and wondered how I was going to make the holidays happy for everyone.

Crawling along at 40 miles per hour, I realized I was going so slowly I could easily be hit by someone approaching quickly from behind. Alternately watching my speedometer and glancing at the yellow lines to guide myself, I increased my speed to 50 mph. Less than a minute after getting up to speed, I looked up and made out the unmistakable shape of the stop sign to my right and realized that I was already at the T in the road! I panicked and stomped my foot hard on the brake pedal. The car skidded out of control, tires screeching on the damp pavement as I continued to move forward at the same speed, my steering wheel completely useless.

"Help me, God!" I yelled as I turned the wheel to the right and tried ineffectively to regain control. I braced for impact, trying to remember what lie past the sign at this particular intersection, envisioning a field of trees. The car fishtailed and lurched to a sudden stop on the side of the road, facing the wrong direction. I looked out the window beside me and saw a tree so close, I could have reached out and touched it. Before I could even exhale though, I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw the lights of a vehicle in the wrong lane and heading straight for me, going way too fast.

"Please God! No!" I cried. Knowing there wasn't time to do anything else, I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my head with my arms, and waited for the crash.

When nothing happened, I opened my eyes and looked around wildly. There were no lights behind me, but on the road ahead of me I saw the back of a large white vehicle as it drove away from me. Shaking hard, I took a deep breath  and pulled the car over to the right hand shoulder to get out of traffic.

Once stopped, I turned off the car, laid my head on the steering wheel and began to cry. I thought of what could have happened, of shattered glass and bloody bodies, of a police officer telling my children that their mother had died in an unfortunate accident. My body shaking uncontrollably, I lifted my head towards a sky I couldn't see.

"Thank you, God, for sparing my life," I whispered, still sobbing softly.

Out of the fog ahead of me, I saw a white vehicle approach and pull over to the opposite shoulder. Oh, great, I thought. Here it comes...the anger, wrath and scorn of someone whose day (or life) I had nearly ruined.

A well-dressed woman emerged from the SUV and walked quickly towards me, a bluetooth device clamped to her right ear. As she drew closer, I could see that she looked more concerned than angry and I wiped at my eyes before opening my door to stand and greet her. As I stepped around the door, her arms went around me and I felt myself grow weak. I sobbed an apology into her shoulder, "I'm sorry...I didn't mean...I couldn't see..."

"Shhh," she whispered. "I just had to come back to make sure you were okay." She leaned back and looked into my face, care and concern written all over hers.

"I'm okay, just a little shaken up," I said nervously. "I thought I was going to hit the tree and then thought you were going to hit me...how did you get around me like that?"

"Let's just say this ain't my first rodeo," she said cryptically. Before I had a chance to ask anything else, she pointed down the road from the way she had just come. "I know you're heading the other way, but I want you to drive down that way about a quarter of a mile. There's a driveway on the right you can pull into and turn around. I don't want you to get hit if you try to turn around in this fog."

"Okay," I replied. "Thank you so much."

"Have a good day," she smiled warmly, before turning around and heading towards her car.

I did as she'd instructed and drove down the road to turn around. On the way back I looked for her vehicle, knowing we would pass each other on the way to our respective jobs. Instead of seeing a white vehicle, though, I saw the yellow of a school bus stopped in the road at the intersection I had just slid through. No lights were flashing, but I slowed to stop, and that's when I saw the shiny pieces of yellow in the road. Looking up, I noticed the damage to the front of the bus. The pieces in the road were parts of the shattered hood of the school bus. Driving slowly around to see if I could park and help, I saw a small, black car behind the bus. It, too, was severely damaged, with windows smashed. People were milling about, some talking on cell phones and some crying.

Hearing sirens approach, I continued slowly on, knowing there was nothing I could do to help and that I needed to clear the way for rescue personnel. As I drove, I continued to search for the white SUV, but never did see it. About a mile down the road, the fog lifted and the sun shone brightly. By the time I got to work, it was all just a memory.

Throughout that day and several days that followed, I couldn't shake the feeling that something surreal had happened on the road that day. Why did my car stop just before the tree? Who was the woman who had seemed to come out of nowhere and then vanish? How had she managed to avoid my car? How did she know which way I had been intending to go?

I can't help but wonder if it was an angel, sent from God to protect me. If I had hit that tree I might have been seriously injured. If I hadn't driven down the road to turn around as the woman had instructed, I would have been in the same intersection with the school bus. If she hadn't stopped to comfort me, I might not have made it to work that day.

I heard on the radio the next morning that six children and a driver had been injured in the school bus accident. I don't know the extent of their injuries and can't bring myself to find out. I do, however, continue to thank God for sparing me that day, for not taking me away from my family or letting me become injured and unable to work. I know, now more than ever, that He has a plan for ME.

This year our holidays will be happy, after all. May God keep you and your family safe throughout this Thanksgiving and Christmas season.

De-cluttering

After I watched one of my favorite TV shows a couple of nights ago, it occurred to me that I never used to be able to watch favorite shows in "real time." It seemed I never had time to sit down and enjoy anything, for that matter! I reflected on what has changed in my life...I mean, I still have an (almost) full time job, I still have six children (one that I'm parenting from a distance now that she's in college), and now I'm down to one car/driver in the house. It would seem that I would be even busier, right?

What has changed is that we de-cluttered our lives.

We started with de-cluttering our space. We cleared and got rid of some bookshelves and other little stands that seemed to catch tons of clutter. We pared kitchen items down to just what we use on a regular basis. Clothing was sorted and a lot was given away; the rest was organized into dressers or baskets on top of dressers (great for little ones to manage underwear and socks!). We started keeping things in the areas we use them. Even though we still have some trouble spots to work on, this has helped tremendously!!

When I can see what's around me, find what I'm looking for efficiently, and have more space to move and work, I feel much better. I'm more productive. I'm happier. (Ask the children...when they want to "butter me up," they simply tidy the kitchen and make sure the dishes are done).

The second thing we did is to de-clutter our calendars. We no longer have 6 activities going on each week. To be truthful, I had to come to some key understandings here.
1. I am only ONE person and cannot do everything.
2. If my children want to be somewhere badly enough, sometimes they have to get creative or ask for help to get a ride, both valuable skills.
3. My children will not be failures in life if they don't participate in soccer, basketball, hockey, dance, karate AND piano lessons all by the time they are 15 years old.
4. It's okay to say no to a life that society has created and feel free to create the life that's right for me and my children.

Seriously, we were over-scheduled. Every night consisted of rushing home, rushing dinner, rushing to an activity, rushing homework, rushing bedtime, and getting up to get back on that wheel the next morning. Homework was often neglected. Notes for school were often forgotten. Sometimes the little ones didn't even get a bath! I felt like a rotten parent most of the time.

It wasn't healthy. We weren't eating right, we weren't sleeping enough, we weren't enjoying our time together, and we were getting crankier by the day. At the rate we were going, we would have all become grumpy old people by the time the children were 20.

I de-cluttered my work schedule, too. I pared my days down by .1, which equates to 18 days in a school year. At this point in our lives, that bit of time with my children is more valuable than the bit of money I'm able to keep after subtracting mileage, daycare, and taxes.

NOW... we all try to come straight home every night, where we have a system for getting dinner on the table. We talk about our day. We laugh. We plan dinner for the next day. We go through the papers in the backpacks and work on homework together. We share favorite books. I have time to do dishes and clean up the house while I chat with my children. We all have some time to ourselves to play outside, to play a video game, to talk to friends on the phone, or simply to sit and do nothing. We have a system for evening showers and bed time. Everyone is clean and in bed by 10:00 on most nights, myself included. Sometimes I even go to bed at 9:00.

Now that we've de-cluttered, we will take stock again to be sure everyone's needs are being met. My children don't seem to miss running around every night. They have more time to be kids. I will make sure they are liking the new changes, and adjust where I need to.

But not now...my favorite show is on. :)

I Will Make a Difference

My name is Trina and I am a survivor. A survivor of domestic violence. I am no longer going to hide this fact or be ashamed of it. My mission is to empower other victims.

It occurred to me recently that I've met survivors and people in recovery from all kinds of things....survivors of childhood abuse, survivors of cancer, recovering alcoholics, recovering gamblers, survivors of sexual abuse, recovering addicts...but I've never once met someone who admits to being a survivor of domestic violence or abuse.

Is there even a support group for DV victims, like there is for so many other things? I've never heard of one. The commercials on the radio have to beg and plead for these victims to even seek help in the first place. I've been wondering about this phenomenon for a long time now, attempting to wrap my mind around the whys of it all.

Why do people (men or women) abuse others in the first place?
Why do victims stay?
Why do victims not even realize that what is happening is abuse?
Why do we continue to call it "domestic violence" when many times there isn't any traditional violence involved?
Why is it still so taboo?
How do educated people suddenly find themselves in a bad situation with no way to get out?
Once the victim is removed from the violence, then what??

It should be called "domestic control" because that's what it starts out as, you know. Women don't willingly walk into relationships when all that's offered is hurt and misery. I've met many of these women. Many of them have normal jobs, healthy children, and one would never know what's going on behind the facade.

Well, not unless you look closely. If you look closely, you can see telltale signs. The smile that doesn't quite reach all the way. The eyes that dart around warily. The checking of the cell phone to make sure the kids are okay. The forced laughter.

And here's the thing that makes me wonder more than anything else. When people DO see or even suspect the truth, why don't they actually pull the victim aside and say something like "You know, you don't deserve to be treated like that. This situation is not healthy for you. I care about you. What can I do to help?"

Instead there are whispers, pointed fingers, judgmental comments made behind backs. "I don't know why she puts up with it....I would never....maybe she likes it....why doesn't she think of the kids...."

As someone who has been through this, I urge those of you who see someone in this situation to NOT judge, to NOT whisper, but to offer that person an ear, a shoulder, a safe place to sleep for the night, a ride to a safe house, a friend to take her to the police station, someone to stand beside her in court.

What I would have given for a friend like that. I'm going to keep working on this and I promise, I WILL make a difference.

Facebook and Living Deeper

In my workshop today, we talked about how knowing you're going to write about something helps you to experience it more fully. I found a quote for homework that says almost this same thing. "The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium." Norbet Platt.

I think that posting one "blurb" on Facebook each day has actually made me think more like a writer. Knowing I have to capture one small moment to share with the world has helped me live deeper, experience life more fully. I pay attention to the small details of my life. I think about how I would recount this thing that just happened, this thought I just had, or this quote from one of my children.

In our home we generally eat dinner together, around our dining room table. The kids like to do an activity we call "High Point, Low Point" where we go around the table and talk about the high point from our day and the low point from our day. Sometimes we just stick to high points. It generates a lot of conversation, as one can imagine. I'm wondering if this activity is also good for thinking like a writer...or at least being more "in the moment" during our days. If I know I have to tell something at the table, does it make me think about how I'm going to tell it, as it's happening? Or does it have the opposite effect?

I'll be thinking about these things in the coming days and weeks as I capture moments of my day to share with the world on Facebook, at my dining room table, or in my writer's notebook.

(Oh...and the coolest thing....the presenter lent me TWO books to bring home and read tonight! I was deeply honored!)  :)

Swimming, the savior, and the loving One

There was a time when my faith was SO strong it felt unshakable. I knew, deep in my heart, that I was forgiven and loved. I went to church every Sunday (and I had friends there!) I knew the hymns, the praise songs, and the Bible verses that comforted me in difficult times. I tucked words of advice and encouragement into my heart, sharing them with every friend I saw during the week. I knew that Jesus would always be there for me.

But tragically, I lost sight of Him when I plunged deep into that ocean of fear and pain two years ago.

It's been very much like an underwater struggle for me. Let me try to explain.

Imagine yourself being on a sailboat in beautiful weather, surrounded by the people you love. You hear music that fills your heart with joy, feel the sunshine on your face, and you can't imagine any better place on earth. Suddenly, you feel someone push you out of the boat, feel yourself splashing into icy cold water. At first you're shocked, and you look up and see only the concerned face of the One who loves you more than anything, shimmering just above you. You reach up to be rescued, your arms heavy and clumsy. You flail around in your panicked state, unintentionally forcing yourself deeper and deeper into the water. Fear starts to make your heart pound. Seaweed tangles around your head and face, debris catches at your legs and feet. You try to get back to safely, but you can't breathe, can't move, can't think. With the struggle to get free, the need to breath, the desire to be safe, you forget all about the One up there, forget all about the sunshine and the friends. All that's left is you and the fight to save your own life.

My initial shock at what happened in my marriage two years ago was what pushed me from my firm footing and into the icy water in the first place. I was stunned, shocked with cold fear. I wanted my friends to save me. I reached my arms out to them, but no one was there. No one wanted to "take sides." This feeling of abandonment pulled me even deeper into the water. I felt all alone with no one to help me...I panicked and down further I went. I lost sight of the loving One. Confusion about how my friends treated me was like seaweed that clouded my vision. Finding out that my children had been hurt was debris that grabbed at my ankles and held me down, unable to breathe. I feared I would drown.

But I fought to save my own life and the lives of my children. I fought fiercely, all by myself. I pulled free from the debris. I pushed the seaweed out of my face.  Finally, an anonymous savior, in the form of a non-believing friend, pulled me back to the surface. I began to breathe again - coughing, sputtering breaths at first -  but I was alive.

I wanted to get out of the water and stay out. I wanted to curl up on shore and forget it all...the water, the sailboat, my so-called friends, and even my new-found savior. I stayed there for a while, I cursed the water, I cursed the person who pushed me, and I forgot all about the One. I calmed down and started swimming again, tentatively and with help at first, and finally, on my own.

I've been swimming a beginner's stroke for months now, learning to trust the water, learning to navigate the seaweed without it pulling me under again. I know where the debris is and have learned to swim around it. I've been reluctant to look for that sailboat, unwilling to believe that the sunny day was even real. I've caught myself humming songs from that time, though, and my heart remembers. I've even thought about the loving One, and how His face shone upon me, and I've even wondered if He's still there.

I am, and always will be, thankful to my savior friend. Even without knowing about the sailboat, or the loving One, or anything about my past, he pulled me from the water and tended to me when I needed it the most. He swims beside me to this day, applauding my courage, encouraging me, and always helping me to become an even stronger swimmer.

I think I want to find the sailboat again. I want to feel the sun on my face and the joy in my heart. I want to sing those songs with abandon. But I'll admit, I'm afraid. How do I know it's safe? How do I know it was real? How do I know I won't be hurt again?

For now, I think I will just swim. If I see the sailboat, I might get on. Maybe I'll sing. Maybe I'll get to visit with the loving One and everything will be okay.

No matter what happens, one thing is for sure. My friend will be by my side, ready to catch me if I fall. And I love him for that.

Ode to Summer

Oh summer, how I love you! 
I love yawning and stretching in morning's light
While my dreams shake off like glitter
I'm waking and smiling and content


Oh summer, how I love you!
I love sitting at the table by the window
Sipping coffee with extra cream
I'm renewed and refreshed and ready


Oh summer, how I love you!
I love packing for a day outing
To places educational and fun
I'm happy and organized and excited


Oh summer, how I love you!
I love cooking for my family
On the grill, sizzling and smoky
I'm tanned and warm and laughing


Oh summer, how I love you!
I love tucking little ones into bed
After baths, stories and snuggles
I'm whispering and hugging and kissing


Oh summer, how I love you!
I love knowing there's someone for me
Who's tender and grateful and sweet
I'm loved and loved and loved....

Blossoming

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." Anais Nin

When you touch a hot stove, you learn not to touch it again. When you disobey your parents, you learn that there will be consequences to your actions. When a friend reveals a secret, you learn not to tell secrets to that friend again. Life teaches us what NOT to do, from a very young age. Sometimes we test out what we think we've heard and experience reinforces what we've learned.

Don't cheat on a test. Don't react in anger. Don't go out with the "wrong" boys. Don't trust that group of girls. Don't stay out too late. Don't drink too much. Don't show up for work late.

Many times these lessons work for our own good. But what happens if we never learn what we are supposed TO do? What happens if we become paralyzed by the "don'ts"?

Pretty soon, all we can do is stand still, barely breathing, afraid to step, afraid to move, afraid to risk. We live in a tight little bud, wrapped around ourselves, not daring to move.

That was me. From the time I was a little girl, I took to heart every command given to me by my parents and teachers. I wanted to please the grown ups in my life and I didn't want to be seen as a "bad" girl. I imagined myself very small, not getting in anyone's way, keeping to myself, minding the "don'ts." I didn't really talk much and everyone always commented on how shy I was. Later, they said I was mature for my age. I didn't play in a group of girls. I didn't hang out with other teenagers, or go to the mall, or sass my parents. I couldn't risk their disapproval. I complied, adjusted, and went along. To be honest, this had less to do with being a "good girl" and more to do with being afraid.

I remember speaking up on only one occasion. In my small voice I asked if we could do things differently than the way we were doing them.  My verbalized thoughts were met with hostility, disapproval, and conflict. Naturally, I stopped talking. Instead, I turned everything inward and came up with a plan that I executed impulsively. My plan led me to a situation that wasn't good for me and nearly ended in disaster.

Again, life taught me (and experience reinforced it) that I needed to stay in the tight little bud. I learned: DON'T talk to the people in your life. DON'T share your heart. DON'T leave a bad situation because you might get yourself into one that is worse. Above all, I learned to keep to myself, to stay quiet and to avoid taking risks.

I was a quiet little girl who got good grades and didn't cause trouble. I was a quiet college student, and even when I made choices that weren't good for me, no one knew about them but me. I was a quiet wife who focused on my husband and children to my own detriment.

I lived inside that tightly controlled, quiet world of my own making for a long time. When people heard from me it was respectful and polite. I avoided conflict. I didn't say what I was really thinking. On the few occasions I did, I suffered such physical anxiety that I developed ulcers and high blood pressure.

Is it a wonder, then, that I ended up in a violent, controlling marriage? Is it a wonder that I didn't stand up for myself after the first time? Is it a wonder that I didn't confide in my friends or those who were supposed to be there for me? Life taught me to be that way and experience reinforced it.

But here's the problem. Being in that bud HURT. Constantly seeking approval HURT. Not knowing at the end of each day that I was accepted and loved HURT. Wanting to be me, wanting to have my own voice, wanting to do things differently than the people around me HURT. Not having someone there for me HURT. I was lonely and scared a lot. I didn't know what to do when conflict arose. I didn't know how to get out of a bad situation. I was afraid.

And you know what? I still don't know how to handle it when people disappoint me. I still don't always say no, even when it's in my best interest. I still don't really know the best way to advocate for myself and my children and avoidance is still one of my favorite coping skills.

But now that I've had a taste of love and acceptance, I'm learning! It's sweeter than anything I ever imagined. I'm sick of that hurtful bud and I'm not going back to it. I'm learning to speak my mind, to advocate for what's right, and to stop doing the things I don't want to do. NO is going to become a regularly used part of my vocabulary.

I'm ready to blossom!

The Monster Under the Bed

Sarah had just finished sweeping her bedroom floor as Rick carried the last armload of clothes to the hallway to be bagged for donating. 

"Wow, it's starting to look great in here," she exclaimed, looking at the new entertainment center and small TV in the corner and the small dresser they had put in her room. "I can't believe I've waited a year to change this space and really make it mine. Thank you again for your help, but mostly for your inspiration." 

"It's my pleasure, sweet girl," he said. As he talked, he moved next to the bed and started to push it with his hip.

"DON'T!" Sarah shouted and put both hands on the bed. "You can't move the bed!"

Rick laughed at her dramatic shout, but looking over the bed at her, he realized she wasn't being funny. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable and, as before, it startled him to see her literally paralyzed by it. He'd seen this look in her eyes on two other occasions, once when he'd shouted in anger at getting his car stuck in the driveway and once when he'd raised his voice in frustration when he couldn't get her to understand something he was saying. 

"Baby, what's the matter?" he asked as he went to her side and took her shoulders in his hands. "Look at me. Talk to me."

"You can't...," she shook her head and whispered, starting at the bed as if it was alive. "You can't move the bed."

"Why not?" he asked softly.

"There's stuff under there," she said. "Stuff that I don't want to...can't...look at."

"Okay baby," he said reassuringly. "Then we won't. We don't have to move it today. I was just going to sweep under it. But it's okay. We can do it another time. We've already done a lot today."

They went downstairs and he got her a drink of water. As before, her mind seemed far away and he knew she had to be alone with her thoughts for a little while. She'd come back to herself, he knew. It would just take a little time. 

Sarah walked alone by the river, trying to get the images out of her mind. It had been over a year and a half since he'd left, but every once in a while the memories came back with alarming clarity. Despite her best efforts to shake them off, to distract herself with the children or a book, she knew that the only way to force the demons away was to remember them and deal with them head on.

"I hate you, you bastard!" she swore quietly as she picked up a rock and threw it into the river as hard as she could. And she truly did. She hated how he could still evoke fear in her from behind bars, separated by miles and even years from her. She let the tears flow, remembering his face, remembering his words, remembering what had happened in that room. She cried for a long time, until it felt like there wasn't anything left inside her. The tears cleansed her and, for now at least, she could return to her life. 

                  ****************************************************************

Two months later, Sarah stood next to the bed again, alone this time. She had done the weekly clean-up, putting away the new clothing she'd purchased, dusting the furniture and the few photos on the dresser, and sweeping the floor. The bed was made with the freshly laundered sheets she'd purchased a few months ago and the pillows were fluffed. She'd tied back her pretty new blue curtains to let the sun stream in the windows. 

The memory of the old black curtains came back to her and gripped her. "I told you to never open these curtains," she heard him say in her head. "You know I need to sleep in the daytime. I can't sleep with the frigging sun blinding me. What's the matter with you?"

She was sick of it, sick of his voice in her head. Sick of the memories, the fear, the hatred. 

"Enough!" she said out loud. "Enough of this stupid fear. I'm NOT afraid of you anymore!" As she spoke, she went to the bed and shoved it, as hard as she could. It moved on its wheeled legs, at least a foot towards the closet. She trembled and looked down, her heart starting to pound. 

The first thing she saw was the brown shoe. It was a suede slip-on, no laces or buckles for him to have to bend over and deal with. She thought of the day she had brought them home from Payless, trying to appease his anger over the black ones from LL Bean ripping a month after buying them. He'd put them on, and the disdain had appeared immediately on his face. 

"They're too narrow. You know I can't wear narrow shoes. What a waste of money. And I'd have you take them back, but you'd never remember, so it's a waste of breath to even say it. There's one more thing I'm going to have to do, in all of my free time. Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"I'm sorry," she'd stammered, angry at herself for being so weak around him. "I was just trying to help."

Now she picked up the size 11 shoe and threw it into the garbage bag. She found the mate and threw it too, harder this time. She picked up the black dress shoes next. She let herself remember how he'd looked when he'd dressed up to go to DJ gigs. He'd had a way of tightening his tie around his ruddy neck, licking his lips and starting at himself in the mirror like he was God's gift to women. He'd sickened her. How she'd hated those gigs, hated how he'd embarrassed her by forcing her to talk over the microphone to announce what was coming up next at the party or reception and then accused her of flirting with all the men after they'd gotten home.

She continued throwing his things into the garbage bag, trying not to dwell on the memories each item evoked.  She felt numb by the time she put the last boot into the bag and realized that tears had been streaming down her face. She tied the bag up and placed it in the hallway before returning to sweep the floor under the bed. 

When the broom moved toward the headboard wall, though, she stopped with a gasp. There, low on the wall, were the eyebolts he had put there. She froze as she remembered the nylon restraints that had been clipped into them. She thought again of the fear she had experienced being completed immobilized by the restraints he had forced her into, naked and blindfolded. She remembered he had taken pictures of her, had touched her in ways that had made her cry with fear, pain and shame. 

Sarah's fear gave way to anger at that moment and she threw the broom down in disgust. "How could you?" she asked the invisible monster. "You were supposed to love me, to cherish me, and take care of me and my kids. Instead, you took everything that ever meant anything to me. You made me feel dirty. You tried to ruin my name, tried to turn my kids against me, and took all of my money. Well you know what? You deserve that cell you're going to rot in for the rest of your life."

She took the screwdriver from her bedside table and threaded it through the hole of the first eyebolt. Turning it, she saw her life without him stretching out before her, free from humiliation, free from pain, free from fear. She removed it from the wall and rubbed the hole it left behind. Turning to the second one, she removed it and placed them both on her nightstand. Looking at the scars on her wall, she thought of how nice it would be to patch them and paint over them. But just like the scars on her heart, she would always know they were there, would know that they could never truly be erased. 

As she finished sweeping the floor and putting the bed back in place, Sarah knew that the monster had lost some of its power that day. She had faced it and was still standing. After everything, he hadn't won, but she wondered how long it was going to take to truly feel victorious. If she ever would. 

Travels with Aunt Bea - Prologue

I stood there that hot summer morning, glancing around at the huge throng of people I found myself among. One of my favorite things to do is "people watch" and I was in a prime spot for it that day, outside the studio where The Today Show is filmed in New York City. A group of men wearing cowboy costumes worked the crowd, handing out fliers shaped like sheriff badges to advertise an upcoming movie. Kids dressed in brightly colored clothing held up equally bright signs announcing their schools and sports teams. Young families pointed at cameras and waved, all hoping to be spotted by relatives watching the show on live TV that morning. I had already called my dad and had him turn his TV on, but he couldn't see me behind the huge potted plants on the set.

Tired of waiting for the outdoor segment to start or for Al Roker to come around to the section where I stood with my teaching colleagues, I turned around to the street behind us. Business men and women strode briskly to morning jobs while their briefcases swung importantly at their sides. Vacationing families meandered slowly, eyes pointed upward while their strollers, backpacks, and purchases seemed to anchor them to the ground. There was a quaint coffee shop with an unusual rounded glass door situated directly on the corner. People entered and exited the shop quickly, hurrying with their paper coffee cups toward their morning destinations.

A sparkle down the street a little ways caught my eye. I turned to see an older woman with beautiful white hair, dressed in a flowing skirt, a bright pink sleeveless shirt, and a hat reminiscent of a 20's flapper hat. She was pulling a red Radio Flyer wagon behind her. Now here was something a little out of the ordinary, I remember thinking. Curious, I turned completely around to investigate. She walked as if oblivious to the people scurrying about, her eyes turned upward and her mouth moving, as if she was singing or talking to herself.  In the wagon was a sculpted bust, adorned with jewels and sequins, a feathered hat on its head. I wondered who this woman was and where she was going with the wagon.

To my disbelief, she opened the rounded door of the coffee shop and pulled her wagon inside! I chuckled to myself, thinking about the barista's reaction to this strange customer. Before I could turn away, I saw the woman through the front facing window of the coffee shop. She parked her wagon beside one of the quaint wrought iron tables for two, lifted the bust, and sat it in one of the chairs. The woman disappeared and a few moments later, she returned and placed two cups of steaming beverages on the little table...one for her and one for her "friend." As she sat across from the sequined bust, I could see her talking in an animated fashion, using her hands to gesture as you would to...well, another person! It certainly was the most curious thing I had ever seen, and it got me thinking about who this woman was, who the bust was to her, and what they were talking about. For months, my imagination turned this story around and around, and what you're about to read is a result.

Making It Our Own

It's taking us a long time, making this home truly our own. For a while, we wondered if we should just move away...leave the bad memories behind and start over somewhere new. But walking away from the bad would also mean leaving the good. There were many good memories made here too. We remember happy days spent down by the river, sledding parties on the back hill, arbor day trees each child planted in kindergarten that are now huge and green in the side yard. Echoes of "Meet me at C3" still ring in my mind, memories from the summer the kids named favorite locations on the property to meet during their outdoor games.

I promised my children roots. I always wanted a stable home for them - a place for them to gather with friends throughout their teen years, a place to come back to between college years, a place to bring their own spouses and children to one day for family gatherings. Walking away now would mean pulling up those roots and abandoning my dreams of that stable home.

Instead, we've chosen to stay and make it our own. For the first year everything remained untouched, frozen in time like our own lives. This year, we started getting rid of the clutter. How refreshing it was to box up and throw things out, taking charge like we OWN the place! Finally! At the beginning, we had to give ourselves permission to change even the smallest thing. Now, the sky is the limit. Move the plants? Sure. Paint the walls? Absolutely! Rethink the furniture? You bet!

Each change brings a better outlook, new hopes, new dreams and visions of a better future. I'm glad we didn't run away...I'm glad we chose to keep our memories and make new ones here. I'm glad we're making it our own.

New Fiction...Please comment!

Dear Reader,

Today I'm trying something new. I recently read that you must write a million words of crap before you can get to "real" writing that is worthy of being published. In order to change from writing crap to writing great material, though, the writer must accept a certain amount of real feedback. True growth as a writer can only come through listening to the honest critiques of readers. After all, the goal is to connect with as many readers as possible, right?

However, I tend to write a lot of autobiographical material, so I haven't really asked for constructive criticism up until now. After all, I write about what has happened to me and my own emotions about those events. It seems risky to ask for criticism when it comes to things of that personal nature.

So today I'm starting a series of fictional beginnings, individual chapters, short stories, and essays. If possible, please comment on the writing in the comments section below. You can point out typographical errors and grammatical errors, of course, but what I'm really searching for are thoughts about organization, style, voice, and character development. Each day I'll tell you about the assignment for that day and you can read my writing and respond.

Thank you in advance for helping me to develop my voice as a writer. My determination and hard work may just lead to a published work, and I'll be sure to autograph a copy just for you when it happens!

Today's assignment is to write about friendship featuring a high school student as the main character and having a fountain as the key object. The story is to take place in a flower shop. Without further ado...I present, The Secret In the Fountain.


The flower shop was strangely empty when Patricia entered. She looked around for her best friend, Joe. He could normally be found helping his mom run the cash register at Petals and Stems, the busy flower shop they'd opened last year. Since Joe's father had passed away two years ago, Joe and his mom had become close and he worked for her most nights after school and on Saturdays.

Patricia and Joe had made plans to go to the clearing that day, but now she wondered if he had forgotten. She heard the tinkling of the bells above the curtain leading to the back room.

"Hi, Mrs. McConnelly," she greeted Joe's mother with a small wave.

"Why hello, Patricia," answered Jeanine McConnelly with a smile. "How nice to see you. What are you up to today?"

"Thank you. I'm actually looking for Joe. Is he here?"

"Oh, I just sent him on an errand. He's on his way to Greg's sub shop to get lunch for the two of us. Here, take some money and head that way. If you hurry you'll catch up to him. Have him add your order to ours and we'll all eat lunch together."

Accepting a ten dollar bill, Patricia thought about how she could convince Mrs. McConnelly to let Joe out of work that afternoon. They had to get to the fountain in time to put the stone back into its proper place. "Thanks," she yelled behind her before running out the door.

Patricia Stark was, at first glance, an average tenth grade girl. She had long, brown hair that she wore straight down her back. She was dressed that day in her normal attire; blue jeans, layered t-shirts, and her bright green sneakers. Her jewelry consisted of a small silver key she wore on a chain around her neck and tiny silver beaded earrings. Her ever-present plaid backpack was slung over her right shoulder.

Most people in their high school thought she and Joe were together, as in dating, but the fact was they had been best friends since seventh grade. Patricia had been assigned to show Joe around school on his first day at South High, and they had discovered many mutual interests and a shared sense of humor. For a girl who had spent most of  her elementary school years engrossed in books or writing stories, it was strange and exciting to finally have a kindred spirit to share her innermost thoughts with. Around Joe she could be herself and all traces of self-consciousness vanished.

The week before, she and Joe had taken a hike down a dirt road in her rural neighborhood. Patricia had spotted an interesting stone wall in a clearing off to the right of the dead-end road. Approaching the wall for closer inspection, she saw a flat stone embedded in the middle of the wall. Kneeling down to look at it, she saw words engraved. Brushing away the moss, she read "Danger. Any stone removed must be returned by 3:00 the following day."



Okay Reader, here is the beginning....it's all I have time for today. Please respond with questions, comments, and honest feedback. Thanks again!

Thoughts in the Dark

It was so dark. And quiet. Sara couldn't remember a time in her life when their house had been this quiet. Lying alone, fully dressed but shivering on the sofa, she tried to put the pieces of the day together, tried to get her confused mind to figure out exactly what had happened that day.

The morning had been normal enough. It was Friday. She was home because her new job didn't start for another week. The kids had done their morning chores and started their schoolwork, as usual. He had seemed agitated and antsy, but that hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. He'd been that way for months.

The first sign of trouble had been his suggestion, out of the blue, that they go out on the motorcycle. She'd asked why he wanted to go out at 10:30 in the morning, but he'd seemed angered by her question, so she'd quickly agreed. As they'd put on their helmets, he'd said he wanted to return the car they'd borrowed from the pastor and his wife. "Follow me in the car," he'd ordered, "and hurry up. I have things to do today."

Sara jolted back to the dark room as she heard a noise outside. Terror washed over her. She rose nervously from the sofa and walked around, looking into each dark and empty room downstairs. The dog followed her expectantly and sat down beside her when she stopped in the front room. She checked the lock for the third time and stared out the door into the now-dark yard, feeling so alone, so scared, so uncertain about what would happen next. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, seeing again the flashing lights from the police cars that had surrounded their property just hours before. Thank God he hadn't...but she couldn't let herself complete the thought. She forced herself to go back to the sofa and lie down, willing the clock to tick faster, willing it to be morning. It was 2:30am.

She'd climbed into the car that morning, her helmet on so she'd be ready when they reached their destination in 15 minutes. Lately he'd gotten angry whenever he'd had to wait for her and his impatience set her nerves on edge. Putting the car into reverse and looking carefully over her shoulder, she began to back out onto the road. She heard the squeal of motorcycle tires and spun her head around just in time to watch him roar off, going dangerously fast up the curvy road.

Her thoughts spinning, she'd driven quickly and carefully behind him, watching his erratic movements on the bike. She tried to think of a way to get out of riding back with him, but barring an out and out refusal, she could think of nothing. She'd thought maybe talking to the pastor would calm him down before they started back for home.

She'd watched him pull into the driveway too fast, braking hard enough to leave a skid mark in the packed dirt. She'd put the car in its normal spot, turning everything off and putting the keys above the visor. She'd gotten out and approached him on the bike. He'd revved the engine loudly and snapped his head to the side, impatiently motioning for her to get on.

"Aren't we going to go in?" she'd yelled.

"I already told you that they weren't going to be home. Now get on!" he'd shouted.

She'd swung herself up into the rear seat and turned on her helmet intercom. "Please drive carefully," she'd nearly whispered.

"I'll drive however I damn well please, bitch," he'd retorted, before reaching up to turn off his intercom. She'd held onto the seat strap as he tore out onto the road, and she'd said a quick prayer for her own safety. Sobbing quietly in fear for her life, she'd leaned left and right as he'd swerved maniacally at high speed. When the bike fishtailed, she'd subconsciously grabbed for his waist. He'd braked suddenly, skidding them to the side of the road.

"Get off," he'd bellowed from under his helmet. "I don't want any moody bitches riding with me."

"No, please" she'd whimpered. "We're still at least five miles from home. Just slow down and I'll stop crying."

"I said, get off!"

She hadn't tried to plead her case. She'd climbed off the bike as he sped away, spraying dirt and pebbles back at her. She'd stood still at first, dumbfounded, and then started walking.

As Sara had walked along the side of the road, she'd stopped trembling and felt herself get angry. How dare he! After all, it had been her paycheck that had paid for that motorcycle, those helmets and the intercom system just the month before. She'd taken off her helmet and tucked it under her arm, letting her anger gather steam. But then, she'd thought, it was her money that paid for nearly everything, while he worked a pitiful part time job a few hours a night driving bus. She was tired of his controlling ways, tired of walking on eggshells, tired of being afraid.

Her mind returned to the week before, when she had finally worked up the nerve to call the domestic abuse hotline her boss had referred her to.

"Sara, you can't keep going like this," Nancy had said to her quietly. "It's clear he's getting worse and you can't keep denying it. One of these days he's going to snap and hurt you or your children."

She'd stayed quiet and let the words sink in, wondering how much to disclose. It was her last day at the job and she was going to miss her colleagues. She wouldn't have left the position she'd loved, but he'd come into the office once again that month, cursing and shouting obscenities at her boss and anyone else within earshot. He had cost her the job, and although she'd felt the sting of unfairness, she'd understood why Nancy had faced no other choice but to terminate her employment.

"Nancy," she'd started to cry, "I have to get away from him, but I don't know how. I have six children, no where to go, no money..." she'd trailed off, sobbing. When Nancy had wrapped her arms around her, Sara had let out everything that had been building up for months. "He's been so mean to me and the kids. He's unpredictable and moody, and I don't know what to do anymore."

After she'd calmed down, Nancy had walked her to her inner office, where they'd used her phone to call the county domestic violence hotline. She'd set up an appointment with a DV counselor early the following week when she could slip away without him. She'd had to make up a story about having an exit interview for work, as the counselor suggested. She couldn't tell him about it, and the counselor said they'd make a safety plan at the appointment.

"Whatever you do," she'd been cautioned, "don't tell him you're planning to leave. Just do whatever you have to do to keep the peace and keep him placated until we can make a plan for you and the children to leave safely."

That same night, Sara had logged onto the secret e-mail account she'd created. Her husband had insisted on knowing all of her passwords and it was part of his routine to check her bank account, her credit card account, her work and personal e-mails and the internet history each night when he returned from work.  She'd quickly e-mailed the friend she'd made online three months before. She still had no idea what the man's name was, as they'd both used pseudonyms in the chat room. What had started out as mindless chitchat during an online game had turned to serious talk as he had sensed her problems. Desperate for someone to talk to, she'd poured out her story to this faceless, nameless stranger who'd claimed to be a therapist. She hadn't cared at the time if he really was a therapist or not, she'd just needed someone who could listen. He had and he, too, had urged her to get out of her living situation as soon as possible. She wanted him to know she had made the appointment.

To: justin2110
From: busybee70
Subject: I did it
Hey friend. Just wanted to let you know I made the appointment today. I'm meeting with a domestic violence counselor on Monday to make a safety plan. More later. Gotta go.

As Sara continued down the road that morning with her helmet under her arm, she'd thought how timely making that appointment had been. At that moment, she'd known she had to get away from him, and the sooner the better.

She'd heard the sound of the motorcycle approaching before she'd seen it come into view. Sure enough, it was him, coming back for round two. She'd braced herself and told herself to stay calm, no matter what.

He'd turned the bike toward the side of the road and started coming straight at her. She'd moved as far off the road as she could but the headlight got bigger and bigger as he approached her at full speed. Sara gasped, closed her eyes, and put her hands out to brace herself for the impact. She heard the squeal of brakes and opened her eyes in time to see the bike slide just to her right as she felt his sleeve brush hers.

"Get on, you little whore," he'd shouted.

"No!" she'd refused.

"I said, get on!" he'd yelled.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Sara yelled back. She knew it wasn't what the counselor had told her to do, but she'd been afraid to get back on.

When he'd started to put the kickstand down, she'd frozen in terror. If something happened to her here, in the middle of nowhere, her kids would be alone with him, she'd thought. She had to get back on and get back to the house to protect them.

"Okay, I'll go," she'd said meekly, as she got on the bike and fastened her helmet quickly. "But can we talk when we get home? I'm sorry for whatever I did to make you angry this morning."

She'd hated herself for apologizing. She'd told herself it wasn't going to be much longer and that she only had to give these last few performances for her kids' sake.

He'd said nothing, but went slower on the remainder of the drive. When they arrived, he'd announced that he was going to bed and didn't want to be disturbed until it was time for him to go to work that evening.

"Thank God," she'd muttered under her breath.

Pulling herself back to the present, Sara sat up again on the sofa. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost 4:00am and she still hadn't slept. With all that had happened before noon, she should have seen this coming. She should have left while he was sleeping, she thought now in hindsight. If she had, none of this would have happened. She and her children would be together and she wouldn't be here, all alone.  With fresh tears streaming, she rocked herself back and forth and wondered if her life was ever going to be the same again.

(To be continued...)

Five Years Later...

Five years ago, I offered to help a young woman I had never met. All I knew about her is that she, her husband, and their two little boys had been evicted from their apartment and would either be sleeping in their car or staying with her mother, cramped into her small living room.

I had met the young woman's mother a couple of times, and knew she suffered from MS. It was to the mother that I made my offer of help. It sounded like this, "If you ever need a hand watching those two little ones for an afternoon so you can get a break, let me know. It's summer vacation and I'd be glad to help."

On a Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks later, the young woman and her mother came to my door with the little guys. They asked me if I could watch the boys as the mother was moving and needed to pack. I looked at these darling little babies for the first time, both with blond hair and blue eyes. The baby was 13 months old and his older brother was just two. These little boys were in t-shirts and diapers, with no pants or shoes. They had obviously been playing in the dirt and were in desperate need of haircuts. Smiling, I took the baby from the young woman, along with a plastic bag containing three diapers. She had nothing else to offer...no diaper bag, no sippy cups, no comforting toys. We talked briefly about what time she would return that night and decided on 7 or 8 o'clock.

We played outside and got to know each other for most of the afternoon. In the sunlight I could see dozens of bug bites all over their little bodies. They looked like flea bites but I couldn't be sure. I discovered that the baby was just learning to walk and loved to have hands to hold on to to get around. His brother could walk and run, but didn't have any words in his vocabulary yet other than typical baby babbling and the word "no."

At 5:00 we had dinner and I saw these little babies shoving fistfuls of food into their mouths and leaning down to eat directly from their plates. To my astonishment, they ate every single bite of food.

At 6:00 I learned that both boys were terrified of the bathtub. After much cajoling and a few toys to play with, we got through it. I dressed them in my older son's T-shirts that looked like little nighties on them.

At 7:00 I picked out two or three stories to read. With both boys on my lap, I read out loud. Two active little boys became still and silent, mesmerized by my voice and the pictures in front of them.

At 8:00 we snuggled in the rocking chair. I sang soft songs while their sweet little heads relaxed on my shoulders and they fell asleep.

At 9:00 I laid them down on the couch, one on each end, and tucked them in with soft blankets. Their soft little snores filled the room while I waited for their mother.

At 9:30 I heard a car pull into the driveway. I stepped out onto the porch where I could talk but still hear through the screen door. I told the young woman that her boys were sleeping and that we'd had a fun day. I asked if she had any plans to apply for emergency assistance to get temporary housing, since her mother was moving and she had no place to live. She laughed and joked about living in her car if she had to, so I advised her to go to social services the very next day. I offered to watch the boys again, and she asked if she could just leave them with me overnight instead of having to wake them and bring them back early the next morning. She assured me that they wouldn't wake until morning and that she'd come back as soon as she got back from her appointment the next day.

She was right on one count. Those two little boys did sleep all night. However, she didn't return the next day, or the day after that. I went on a shopping trip to buy clothing, shoes, diapers, and other basic necessities for the boys, telling myself that she'd likely need some newer things for them when she picked them up anyway. On the third day she came to say her father had died and she asked me to keep them for another week. The following week she came by to say she was busy and couldn't take them back. After many weeks of her stopping in to say hello and provide reasons that she couldn't take them back, I applied for temporary custody. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Five years later, my two little boys, Justyn and Tyler, are still with me. I have full custody and have started the paperwork to adopt them. They are well-adjusted, bright little boys who know they have a loving mommy. They love to read, play outside, and ride their bikes. They adore their two older brothers and two older sisters.

Tomorrow we are celebrating Justyn's sixth birthday, and Tyler turned seven in March. I consider myself  blessed to have these little boys in my life. It wasn't planned and it hasn't always been easy, but I know they are meant to be with me. I can't think of a better way to teach my older children what it means to love and accept others and I thank God for choosing me to be the teacher.

Here It Comes!

Pretty colors emerge in the form of flowers and dresses
Windows are opened, washed shiny and clear
Neighbors wave to each other on evening walks
Warmth spreads green from ground to sky
Songs warble and trill in the sweet morning air
Do you hear it?
Do you see it?
Do you smell it?
It's summer, and here it comes!

Stinkin' Thinkin'

Today my mind is on stinkin' thinkin'. You know...the kind of internal thinking we engage in that works against ourselves instead of for ourselves. We all engage in it at times, even if we're not aware of it.

Think about when you look at yourself in the mirror. Do you find yourself saying, "I love the way I look today!" very often? Or is it more like, "Man, I need to lose weight, and I wish I didn't have this ugly spot right here?" Exactly my point. We all do this to some extent.

There is another, more dangerous, kind of stinkin' thinkin' that emerges as the result of growing up with a set of beliefs that are not appropriate or accurate. If a child grows up constantly hearing that she can't do anything right, she will take that belief into adulthood with her. It will be nearly impossible for her to believe her actions or accomplishments are right or good.  Her internal voice will tell her, "Of course that's not right...nothing I ever do is right." If a young boy hears that it's not manly to cry or show emotions, he will most likely grow up not knowing how to express himself appropriately.

It is natural to take these beliefs from our formative and teenage years into adulthood and act upon them, whether the beliefs are skewed or not. In a perfect world, children grow up hearing only positive and healthy messages about their inner beauty, self-worth, and values. Let's face it, though, there are many things that can happen in a child's life to interrupt this, such as emotional or physical abuse, losing an important person, alcoholism, the cycle of poverty or prejudice, and the list goes on. The point is, if a child grows up with a skewed set of beliefs, the child will grow up to act on those beliefs unless something happens to challenge or interrupt their thought process. 

One of the hardest things I've had to do recently, was to admit that my own children have some skewed beliefs due to growing up in a household where there was domestic violence. I wanted their childhood to be perfect, but it didn't quite turn out that way. When I've listened to their "internal voices" coming out in conversations with their friends and each other, or watched the actions they've taken in relationships and friendships, I've had to admit that they are, at times, acting on skewed beliefs.

The reason admitting this isn't easy is that I have to take responsibility for it. I've let them grow up in less than ideal circumstances. That being said, now I have to DO SOMETHING about it (see bold print above).

I don't want my children to grow up thinking that it's okay to disrespect their mother, although I allowed them to witness this for years without telling them it was wrong. I don't want them to think it's okay for one person in a relationship to control the other. I don't want them to think you have to let someone take advantage of you in order to stay in a relationship. I never, ever, want them to think that it's okay to let someone abuse them, physically or emotionally. More than anything, I don't want them to think they have to sacrifice their own values to prove their love for someone.

I am saddened to admit to myself that these are the beliefs my children have internalized while growing up. But I can't let my sadness prevent me from working my hardest to correct them. As hard as parenting already is, it's doubly hard to correct a set of beliefs a teenager has accumulated over most of his or her lifetime. This is required work for a parent who has recently come out of a tough situation, though. It takes courage to admit that I've failed my children in this respect, and now must "cram in" extra parenting lessons to undo what has been done.

But it's worth it. It's worth it to stay up late, to put off dinner for an hour, to cancel my own plans, basically whatever it takes, to help my children overcome these skewed beliefs. I know it will be my mission for the remainder of the time I have with each of my children. I owe it to them, and I love them enough to sacrifice anything for their well-being.

And there isn't anything that's stinkin' about that thinkin'!

Bittersweet

Tonight was the band concert at our local school. First the jazz band played four tunes for us, then junior band took the stage for four, and finally senior band closed with four songs. It was a bittersweet night as my daughter, Rebekah, played in her last school concert.

Tonight I remembered her first twangs on the bass guitar as she taught herself to play using a DVD tutorial. My pre-teen tomboy did NOT follow in my footsteps and take up the piano, but followed her spunky heart instead and chose the guitar. Although I was sad she didn't take up one of "my" instruments, I was proud of her independence and desire to make her own way.

Many concerts later (with the French Horn added to her repertoire at some point along the route), I found myself near tears in the audience tonight. It is the last time I will see my child's name in a school program. It is her last time walking across the stage with her classmates. It hit me fully for the first time - it's all coming to a close, this time of being in her life every day, watching her grow, listening to her play and sing, hearing her laughing with her sister in the room across the hall from mine as they dress for a concert together.

I suddenly can't breathe, unable to imagine Rebekah being so many hours away as she takes the next steps into her new life. I think about her getting up, having breakfast in a place other than our familiar kitchen, and going to classes without her siblings. We're such a close family now, a team, and we operate like a well-oiled machine. I can't imagine her apart from us or envision our team without her.

But I know I must - it's part of the cycle and I have to wear my smile for her sake. Only now can I understand what my parents must have felt the day they left me in my dorm room at a mere 17 years of age. I wondered then why they were so somber when I was embarking on the biggest adventure of my life. Now I know.

Rebekah won't know my sadness, and I don't want her to. Just like she did with her guitar, I want her to make her own way and walk her spunky self into her new, independent life. Somehow I know she will, and I know we'll all be okay in the end.

Write Every Day??

Dear Reader, I started this blog as a way to enter a contest. It wasn't necessary to have anything particularly wonderful written in the blog, I just had to have a link to a blog of my own. I created it out of necessity and at the time it didn't really matter to me if I posted every day or not.

But I DO identify myself as a writer, and strive to become a better writer all the time. I read books for writers, I read blogs about writing, and I think about new ideas for writing all the time. In fact, that's what got me into this whole mess tonight.

Reader, I know you understand my dilemma of having dishes to do, laundry to fold, and children clamoring for advice, homework checks and food every night. What I'm trying to say is that it's easy to read about being a writer, and even easier to procrastinate when it comes to actually putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard in this case).  In the midst of that very procrastination tonight, I stumbled upon a site about writing a memoir, which is something I hope to do someday. That site linked to another writing site and another, until I landed on a site with the alarming title "How To Write Every Day."

I skimmed it, certain that the author didn't mean every single day. I mean, who could even do that? But here's what I saw, in black and white: "IF you aspire to be a writer......you should......write every day." Scary things came up after that, like "daily routine" and "target number of words" and even "responsibility to a daily deadline for your readers." Whoa.

Reader, let me just say, for the record, that even though this concept terrifies and somewhat overwhelms me, I know it's something I need to do.

I. Need. To. Write. Every. Day.

I owe it to myself. I owe it to my readers. I owe it to my one-eyed Daruma, waiting to get his other eye until the day I've finally submitted my first manuscript. I don't need to be published, but I need to send out a finished work.

That said, I'm making a commitment, right here and right now. I will write for at least 15 minutes a day, compose at least three sentences, and post my writing by 10:00pm each night. There, I said it. Now I must do it.

So...I guess I'll be seeing you around. Tomorrow night. :)

The Habits of My Optimism

Let's face it, if we really want to talk about and focus on bad stuff, we can find sources everywhere. Tornadoes, floods, government corruption, and our Nation's financial woes are cluttering the newspapers and air waves. I hardly have to do a thing and I can get sucked into a dismal abyss of negativity.

As for me though, I'd rather walk around my little world with a song in my heart and a smile on my lips. It feels better to me that way. But, there are days when it's hard, even for me (a self-professed optimist), to find the energy and courage to smile that smile, to sing that song.

So, how DO I find that energy? What is the source of that courage? Where do the smiles come from? The truth is, there are a few habits that help.

Honestly, it's not like I walk around all day, specifically looking for things to laugh at or scanning for people who will lift my spirits in order to feel happy. But I do think I've developed some habits concerning optimism.

Can you believe, I used to be a very shy person? I wanted to be more outgoing (thinking that was the secret to happiness), so I consulted a colleague. She challenged me to simply look at and smile at each person I passed in the course of my day. I didn't need to wave or say anything, just try to make eye contact and smile. Let me tell you, I pass a lot of people in a lot of hallways in a lot of schools in the course of a week, as well as random people in the grocery store, at the gas station, etc. The research about developing habits says you need 10-40 daily repetitions of something until it becomes a habit. So I did it. Every day I smiled. And smiled. And smiled some more. For two solid months. And you know what? A smile is now my natural expression, and it has become easy to smile (and even say hello) each time I pass someone.

Here's what happens. When you make yourself smile, even if you don't feel like it, people often smile back. Sometimes they say hello. Sometimes they even pay you a compliment. Often a conversation ensues. Happiness attracts happiness. For people who claim to dislike drama even though it seems to keep finding them, this is an effective strategy to try. I often ask my children, "What's wrong?" to which they glumly reply, "Nothing." My answer, "Then would you please notify your face?"  :)

Basically, if you want to find something to smile at, try smiling!

Here are a few other things I try to do consciously:

• Hug someone DAILY (I hug my children, but you can hug anyone!)
• Listen to music (I'm currently loving late 60's stuff because I'm teaching my daughter about it)
• Try a bedtime routine. Set out clothes, use your coffeepot timer, pack your lunch. It feels good going to sleep with no worries about these things.
• Get out in the fresh air.

If I didn't do these things daily, I wouldn't be so happy and upbeat daily. Trust me, I know. I've tried it, and it's not pretty. What I'm saying to you is what others have said to me - if your life isn't happy the way it is, if you wish you could find the courage and energy to be more positive, YOU need to change a few things. You can't change government. You can't change nature. You most definitely can't change other people. 

But you can smile! You can hug! You can get regular, healthy sleep! I believe you can do all of these things, and many more, to begin to bring that positive energy into your life. Try it, and have some pancakes on me. :)

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Wow, I've always wanted to do this!

I've dreamed of this moment as a fledgling writer...the moment I created my very own blog. It's a portal, straight into my very own thoughts, of which I have many, every day. (You'll see.) And now the day has arrived, not because I finally placed it at the top of my "Do It Or Die" list, but because I wanted to enter a contest. A writer's contest. But, see, to enter the contest, I had to provide a link to my very own blog.

So here we are...now I have my very own blog BUT all of my creative juices for the day have been used up, before I even write my very first entry. You see, one of the first things the fine people at blogger.com asked me to do tonight was to*name* my very own blog.

I will give you a tiny view into my very own brain as I recount the process of creating the name for this blog. Now, I really like alliteration. So, I thought, why not alliterate the name of my blog? I tried "Musings of a Messy Mom" (but really, I've started to become quite organized so that didn't work). Then I tried "Whispers in the Wind" (but I'm not really quiet and hardly ever whisper), "Dabblings in the Dark" (but that sounded pornographic, for some reason), and "Waiting for Wisdom" (but I'm no dummy). I decided to do away with all that alliteration and moved on instead to the more clever titles.

I think I'm a pretty sweet person, so I thought about "With Sugar On Top." Yeah, I nearly choked on that too. And then...it struck me! I am in the process of redesigning my life, so why not "Trina's Life Redesigned?" But no...that sounded too much like HGTV (which I love, love, love, by the way, but which doesn't make for good blog-naming). I came up with several LAME names, like "The Mom Diaries," "The Writer's Apprentice," and even "We All Have a Story and Here's Mine." No comments necessary.

Finally, I went back to alliteration. I wrote on my page "Please Pass The...."  Then I made a list of words that begin with P. Patience, Popcorn, Peace, Poptarts, Pride, Progress, Paddle, Pail, and Parachute. I googled "words that begin with P." My search led to a website that explains dream elements that begin with P. Eureka!!! There it was! As soon as I read the significance of dreaming about pancakes (which I've actually done, I'll have you know) I knew that was it.

So....don't say I didn't try to warn you. My thoughts get a little crazy at times, but they are usually fun and often entertaining. Some of my posts from here on out might be a tad more serious and, hopefully, most will have much more meaning than this. Above all, I hope that my writing will reach into your heart and bring a ray of hope, a smile, or a tear, for it's the sharing of our hearts that makes us human, after all. Thanks for reading, have a great day, and please pass the pancakes. :)