One of my best friends in this world asked me the other day why I had not been posting on my blog in a while. The only answer that I could give her is that I thought that it was probably just depressing to read. Once she explained that she enjoyed reading my blog for the fact that she could understand how I was feeling and dealing with everything that makes up my life right now, I realized that was my whole purpose in writing this blog in the first place. This is my way of communicating to my close friends, who I don't get to talk to on the phone regularly, or see every week and in some cases only once a year. I am blessed to have friends who actually care to know how I am feeling and I love them for their love of me.
I know that I have written of my "dark times" when I go into a deep depression. This darkness occurs every couple of weeks and can last from up to one week to two weeks. During this time, I feel as if I fall off of the face of the Earth. I don't communicate with anyone other than my children. It is almost as if I close myself up into a cocoon, and wait out my dark mood until the sun seems to shine again and I emerge a new person. Or I view it as a molting process. I curl up into myself to shed the sadness and hopelessness from my skin emerging new and bright with a newfound hope and happiness.
Since mom died, my writing has come to a halt. My manuscript sits on the surface of my laptop, beckoning to me to come and revisit my characters and become lost in the little world that I have created. My mind will not allow me to go there at this point. I am hoping that I will get back to that make believe world of people I have grown to love, even if they are only in my mind. I know that they want me to finish their story so that hopefully others will fall in love with them too. In a way I am being selfish for keeping them under the wrap of my laptop when I truly believe others would enjoy taking a journey with my characters. Maybe I will visit them tonight. Maybe not. If there is one thing that I have learned from the past 6 months is that I don't make too many plans. Plans have a way of grounding you to a purpose that may or may not be leading you in the direction in which you should be going.
Back to myself, I guess. My flashbacks have resided. I am sleeping without waking up thinking that Mother is not gone, that I had made a terrible mistake when I saw her on the embalming table. I had a strange occurrence at Wal-Mart before Easter. Before I write about that let me preface this by saying that I know that my religion prohibits me from believing in ghosts, and as a Christian, I don't believe in them simply because I believe in the Bible and God's word leaves no room for lost souls wandering this earth. However, I do believe in Angels and spirits, but not ghosts. In Randy Alcorn's book 'Heaven' he mentions several times that God will allow the spirit of our loved one to touch us or communicate with us in some way from time to time. This is meant to bring comfort, not fear. Back to my incident in Wal-Mart, I was late getting the boys Easter basket supplies and had to go there around 11:30 that night. I had gotten everything for the Easter baskets and was walking down the aisle next to the butter and eggs when I smelled the scent of White Diamonds perfume. I have been preparing myself for months as to what would happen when I smelled that perfume, because it was my mom's perfume, it was her "smell" mixed with cigarettes of course but still White Diamonds. No matter how hard I had prepared myself, I probably couldn't have prepared myself for the onslaught of that scent to my nerves. I stopped in the middle of the aisle, my eyes were wide and I couldn't blink. I just stood there and sniffed the air. If anyone had been standing around me they would have thought I was impersonating a dog. The scent was strong, but then dissipated the further I moved away from the eggs. I slowly backed up my cart, sniffing the whole time until I found the scent again, in front of the eggs. "Someone must have been standing here just now getting eggs and has on that perfume," I told myself. I looked around the store because the smell was so strong that had a person left it, they would still be in the vicinity. I saw no one around me. I sniffed a few more times and then moved on to the milk. Then I smelled it again, stronger now, with the hint of cigarettes mixed in. At this point my eyes began to water and tears started flowing down my cheeks because the smell was so much like my mother it pulled at my heart. I stood there looking around me for another person to explain the smell, while not wanting to leave the spot because the scent was so strong. I sniffed the air for another few minutes and decided that I was losing my mind. I got my milk and started away when I smelled it again. It seemed as though the scent was all around me, inside my nostrils, on my clothes, surrounding me and for a moment I was paralyzed in awe and uncertainty. My eyes were pouring now and the smell was depleting me instead of fulfilling me at that point so I wanted to get away from it. I hurried over to the cereal aisle where the smell went away entirely.
During that entire time I looked around me to explain the smell had come from another woman shopping nearby. I am sure the security people at Wal-Mart thought I looked nuts on their security cameras. There I was, with my grocery cart, my nose sniffing up and down, turning round and round with wide eyes looking for something that wasn't there, and tears rolling down my face. There was no on around me in that part of the store. When I got to the cereal area there were more people but no on smelled like White Diamonds.
I can't explain what happened to me in Wal-Mart that night, but after that night I have felt peaceful again. It was almost as if just smelling her was enough to give me some peace for a while. If God allowed me to smell her once, I hope that he will allow me to smell her again. I miss her so much that I hate myself for feeling the relief during the first weeks of her passing. I talk to her in my head and Tucker and I cry over her at night. He is such a sweet soul and misses Nana so much.
Death is horrible. It makes me long for eternity so that there will be no more tears.
On occasion, I can still hear mom's voice. Usually when I am thinking about a problem, or I am mad or upset about something. I can hear her giving her opinion in my mind and that gives me comfort. This also may be a sign that I am completely crazy, but I'll take her voice in my head even if it means they put me in a padded room. She may have been selfish, and a terrible mother and a terrible role model, but I know that she loved me even if she didn't show it in her actions. To be in her presence again would be amazing. Just to sit and feel her all around me. That's not possible now, with all of her belongings gone and her house sold. I just have the memories and the mementos that I kept downstairs. I can't bring myself to go through them right now but I will one day.
And, when I finish that manuscript, I will dedicate it to her. Oddly that was one of the last things she asked me for, was to bring my book to her so that she could read it. For that reason alone I need to finish it, in her honor.
I love you momma. I know you can't see this, but I hope somehow you hear my thoughts as I type.
With God's Love around me, I leave you tonight.
April
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Connor turns 4 and Mother's day
Tomorrow is going to be a day of joy and sadness, as it will be Connor's 4th birthday and the first Mother's Day without my mother. On one hand I am so amazed that my baby is already four years old. Why does the time pass so quickly during the days filled with joy and the days filled with sadness seem to crawl. My memory of his birth is bittersweet as it was a hard labor and even worse, I could not hold my precious little man for twelve hours because he was in the NICU. The first two weeks of Connor's life showed me how very brittle our lives are and that we ultimately no control over our lives. During the fourteen days of staying in the NICU with Connor I learned to give everything over to God. That was the first time that a situation had ever truly brought me to my knees. I was completely in His hands, at His mercy, for I had no idea if my sweet baby would be cured from the Group B Strep that threatened bacterial meningitis. It was a dark time but also a time of light because I felt myself in the arms of God and for the first time I really understood what it meant to be vulnerable.
Unfortunately those two weeks also etched a wound that would fester and grow over the next two years. That wound was inflicted by my mother, and the only antiseptic was God's love. Mother did not make it down to sit with me in the NICU during those difficult days. Sure, she had good intentions to come, every day she would call my cell and tell me that she had planned to come down but her back was hurting, or her stomach was upset, etc. I guess the birth of Connor was also the beginning of her constant sickness. Whether or not she could have really tolerated the fifty minute drive to Birmingham was never discussed. I just know that she wasn't there. Everyday I sat on the uncomfortable vinyl couch in the small nursing room provided by the NICU for babies who could leave the unit. I held Connor every second that I was in that room. I nursed him, then I would pump, watch reruns of the Cosby Show, Golden Girls, and Everybody loves Ramond. Brad wanted to save his maternity leave for when Connor was able to come home, so he would come to the hospital everyday on his lunch break and bring food from the cafeteria. We would eat together and he would hold Connor, who had an iv in his little leg at first, then his hand, then finally his forehead. Then he would leave to go back to work and I would continue with my vigil until 7 or 8 when I would go home to see Tucker before bed.
It is odd to think that Tucker was the same age then as Connor is now. He was so mature and sweet during the whole NICU experience. I am sure he never understood why his baby brother couldn't come home at first, but he didn't ask many questions.
So many friends helped out during those weeks. Margaret Ann and her mom came to clean my house, which was a mess! Bethany brought cookies and sat with me for a while. Alex came to see me, though she didn't realize that she was pregnant with her own John Hallman who she had prayed for and tried for over a year to get pregnant with. Forrest and Polly dropped by on their way back from the beach. Andrew and Robert both came to visit in the NICU. It was also at this time that I became so thankful for my friends. My mom only came one day toward the end, coincidently on the same day that Daddy and Jackie returned form Indiana. Of course mom was there when Connor was born, but that was a fiasco.
The fact that she had not been there for me was devastating and told me where I stood in our relationship, as well as where her grandchildren stood. I will never understand her selfish ways. She even mentioned to me that since I was going through so much I didn't need to worry about her Mother's day gift, and that I could get it for her when Connor was better. At the time I found that audastic. Now I think that she truly thought that I was worrying over what to get her for mother's day, when in fact that was the last thing in the world I was thinking. That mother's day was the day that the doctor's told me Connor had to stay another week in the NICU. I left the hospital that day broken. I cried myself to sleep when I got home and didn't leave the bed for a day. Before that day, we had hope that he could go home with us on Mother's day, but that day we found out that all three cultures had shown the Group B strep. The next day I found out that I too had an infection in my c-section wound. It was a rare type of Staph. I walked from the emergency room where they had tested the infected site, over to the NICU for my daily sit with Connor. Those days were so uncertain and I have never felt more helpless and hope that I never feel that way again.
So tomorrow, on Mother's day, I will celebrate my sweet baby Connor's fourth year on this earth with us. I will also celebrate being a mother to him and Tucker. However I will be missing the mother that I have lost. Even with her selfish ways, and her mind numbing relentless tirades, I miss her very much. I would love to be able to call her tomorrow and tell her Happy Mother's day. I will tel lher in prayers tonight instead and ask Jesus to deliver my message. I know she is with me, I have felt her a lot today. It still seems unreal that she is gone.
God is good, and God is just. Our trials and tribulations are brief, and our future with Him by ourside has infinite possibilities. Two of those possibilities are sleeping peacefully upstairs.
I am blessed to be a Christian, a mother, and a wife. God is good, all the time, all the time.
Unfortunately those two weeks also etched a wound that would fester and grow over the next two years. That wound was inflicted by my mother, and the only antiseptic was God's love. Mother did not make it down to sit with me in the NICU during those difficult days. Sure, she had good intentions to come, every day she would call my cell and tell me that she had planned to come down but her back was hurting, or her stomach was upset, etc. I guess the birth of Connor was also the beginning of her constant sickness. Whether or not she could have really tolerated the fifty minute drive to Birmingham was never discussed. I just know that she wasn't there. Everyday I sat on the uncomfortable vinyl couch in the small nursing room provided by the NICU for babies who could leave the unit. I held Connor every second that I was in that room. I nursed him, then I would pump, watch reruns of the Cosby Show, Golden Girls, and Everybody loves Ramond. Brad wanted to save his maternity leave for when Connor was able to come home, so he would come to the hospital everyday on his lunch break and bring food from the cafeteria. We would eat together and he would hold Connor, who had an iv in his little leg at first, then his hand, then finally his forehead. Then he would leave to go back to work and I would continue with my vigil until 7 or 8 when I would go home to see Tucker before bed.
It is odd to think that Tucker was the same age then as Connor is now. He was so mature and sweet during the whole NICU experience. I am sure he never understood why his baby brother couldn't come home at first, but he didn't ask many questions.
So many friends helped out during those weeks. Margaret Ann and her mom came to clean my house, which was a mess! Bethany brought cookies and sat with me for a while. Alex came to see me, though she didn't realize that she was pregnant with her own John Hallman who she had prayed for and tried for over a year to get pregnant with. Forrest and Polly dropped by on their way back from the beach. Andrew and Robert both came to visit in the NICU. It was also at this time that I became so thankful for my friends. My mom only came one day toward the end, coincidently on the same day that Daddy and Jackie returned form Indiana. Of course mom was there when Connor was born, but that was a fiasco.
The fact that she had not been there for me was devastating and told me where I stood in our relationship, as well as where her grandchildren stood. I will never understand her selfish ways. She even mentioned to me that since I was going through so much I didn't need to worry about her Mother's day gift, and that I could get it for her when Connor was better. At the time I found that audastic. Now I think that she truly thought that I was worrying over what to get her for mother's day, when in fact that was the last thing in the world I was thinking. That mother's day was the day that the doctor's told me Connor had to stay another week in the NICU. I left the hospital that day broken. I cried myself to sleep when I got home and didn't leave the bed for a day. Before that day, we had hope that he could go home with us on Mother's day, but that day we found out that all three cultures had shown the Group B strep. The next day I found out that I too had an infection in my c-section wound. It was a rare type of Staph. I walked from the emergency room where they had tested the infected site, over to the NICU for my daily sit with Connor. Those days were so uncertain and I have never felt more helpless and hope that I never feel that way again.
So tomorrow, on Mother's day, I will celebrate my sweet baby Connor's fourth year on this earth with us. I will also celebrate being a mother to him and Tucker. However I will be missing the mother that I have lost. Even with her selfish ways, and her mind numbing relentless tirades, I miss her very much. I would love to be able to call her tomorrow and tell her Happy Mother's day. I will tel lher in prayers tonight instead and ask Jesus to deliver my message. I know she is with me, I have felt her a lot today. It still seems unreal that she is gone.
God is good, and God is just. Our trials and tribulations are brief, and our future with Him by ourside has infinite possibilities. Two of those possibilities are sleeping peacefully upstairs.
I am blessed to be a Christian, a mother, and a wife. God is good, all the time, all the time.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Brain Freeze
Crapbag! This is has been my term for the past few months when I am frustrated. Lewd and crewd it is, but so be it. It's better than a lot of other words that can fly out of my mouth without a moments notice.
Just read a horrible book that has me depressed and missing my mother. My family is in bed, and I am up despite the fact that I am exhausted. So many thought running through my mind. Feeling shell shocked again, just as the Doc said I would. I hate this feeling. I want to crawl into a cave and hide from the world for about six months. I would want to take my boys with me of course, because when I am not with them it is worse. Yet, sometimes I feel an immense need to have a break. They are spending a rare night with my dad and stepmom tomorrow night which will be good for them adn good for my dad, and hopefully good for me.
I was painting again this week. It was nice to feel the brush in my hands again and mix the paint and play with colors on the canvas. I went downstairs to get my glue sticks for my hot glue gun. I didn't remember, as I opened the drawer that my glue sticks lay behind the box containing my mother's ashes. I was stunned, I couldn't breath for a minute and felt oddly still, almost disembodied for a minute or two. Of course in my traumatised brain, I laughed it off and kept going. This is the issue, I can't pretend to laugh, I can't pretend to not feel, to not care. I have to let this go. My inner sense of control combined with my obstinance will not let me grieve properly. Hence, I am pushing these feelings back, and trying to just move on, when that is not normal.
I always thought that my cousin was a drama queen for falling apart before mom died and then many times afterward. Now I realize that she is acting exactly how I should be acting. Will this madness ever end. I'm trapped inside my brain, and I can't get out. Praying for God to help me.
Just read a horrible book that has me depressed and missing my mother. My family is in bed, and I am up despite the fact that I am exhausted. So many thought running through my mind. Feeling shell shocked again, just as the Doc said I would. I hate this feeling. I want to crawl into a cave and hide from the world for about six months. I would want to take my boys with me of course, because when I am not with them it is worse. Yet, sometimes I feel an immense need to have a break. They are spending a rare night with my dad and stepmom tomorrow night which will be good for them adn good for my dad, and hopefully good for me.
I was painting again this week. It was nice to feel the brush in my hands again and mix the paint and play with colors on the canvas. I went downstairs to get my glue sticks for my hot glue gun. I didn't remember, as I opened the drawer that my glue sticks lay behind the box containing my mother's ashes. I was stunned, I couldn't breath for a minute and felt oddly still, almost disembodied for a minute or two. Of course in my traumatised brain, I laughed it off and kept going. This is the issue, I can't pretend to laugh, I can't pretend to not feel, to not care. I have to let this go. My inner sense of control combined with my obstinance will not let me grieve properly. Hence, I am pushing these feelings back, and trying to just move on, when that is not normal.
I always thought that my cousin was a drama queen for falling apart before mom died and then many times afterward. Now I realize that she is acting exactly how I should be acting. Will this madness ever end. I'm trapped inside my brain, and I can't get out. Praying for God to help me.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Be Still and Know that I am God
I started reading my Daily devotional today, as well as writing in my prayer journal. The piece of scripture: "Be still and know that I am God" Psalm 46:10 lept out at me today. The author of the devotional explained that in several translations 'still' means 'rest'. This verse is special to me just as the verse "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:6-7.
I love these verses because worry and anxiety over the safety and care of my family has always plagued me. I worry about my children's health and safety daily, I worry about our finances, I worry about my dad and stepmom, about my husband's job. You name it, and I worry. During my 'Dark Times' the worry and fear can take over and I wallow in my own depression for a week or more. I learned in my devotion this morning that if I will make sure to have quiet time with God a daily ritual, that my fears will subside as I grow to trust God even more every day.
This morning was wonderful. Our new dog Marley was playing in the backyard, my boys were playing happily by themselves in the playroom, Brad was watching basketball and I was reading my devotion and writing in my prayer journal. The only bad thing that we did today was to not go to church. Connor is getting over his ear infection and Brad may have the flu, so we decided to stay at home. I know God is okay with that. Besides, there are times when I am sitting in church when my mind wanders and I am not paying attention to God while I am in His house! Today, at home with my family, reading about trusting God in my devotional, made me give God praise wholeheartedly and with so much emotion and joy that it made up for not being in His house this morning.
We cleaned out my mom's house yesterday and it is completely empty. To see her home as nothing but an empty shell added yet another layer of sadness to the mountain growing inside me. Yet as the sadness comes, a relief is also present and somehow gives me a sense of balance. I don't have to worry about her house anymore and I don't have to go into her house and be assaulted by her presence everywhere I turn. The memories that I found in her drawers and her smell all around me sent me into a tailspin everytime I walked through those doors. I miss her very much. This week I am not angry with her and her alcoholism and lack of nurturing. Instead I long to hear her voice, even if she were to give me a talking to about something I had done or not done. I just want to be able to tell her I love her again. the anger is much easier to face. This longing for something I can never have again in this life is much harder to bare. However the anger will kill me on the inside, and the mourning will enable me to grow and become closer to God. I choose to mourn, and God will take care of me. I will be stil and know that He is there with me, through it all.
I love these verses because worry and anxiety over the safety and care of my family has always plagued me. I worry about my children's health and safety daily, I worry about our finances, I worry about my dad and stepmom, about my husband's job. You name it, and I worry. During my 'Dark Times' the worry and fear can take over and I wallow in my own depression for a week or more. I learned in my devotion this morning that if I will make sure to have quiet time with God a daily ritual, that my fears will subside as I grow to trust God even more every day.
This morning was wonderful. Our new dog Marley was playing in the backyard, my boys were playing happily by themselves in the playroom, Brad was watching basketball and I was reading my devotion and writing in my prayer journal. The only bad thing that we did today was to not go to church. Connor is getting over his ear infection and Brad may have the flu, so we decided to stay at home. I know God is okay with that. Besides, there are times when I am sitting in church when my mind wanders and I am not paying attention to God while I am in His house! Today, at home with my family, reading about trusting God in my devotional, made me give God praise wholeheartedly and with so much emotion and joy that it made up for not being in His house this morning.
We cleaned out my mom's house yesterday and it is completely empty. To see her home as nothing but an empty shell added yet another layer of sadness to the mountain growing inside me. Yet as the sadness comes, a relief is also present and somehow gives me a sense of balance. I don't have to worry about her house anymore and I don't have to go into her house and be assaulted by her presence everywhere I turn. The memories that I found in her drawers and her smell all around me sent me into a tailspin everytime I walked through those doors. I miss her very much. This week I am not angry with her and her alcoholism and lack of nurturing. Instead I long to hear her voice, even if she were to give me a talking to about something I had done or not done. I just want to be able to tell her I love her again. the anger is much easier to face. This longing for something I can never have again in this life is much harder to bare. However the anger will kill me on the inside, and the mourning will enable me to grow and become closer to God. I choose to mourn, and God will take care of me. I will be stil and know that He is there with me, through it all.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Mr. Sandman Leave me alone
I finally went to see our family physician today. I had been putting the visit off since Mom had passed because I felt like I had gained weight and he is such a strong believer in me and my athletic ability (such that it was) that I didn't want to let him down. As soon as I told him that mom had died, he understood. I don't even think that I must have gained any weight after all because he didn't mention it, and he would have. My foot has not healed enough for full out running yet,but it will in time. The other night I came to the realization that I am TERRIFIED of going to bed at night. If I take a nap during the day with Connor or on the weekend, I am fine. However, going to bed in the night is a different story. I lay there and images of my mom's final hours, and seconds flash across my mind. I see them placing the magnet on her pacemaker, making her heart stop. I see the heart rate monitor register the flat line and the 0 under respitory. The worst image is permanently burnt into my mind. It is of her on the embalming table in the funeral home. I had to go in and identify her. It was horrible. I wish that I could reach into my brain and rip that image out and throw it into a fire.
All of these images, and my extreme fear of sleep, my mood swings, and overall numbness toward my mother's death led Dr. Moore to diagnose me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Before mom had even died I thought I was suffering from PTSD from the three times that I had found her unresponsive. So now the question is, will this ever go away??? Will these images leave me at peace. I am being haunted and it is terrible. Dr. Moore is a Christian like myself and he told me that it could very well be Satan attacking me, knocking me down, and making me miserable. I believe this could be the case. He recommended praying for my children, or just talking to God and asking him to take those images away. I will do that tonight, once I brave getting into the bed. I would rather sit up and pass out from sleep meds in a chair than go into that bed at night. Another sad part of this is my sweet husband can't sleep well without me in the bed! So he is pestering me to come to bed and didn't realize until tonight that I just can't. Not before taking my anti anxiety meds.
I have become a legal pill popper. A person relying on meds to keep me sane. On the one hand I am happy to have them to take because they help, but on the other hand I don't want to need them.
All of these images, and my extreme fear of sleep, my mood swings, and overall numbness toward my mother's death led Dr. Moore to diagnose me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Before mom had even died I thought I was suffering from PTSD from the three times that I had found her unresponsive. So now the question is, will this ever go away??? Will these images leave me at peace. I am being haunted and it is terrible. Dr. Moore is a Christian like myself and he told me that it could very well be Satan attacking me, knocking me down, and making me miserable. I believe this could be the case. He recommended praying for my children, or just talking to God and asking him to take those images away. I will do that tonight, once I brave getting into the bed. I would rather sit up and pass out from sleep meds in a chair than go into that bed at night. Another sad part of this is my sweet husband can't sleep well without me in the bed! So he is pestering me to come to bed and didn't realize until tonight that I just can't. Not before taking my anti anxiety meds.
I have become a legal pill popper. A person relying on meds to keep me sane. On the one hand I am happy to have them to take because they help, but on the other hand I don't want to need them.
Monday, March 14, 2011
What will our Birthday be like in Heaven?
I can only Imagine - Mercy Me
I can only imagine what it will be like, when I walk by Your side...
I can only imagine, what my eyes will see, when Your Face is before me!
I can only imagine. I can only imagine.
Surrounded by Your Glory, what will my heart feel?
Will I dance for you, Jesus? Or in awe of You, be still?
Will I stand in Your presence, or to my knees will I fall?
Will I sing 'Hallelujah!'? Will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine! I can only imagine!
I can only imagine, when that day comes, when I find myself standing in the Son!
I can only imagine, when all I will do, is forever, forever worship You!
I can only imagine! I can only imagine!
I posted this tonight because one of my friends from highschool, who passed away about a month after my mom, was able to celebrate her birthday in Heaven today. Her earthly father had passed before her, so I know that he was by her side today during the celebration she undoubtebly had in Heaven. Can you imagine what your birthday will be like in Heaven? My small mind can not even comprehend it. I just know that it will be a celebration to rival all others. However, I think that in heaven, your true birthday, will be the day that you died on earth. Because you were born a human, into sin and death, and because of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, you are in heaven celebrating your return to the heavenly father who created you.
I have thought about my mom's birthday this year with the realization that she will be celebrating in Heaven as well. Before we let her go that night in the hospital I told her to "go home to Granny, and Uncle Jack, Uncle Fred, and Aunt Caroline, but mostly to go home to your Father" When I was telling her this, I know she could hear me. I told her not to worry about leaving me, because I would be fine. Now as I imagine her birthday celebration in July I am so thankful that she will be surrounded by family and friends and most of all God himself. Who knows, maybe you even get gifts in Heaven, glorious gifts made of things that we still do not know we have here on Earth. I imagine the cakes to be made of the finest sugar and cream, wich the most delicious honey running through the icing. For my mom, I hope that the Angels give her chocolate, because above any other food, she would eat chocolate.
There is so much to look forward to in eternity. Reconnection with loved ones lost is the thing that I look forward to the most. I want to give my mother that last hug that I should have given her. I want to stand and hold my Granny's hand and tell her about my children and how much she would have loved them. I want to meet my grandfather, my mother's father, who died when mom was only 9 months old. I want to touch his face and place my hand in his, because I have heard that he was gentle and kind. I also want to meet my dad's father, Joseph Tucker and tell him what a wonderful father his son had been to me. And to run into my Granny Tucker's arms and tell her thank you for teaching me how to crotchette and for giving me Dr. Peppers everytime I came to her house. I lost her with I was only 6 and have vague memories of her, but in each one I sense a feeling of warmth, along with gentleness, shrouded in a straightbacked, elegant southern bell with delicate hands and an intricately woven bun.
These peopel will be there to greet me one day when my time comes and I am excited for that day. I am in no hurry, mind you. But when it comes, I will be ready to kiss the feet of my saviour and tell him Thank you a million times for giving me grace to fall on my knees and know that his love for me will remain no matter how bad I have been or how far I have fallen. This my friends, is what we live for on Earth. OUr day of recogning, when we recognize the person who has cradled us in His hands since the day we were born.
Hold on tight, this will be a bumpy road until we reach the end. But when our journey is over, it is only then, that our lives will begin.
I can only imagine what it will be like, when I walk by Your side...
I can only imagine, what my eyes will see, when Your Face is before me!
I can only imagine. I can only imagine.
Surrounded by Your Glory, what will my heart feel?
Will I dance for you, Jesus? Or in awe of You, be still?
Will I stand in Your presence, or to my knees will I fall?
Will I sing 'Hallelujah!'? Will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine! I can only imagine!
I can only imagine, when that day comes, when I find myself standing in the Son!
I can only imagine, when all I will do, is forever, forever worship You!
I can only imagine! I can only imagine!
I posted this tonight because one of my friends from highschool, who passed away about a month after my mom, was able to celebrate her birthday in Heaven today. Her earthly father had passed before her, so I know that he was by her side today during the celebration she undoubtebly had in Heaven. Can you imagine what your birthday will be like in Heaven? My small mind can not even comprehend it. I just know that it will be a celebration to rival all others. However, I think that in heaven, your true birthday, will be the day that you died on earth. Because you were born a human, into sin and death, and because of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, you are in heaven celebrating your return to the heavenly father who created you.
I have thought about my mom's birthday this year with the realization that she will be celebrating in Heaven as well. Before we let her go that night in the hospital I told her to "go home to Granny, and Uncle Jack, Uncle Fred, and Aunt Caroline, but mostly to go home to your Father" When I was telling her this, I know she could hear me. I told her not to worry about leaving me, because I would be fine. Now as I imagine her birthday celebration in July I am so thankful that she will be surrounded by family and friends and most of all God himself. Who knows, maybe you even get gifts in Heaven, glorious gifts made of things that we still do not know we have here on Earth. I imagine the cakes to be made of the finest sugar and cream, wich the most delicious honey running through the icing. For my mom, I hope that the Angels give her chocolate, because above any other food, she would eat chocolate.
There is so much to look forward to in eternity. Reconnection with loved ones lost is the thing that I look forward to the most. I want to give my mother that last hug that I should have given her. I want to stand and hold my Granny's hand and tell her about my children and how much she would have loved them. I want to meet my grandfather, my mother's father, who died when mom was only 9 months old. I want to touch his face and place my hand in his, because I have heard that he was gentle and kind. I also want to meet my dad's father, Joseph Tucker and tell him what a wonderful father his son had been to me. And to run into my Granny Tucker's arms and tell her thank you for teaching me how to crotchette and for giving me Dr. Peppers everytime I came to her house. I lost her with I was only 6 and have vague memories of her, but in each one I sense a feeling of warmth, along with gentleness, shrouded in a straightbacked, elegant southern bell with delicate hands and an intricately woven bun.
These peopel will be there to greet me one day when my time comes and I am excited for that day. I am in no hurry, mind you. But when it comes, I will be ready to kiss the feet of my saviour and tell him Thank you a million times for giving me grace to fall on my knees and know that his love for me will remain no matter how bad I have been or how far I have fallen. This my friends, is what we live for on Earth. OUr day of recogning, when we recognize the person who has cradled us in His hands since the day we were born.
Hold on tight, this will be a bumpy road until we reach the end. But when our journey is over, it is only then, that our lives will begin.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
A little piece of Heaven
Today was a gorgeous day in the south. We have many sunny warm, often hot days here, but today was perfect. The sky was clear blue, a deep azure blue that looked as though it could have been sliced in two with a sharp piece of glass. The temperature was 70 degrees and the sun was bright. A minimal breeze fluttered around us as if it were our own personal fan and kept us comfortable. I was sitting by the lake at our local park with my three year old son and told him that I think we were seeing a little piece of Heaven today.
Since my mom died, I have been reading Randy Alcorn's book, 'Heaven'. I read it off and on, for short periods of time. One thing that I wanted to learn from his book was what my mom might be experiencing in Heaven. Mainly, what will heaven look like? Everything that Dr. Alcorn has read and studied has led him to believe that the present Heaven will look just like our current Earth, but with more vibrant colors, perfect shapes, perfect weather, everything will be exquisitly proportioned and fit to our needs in the present heaven.
After reading this passage I am noticing little glimpses of heaven here on earth. My favorite glimpse has been watching my boys play together and laugh thier loud, rolling, cackle laugh that my mom used to love to hear over the phone. When I watch them laughing together this way I feel like I am getting a little piece of Heaven.
Another glimpse would be when something I hear or see causes strong feelings to emerge inside me and I get goosebumps on my skin. This is when I feel the Holy Spirit stir within me. I imagine in Heaven, my skin will tingle with that sense of joy and expectation all of the time in the precense of Jesus.
Watching my sweet boys sleep at night, cuddling them in my arms, snuggling up to them and stealing kisses from their soft plump cheeks. Those all feel like Heaven.
I was reading a post on facebook that my friend's son had made her laugh really hard, the good kind of belly laugh where tears come to your eyes, and I realize that when that happens, it is a little piece of heaven. Laughter has been rare for me the past three months. I had been longing to have a good belly laugh to soothe my soul. My wonderful friend Jaime came by to see me the other day and gave me a ton of good laughs! We still have a chandelier hanging in the ceiling of the room that was once a dining room, but is now part of the playroom. She hit her head going back and forth in that room 3 different times! Each time, instead of inquiring about her wellfare, I fell to my knees with a belly laugh that made tears come to my eyes. I laughed so hard that I had to tell her I was sorry for not worrying about her head! Of course she laughed too, and the kids caught on to our laughter and pretty soon my house was filled with laughter! It was a beautiful sound. I realized then that I was getting to hear what Heaven must sound like. A chorus of laughter brought on by the ultimate joy of being with our Creator and our Saviour for eternity. And then I felt blessed.
Since my mom died, I have been reading Randy Alcorn's book, 'Heaven'. I read it off and on, for short periods of time. One thing that I wanted to learn from his book was what my mom might be experiencing in Heaven. Mainly, what will heaven look like? Everything that Dr. Alcorn has read and studied has led him to believe that the present Heaven will look just like our current Earth, but with more vibrant colors, perfect shapes, perfect weather, everything will be exquisitly proportioned and fit to our needs in the present heaven.
After reading this passage I am noticing little glimpses of heaven here on earth. My favorite glimpse has been watching my boys play together and laugh thier loud, rolling, cackle laugh that my mom used to love to hear over the phone. When I watch them laughing together this way I feel like I am getting a little piece of Heaven.
Another glimpse would be when something I hear or see causes strong feelings to emerge inside me and I get goosebumps on my skin. This is when I feel the Holy Spirit stir within me. I imagine in Heaven, my skin will tingle with that sense of joy and expectation all of the time in the precense of Jesus.
Watching my sweet boys sleep at night, cuddling them in my arms, snuggling up to them and stealing kisses from their soft plump cheeks. Those all feel like Heaven.
I was reading a post on facebook that my friend's son had made her laugh really hard, the good kind of belly laugh where tears come to your eyes, and I realize that when that happens, it is a little piece of heaven. Laughter has been rare for me the past three months. I had been longing to have a good belly laugh to soothe my soul. My wonderful friend Jaime came by to see me the other day and gave me a ton of good laughs! We still have a chandelier hanging in the ceiling of the room that was once a dining room, but is now part of the playroom. She hit her head going back and forth in that room 3 different times! Each time, instead of inquiring about her wellfare, I fell to my knees with a belly laugh that made tears come to my eyes. I laughed so hard that I had to tell her I was sorry for not worrying about her head! Of course she laughed too, and the kids caught on to our laughter and pretty soon my house was filled with laughter! It was a beautiful sound. I realized then that I was getting to hear what Heaven must sound like. A chorus of laughter brought on by the ultimate joy of being with our Creator and our Saviour for eternity. And then I felt blessed.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Self Righteousness
Self Righteousness is a trait that I absolutely cannot stand. Imagine my surprise when I had a flashback of a very self righteous moment of my own. It was triggered by an event yesterday, where a young African American man knocked on the door of our house. My boys were home with me, it was 4:00 in the afternoon and we were completely vulnerable. I opened the door slightly to the young man on my doorstep and listened to him give his spill about how he was working with a company called Urban Community movement or something like that. According to this young man, the company he worked for had a mission to give kids from underprivledged communities a chance to make it in life. He then explained that working door to door was not an exciting or enjoyable task, but he was working for his 5 year old daughter. As he was speaking, my son’s stood in the back of our foyer anxiously watching me and listening to him, not because he was an African American, or a man, but because he was a stranger on our doorstep. My expression was friendly and I acted as though I was listening attentively as he showed me the list of magazines that he was selling. What I was really paying attention to was the fact that it was pouring down rain, and he had no umbrella. His coat was probably at one time what we would refer to as a rain coat, but as he was talking to me I could tell that it was soaked. Beads of water streamed down his face as he talked and I fought the urge to ask him inside out of the dripping rain. In the back of my mind I pictured myself inviting him in and then him pulling a gun or grabbing me in front of my children. So, the fear won, and I let him stand in the rain. After he had given me his speech, I knew that I could not buy anything from him without my husband giving me the “Why did you do that? We didn’t need any magazines” speech. I looked down and told him that I didn’t really have a check book of my own and that my husband usually made the financial decisions and that he could come back if he wanted. He said okay and asked what time my husband would be home, I told him around five. He smiled and said have a good day and walked down my steps out into the downpour. As I watched him go into the rain and across the street I knew that I couldn’t just let him leave. My compassion for this man was so great that I told the kids to put their snacks on the couch and come with me to the car. I found an umbrella downstairs and we all three jumped in the car. The whole time my oldest son said, “Mom, should you be doing this? He will probably be okay?” and I told him no, that the man needed an umbrella. We found him leaving our neighbors house and crossing the street. I drove up to him and rolled my window down. “I thought you might need an umbrella,” I told him and handed it to him out my window. He smiled and said “Thank you.” Then I before I knew it I said, “Well, I have a little checking account of my own that I might can buy some magazines out of, walk over that way and I will pull over” So we followed him up the hill and then I stopped expecting him to just walk up to the window with the umbrella in hand. Instead he jumped into the front seat of my car. My heart started racing and I glanced anxiously back at the boys who just stared at him as he sat in my front seat. I was in my pajama pants and a t-shirt, and had no shoes on. He got out his pamphlet and I asked him how much Men’s Journal was, “Fifty dollars for three years.” He told me. Yikes. I didn’t have that kind of money. So I asked him to find the cheapest one on there and it was Women’s Day for $35.00. I hastily made out my check and filled out the form, all the while nervous that I was putting my children in danger even though he seemed perfectly nice. After thanking me, he folded up his pamphlet, opened the car door and the umbrella and walked on down the street.
What bothers me about this exchange was that all the while I felt sorry for this man, I had a general distrust of him. There was a smell that hung about him that I can’t quite place but that repelled me not in a gross way, but more of a weary fearful way. He smelled like pal mal cigarettes, mixed with the slight hint of beer from the day before, along with a musty odor that clung to his clothes. When he was in front of me at my door I could smell him and it made me not want to look him in the face. When he got into my car, the scent was so overpowering that I wanted to roll the window down. After he left, I could still smell it in my nostrils. His smell does not bother me as much as my reaction to him does. I was compassionate, and hospitable, although fearful and distrustful at the same time. Even after we got back to our house I thought that I had done the wrong thing, that I had just given him $35 that I would never see any magazines. Then I looked at the picture of my mother on my prized antique dresser in the living room and remembered a time when I showed less compassion and zero tolerance and was ashamed.
Mom had only been baptized about a year before I became pregnant with Connor. She was very active in her church and was really becoming a good person, the person that she probably always was underneath the veil of alcohol. I was eating an early dinner with her at a restaurant in Trussville, and I can't remember if I had Tucker with me or not, but I know that I was pregnant with Connor. I was in a bad mood, as usual for those days and we were sitting at the table when a hispanic boy, about the age of 8 walked up to our table to ask for money. The memory is hazy but I think that my mom might have given him a $5 bill. I do remember that I was not very charitable and even got angry at the fact that the restaurant had let a soliciter of any kind in the building. After the boy left our table I told my mom that I was going to tell the hostess that there was a child soliciting money from the tables and that she might want to get rid of him. Sure enough, about five minutes later the manager walked the boy out of the restaurant. My mother was infuriated with me. She told me that I was not a good Christian, that I was a hypocrite and a spoiled one at that. I remember that we argued over it for a few minutes and then I realized that she was right, and I wanted to run outside into the parking lot and take the boy a few dollars that I had in my purse. When I walked outside, he was no where to be found. I remember I cried back at the table over what I had done and that mom told me to forget about it because there was nothing I could do about it at that point. I still felt bad for weeks later and wished to see the little boy again.
On that day, my mother was a better represenative of Christ than I was and the realization hit me hard. I had been baptized years earlier, had been a member of a church for years, and even taught Sunday School. How could this woman who drank half of her life away be closer to God's word than I was?? Easily, she had been brought to her knees and had felt His hands lift her up. At the time Brad and I both had successful careers, one precious child already and another healthy baby boy on the way. It had been years since I had been on my knees before God because I thought I had it all together and basically was doing fine on my own.
That all changed when Connor was born a few months after this incident at the restaurant. After a 14 hour labor of suffering from constant vomiting as a result of being allergic to my epidural, I was dehydrated and felt very close to death. I had an emergency c-section and saw Connor for a second before I had to turn my head on the operating table and throw up again. Hours later as I sat in my room alone, the NICU doctor came with a nurse to tell me that my baby had a hole in his lung that had deflated when he had taken his first deep breath coming out of my womb. The doctor said that he would have to stay down in the NICU for monitoring but that I could come down and see him the next day. I laid in the hospital bed that night, in and out of conciousness looking at the empty bassinet beside me thinking, "Where is my baby? This isn't supposed to happen, he was fine!" The next morning on my way down to the NICU in a wheel chair the same Dr found me and told me that Connor had tested positive for Group B strep and would need to have a spinal tap, and stay hooked up to an iv for antibiotics for a minimal of 14 days. Thankfully they caught the Group B strep before it became spinal meningitis, and our doctor informed us that it was actually God's hand that caused them to find the bacteria in the first place. If Connor's lung had not collapsed, then they would not have ran the routine bacteria test. We could have gone home with a healthy baby,only to have to return with a terminally ill baby a few days later. I had been on my knees at that point for 5 days and was afraid to stop praying. I would not feel as though Connor was out of the clutches of that bacteria until I walked out of the hospital with him. Each day, as I held my tiny baby, who was hooked up to an IV in his little hands, then his feet, and finally his forhead, I would beg God to make him healthy and strong. On day 14 my husband and I walked out of that hospital with our baby boy and brought him home. My dad was there with Tucker and they both loved on him in our den before we took him upstairs to lay in his crib for the first time. I saw my dad eyes well up with tears as he patted Connor's little back and say "Welcome Home little man"
Once again a circumstance had brought me to my knees and I realized how much I still needed God in my life everyday. Not just the days that are going bad, but the good days as well. Now I thank God for the sun as it rises, the rain as it falls, my car as it runs, our house as it stands and most of all I thank God for my children, my husband and my family.
I pray that I am no longer self righteous because I have no right to be. I am NOTHING without God. I pray that the boy who came to our house yesterday did not sense my fear of him, or my reaction to his smell. I pray that he saw a little piece of Christ in me, because that was my inention. I think now that I know where I have smelled that particular mix of smells before. There was a homeless man who hung out around a bank building that I worked at downtown. We all spoke to him and were friendly to him, but he had the same smell. I now pray that the boy that I gave my umbrella to, had a place to sleep that night. I hope that he was not homeless. I am ashamed for being so sensitive to his smell and for fearing his presence around my children. I can only hope that he felt my sincere desire to help him.
What bothers me about this exchange was that all the while I felt sorry for this man, I had a general distrust of him. There was a smell that hung about him that I can’t quite place but that repelled me not in a gross way, but more of a weary fearful way. He smelled like pal mal cigarettes, mixed with the slight hint of beer from the day before, along with a musty odor that clung to his clothes. When he was in front of me at my door I could smell him and it made me not want to look him in the face. When he got into my car, the scent was so overpowering that I wanted to roll the window down. After he left, I could still smell it in my nostrils. His smell does not bother me as much as my reaction to him does. I was compassionate, and hospitable, although fearful and distrustful at the same time. Even after we got back to our house I thought that I had done the wrong thing, that I had just given him $35 that I would never see any magazines. Then I looked at the picture of my mother on my prized antique dresser in the living room and remembered a time when I showed less compassion and zero tolerance and was ashamed.
Mom had only been baptized about a year before I became pregnant with Connor. She was very active in her church and was really becoming a good person, the person that she probably always was underneath the veil of alcohol. I was eating an early dinner with her at a restaurant in Trussville, and I can't remember if I had Tucker with me or not, but I know that I was pregnant with Connor. I was in a bad mood, as usual for those days and we were sitting at the table when a hispanic boy, about the age of 8 walked up to our table to ask for money. The memory is hazy but I think that my mom might have given him a $5 bill. I do remember that I was not very charitable and even got angry at the fact that the restaurant had let a soliciter of any kind in the building. After the boy left our table I told my mom that I was going to tell the hostess that there was a child soliciting money from the tables and that she might want to get rid of him. Sure enough, about five minutes later the manager walked the boy out of the restaurant. My mother was infuriated with me. She told me that I was not a good Christian, that I was a hypocrite and a spoiled one at that. I remember that we argued over it for a few minutes and then I realized that she was right, and I wanted to run outside into the parking lot and take the boy a few dollars that I had in my purse. When I walked outside, he was no where to be found. I remember I cried back at the table over what I had done and that mom told me to forget about it because there was nothing I could do about it at that point. I still felt bad for weeks later and wished to see the little boy again.
On that day, my mother was a better represenative of Christ than I was and the realization hit me hard. I had been baptized years earlier, had been a member of a church for years, and even taught Sunday School. How could this woman who drank half of her life away be closer to God's word than I was?? Easily, she had been brought to her knees and had felt His hands lift her up. At the time Brad and I both had successful careers, one precious child already and another healthy baby boy on the way. It had been years since I had been on my knees before God because I thought I had it all together and basically was doing fine on my own.
That all changed when Connor was born a few months after this incident at the restaurant. After a 14 hour labor of suffering from constant vomiting as a result of being allergic to my epidural, I was dehydrated and felt very close to death. I had an emergency c-section and saw Connor for a second before I had to turn my head on the operating table and throw up again. Hours later as I sat in my room alone, the NICU doctor came with a nurse to tell me that my baby had a hole in his lung that had deflated when he had taken his first deep breath coming out of my womb. The doctor said that he would have to stay down in the NICU for monitoring but that I could come down and see him the next day. I laid in the hospital bed that night, in and out of conciousness looking at the empty bassinet beside me thinking, "Where is my baby? This isn't supposed to happen, he was fine!" The next morning on my way down to the NICU in a wheel chair the same Dr found me and told me that Connor had tested positive for Group B strep and would need to have a spinal tap, and stay hooked up to an iv for antibiotics for a minimal of 14 days. Thankfully they caught the Group B strep before it became spinal meningitis, and our doctor informed us that it was actually God's hand that caused them to find the bacteria in the first place. If Connor's lung had not collapsed, then they would not have ran the routine bacteria test. We could have gone home with a healthy baby,only to have to return with a terminally ill baby a few days later. I had been on my knees at that point for 5 days and was afraid to stop praying. I would not feel as though Connor was out of the clutches of that bacteria until I walked out of the hospital with him. Each day, as I held my tiny baby, who was hooked up to an IV in his little hands, then his feet, and finally his forhead, I would beg God to make him healthy and strong. On day 14 my husband and I walked out of that hospital with our baby boy and brought him home. My dad was there with Tucker and they both loved on him in our den before we took him upstairs to lay in his crib for the first time. I saw my dad eyes well up with tears as he patted Connor's little back and say "Welcome Home little man"
Once again a circumstance had brought me to my knees and I realized how much I still needed God in my life everyday. Not just the days that are going bad, but the good days as well. Now I thank God for the sun as it rises, the rain as it falls, my car as it runs, our house as it stands and most of all I thank God for my children, my husband and my family.
I pray that I am no longer self righteous because I have no right to be. I am NOTHING without God. I pray that the boy who came to our house yesterday did not sense my fear of him, or my reaction to his smell. I pray that he saw a little piece of Christ in me, because that was my inention. I think now that I know where I have smelled that particular mix of smells before. There was a homeless man who hung out around a bank building that I worked at downtown. We all spoke to him and were friendly to him, but he had the same smell. I now pray that the boy that I gave my umbrella to, had a place to sleep that night. I hope that he was not homeless. I am ashamed for being so sensitive to his smell and for fearing his presence around my children. I can only hope that he felt my sincere desire to help him.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Ugly Truth
"Blame the alcohol, not the person". I have heard this phrase from many people over the years in reference to my mother's disease of alcoholism. In my earlier post I had written about the fact that I feel as though I was robbed of some the special mother/daughter bond that many women have with thier mothers. To credit psychology, there is a reason that the joke is that when going into therapy the first thing that a psychiatrist will ask you is "Tell me about your mother". A mother can affect a child more than any other adult in their life. For instance, Adolf Hitler's mother was extremely controlling and over protective of him, leading him to become very self concious and schizophrenic. When she passed away from cancer, the doctor who could not save her was Jewish. Ironic? No, merely a transfer of aggression from the loss of his mother onto an entire race being blamed for an act of God.
Children aim to please thier parents, and specifically thier mother. This is true of all children, not just the ones who grow up in an alcoholic family. When a child can not appease thier mother by any means, they turn against themself with blame and ridicule. The damage can be done at a very young age and the scars will remain until death.
I can not blame the alcohol for my mother's alcoholism. No matter how many people tell me that she loved me, and that she had good intentions for the 25 years that she drank and was emotionally absent from my life. I simply can not blame a substance for her negligence. I realize that blaming her and repeating my aggressions toward her and the awful memories I have surrounding some of my childhood, could make me bitter. My theory is that I can not be bitter, with God on my side.
There is no one on this earth that can tell me that the alcohol that my mother ingested day after day after day, was done against her will. The bourbon didn't just jump into her class of cola every day at 5:30. It had to be bought. I was sent into the ABC store on many occasions as a child from around the age of 8-13 to buy her Canadian Mist. The clerks in the ABC store knew me, and mother would sit in the car, a drink already made and read the newspaper as I ran into the ABC store to pick up her bottle. This would probably not happen today, but we lived in a small town where just about everyone knew each other and that was many years ago.
Whether mom's friends and relatives want to believe it, she CHOSE to drink. The bourbon didn't choose her, she chose it. She chose it over me, over my dad and over her family. It ruled her life, and she let it. Saying that alcohol controls an alcoholic is like saying a car controls the driver. The driver has to purchase the car, get a drivers license, put the key in the ignition and press the gas pedal. A car can't drive itself, unless of course it is Kit from Night Rider. The same is true for alcohol. It has to be bought, and opened, poured into a glass or drunk from a bottle or can. The alcohol does not just magically appear in someone's blood stream. There is a premeditated process that a person has to go through to drink the alcohol.
My mother knew that it was killing her and she chose to drink it anyway. Although I do not think that she ever understood the brevity of our situation, or the neglect that she showed to me and my dad. Even after God had seen to saving her life, she would not talk about her alcoholism, but instead would say, "Let's not bring up the past" or "Well you eat like I drank and that is why you're fat". Thus ending any sort of conversation that I could have had in order to gain closure.
So, if I hear one more person telling me that she was just sick, or that it was the alcohol that caused such hell in our lives I will quite possibly kick punch them, or the air around me. You can't protect me now, those reassurances do not help. I know too much to understand the cold hard truth and that is the fact that I came second to a bottle of Canadian Mist for 25 years.
Imagine how it felt to need to talk to your mother when you were away from home in college or anywhere, and knowing that if you called after 7:30 she would be incoherant. Imagine watching helplessly as your mother passed out in the recliner with a cigarette dangling from her hand,dropping dangerous ashes onto the carpet. Or waking up in the middle of the night to find that your mother had fallen down the step in the den and broken her ankle bone in half. I was alone with her on that particular night. My parents were divorced by then and she wouldn't let me call my dad. I had to call my cousin and then we had to drag mom out to the car to take her to the ER. Then I had to sit there while the doctor, who happened to be the father of a cheerleader that I knew from another school, asked my mom if she had been drinking before she fell. Mom's reply was, "Maybe a little." and he said, "Maybe a ton. If you drink that much every day you will kill yourself." I was so embarassed that I could have crawled under the bed.
No child should ever have to go through any sort of mental or physical abuse. There are millions of children everyday who face the demon of an alcoholic parent every night. Some are beaten, some are killed, some are so neglected that they just leave or are sent into foster homes. All of this happens right under our noses every day and all we can say is, "It's the alcohol, not the person." Whatever. We were given free will by God, and we choose to use it every second of every day.
I was lucky because I had a good father who provided for us and supported me through my mom's "illness". I was able to put up a front in school, and the only people who knew my mom drank were my close friends. If they thought anything of it, they loved me enough never to say a word. My house was like a constant party, not a home. Can you blame that on the alcohol as well? No, you can't, but you can blame it on selfishness, and irresponsibility on the part of my parents.
My children have never seen me drink a drop of alcohol, and if I have it my way they never will. I will never allow myself to be inebriated in front of them, ever. Our house will be a home. A safe haven for them to come home to every day. A place of comfort and happiness that they will build lasting memories in. Even if it takes me putting on my happy face for them everyday. Even if my heart is broken and I am hurting so bad on the inside I want to scream, I will never let them see. For these boys are a gift from God to me. They are not truly mine, but His and He chose to lend them to me in order to raise them and teach them about Him. That is my mission, that is my goal. When I see God's face in Heaven I want him to tell me, "Good job". I want to make Him proud, because I love Him with all of my heart and I am so thankful to Him everyday for saving me from a future that could have been terrible and giving me a life full of love and joy.
Don't ever tell a child of an alcoholic that it was not the parent's fault. Just own up to the fact that it was, and leave it be. Because they already know the truth.
Children aim to please thier parents, and specifically thier mother. This is true of all children, not just the ones who grow up in an alcoholic family. When a child can not appease thier mother by any means, they turn against themself with blame and ridicule. The damage can be done at a very young age and the scars will remain until death.
I can not blame the alcohol for my mother's alcoholism. No matter how many people tell me that she loved me, and that she had good intentions for the 25 years that she drank and was emotionally absent from my life. I simply can not blame a substance for her negligence. I realize that blaming her and repeating my aggressions toward her and the awful memories I have surrounding some of my childhood, could make me bitter. My theory is that I can not be bitter, with God on my side.
There is no one on this earth that can tell me that the alcohol that my mother ingested day after day after day, was done against her will. The bourbon didn't just jump into her class of cola every day at 5:30. It had to be bought. I was sent into the ABC store on many occasions as a child from around the age of 8-13 to buy her Canadian Mist. The clerks in the ABC store knew me, and mother would sit in the car, a drink already made and read the newspaper as I ran into the ABC store to pick up her bottle. This would probably not happen today, but we lived in a small town where just about everyone knew each other and that was many years ago.
Whether mom's friends and relatives want to believe it, she CHOSE to drink. The bourbon didn't choose her, she chose it. She chose it over me, over my dad and over her family. It ruled her life, and she let it. Saying that alcohol controls an alcoholic is like saying a car controls the driver. The driver has to purchase the car, get a drivers license, put the key in the ignition and press the gas pedal. A car can't drive itself, unless of course it is Kit from Night Rider. The same is true for alcohol. It has to be bought, and opened, poured into a glass or drunk from a bottle or can. The alcohol does not just magically appear in someone's blood stream. There is a premeditated process that a person has to go through to drink the alcohol.
My mother knew that it was killing her and she chose to drink it anyway. Although I do not think that she ever understood the brevity of our situation, or the neglect that she showed to me and my dad. Even after God had seen to saving her life, she would not talk about her alcoholism, but instead would say, "Let's not bring up the past" or "Well you eat like I drank and that is why you're fat". Thus ending any sort of conversation that I could have had in order to gain closure.
So, if I hear one more person telling me that she was just sick, or that it was the alcohol that caused such hell in our lives I will quite possibly kick punch them, or the air around me. You can't protect me now, those reassurances do not help. I know too much to understand the cold hard truth and that is the fact that I came second to a bottle of Canadian Mist for 25 years.
Imagine how it felt to need to talk to your mother when you were away from home in college or anywhere, and knowing that if you called after 7:30 she would be incoherant. Imagine watching helplessly as your mother passed out in the recliner with a cigarette dangling from her hand,dropping dangerous ashes onto the carpet. Or waking up in the middle of the night to find that your mother had fallen down the step in the den and broken her ankle bone in half. I was alone with her on that particular night. My parents were divorced by then and she wouldn't let me call my dad. I had to call my cousin and then we had to drag mom out to the car to take her to the ER. Then I had to sit there while the doctor, who happened to be the father of a cheerleader that I knew from another school, asked my mom if she had been drinking before she fell. Mom's reply was, "Maybe a little." and he said, "Maybe a ton. If you drink that much every day you will kill yourself." I was so embarassed that I could have crawled under the bed.
No child should ever have to go through any sort of mental or physical abuse. There are millions of children everyday who face the demon of an alcoholic parent every night. Some are beaten, some are killed, some are so neglected that they just leave or are sent into foster homes. All of this happens right under our noses every day and all we can say is, "It's the alcohol, not the person." Whatever. We were given free will by God, and we choose to use it every second of every day.
I was lucky because I had a good father who provided for us and supported me through my mom's "illness". I was able to put up a front in school, and the only people who knew my mom drank were my close friends. If they thought anything of it, they loved me enough never to say a word. My house was like a constant party, not a home. Can you blame that on the alcohol as well? No, you can't, but you can blame it on selfishness, and irresponsibility on the part of my parents.
My children have never seen me drink a drop of alcohol, and if I have it my way they never will. I will never allow myself to be inebriated in front of them, ever. Our house will be a home. A safe haven for them to come home to every day. A place of comfort and happiness that they will build lasting memories in. Even if it takes me putting on my happy face for them everyday. Even if my heart is broken and I am hurting so bad on the inside I want to scream, I will never let them see. For these boys are a gift from God to me. They are not truly mine, but His and He chose to lend them to me in order to raise them and teach them about Him. That is my mission, that is my goal. When I see God's face in Heaven I want him to tell me, "Good job". I want to make Him proud, because I love Him with all of my heart and I am so thankful to Him everyday for saving me from a future that could have been terrible and giving me a life full of love and joy.
Don't ever tell a child of an alcoholic that it was not the parent's fault. Just own up to the fact that it was, and leave it be. Because they already know the truth.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Pieces of my puzzle
I got a sweet email from one of my mother's friends the other night. She was just emailing to check on me and see how I was doing. I also recieved a card from one of her friends that she worked with for 30 years and then my Aunt Net (mom's sister) called me today to check on me. I feel as though all of these precious, loving women, are trying to hold me up and I appreciate them so much.
As I have written before, my mom was not the best "nurturer". In fact, she was more like a sibling than a mother. I took care of her, not the other way around. Her friend Patsy told me about how she attends both of her grandchildren's baseball games most every Saturday and I immediately though, "Wow, that is great!" My mom never saw Tucker play a single game, and he started playing soccer at 3, basketball at 4 and flag football at 6. There were hundreds of opportunities for her to watch him play, but she never came. My dad and stepmom came all of the time, and my husband's parents drove two hours just to watch him play for an hour and then turn around and drive back, many, many times. Why didn't my mom make this effort? I will never know.
What I am going to write tonight has caused me to feel a deep sense of guilt for many years. I have always longed for a true "mother" figure in my life. I never realized what I was missing in my mother until I got to college. There were mother's that sent thier daughters goody bags to the dorms during rush, showed up on bid day and gave them flowers. Mom's that would drive from 8 hours away just to take their daughter's shopping or to get a new hair cut. My friends got care packages and clothes all of the time in the mail. My mother only saw one apartment that I lived in the whole time I was in college. I went home on the weekends a lot just to keep her company because she would make me feel guilty if I didn't. She never took me shopping as a teenager. She would give me money and I would shop with a friend on Friday nights at the mall or my daddy would take me. She never helped me fix my hair for a dance or cheerleader tryouts or a football game. She never gave me make up tips, or took me to get a mani/pedi. When I look back at my childhood and my teen years, I am not really sure where she was. Mother did not even attend my college graduation ceremony, which was one of the proudest days in my life. Thank goodness my dad and Jackie were there for me. All of my memories of her are of parties with mom and dad's friends at our house or on our boat.
I am sad that I did not get to have those mother daughter experiences. I am insanely jealous of my friends who have these wonderfully supportive and nurturing mothers. When my mom stopped drinking and got healthy we would meet for dinner and did go shopping a few times. Even those times could not make up for a lifetime of missed opportunities.
Throughout the past 15 years I have wished to be adopted by someone else's mother. I feel guilty writing that, because I feel like mom can hear my thoughts now. God blessed me with wonderful women in my life.
My stepmother, Jackie was sent to my dad by God, there is no doubt in my mind. My poor daddy was broken down and lost after dealing with my mother's drinking for 25 years. Mother was mean to him during the divorce and tried to turn me against him. Then daddy met Jackie and she changed both of our lives. They were married my senior year in college. I was so proud of them both and extremely happy for my dad. When I graduated and moved to New Orleans daddy and Jackie moved me. I will never forget that when we got to my apartment, Jackie took a broom, mop, bucket and Comet and went to work cleaning my apartment from the top to the bottom. She lined my shelves, she helped me arrange my kitchen, and the best thing of all; Took me shopping!! I was awestruck the entire two days at her generosity. She bought me a cooking set, a few pieces I still use today. She bought a vacuum cleaner, dirty clothes basket, bath towels, dish towels, cleaning products, everything that I would need to set up an apartment. I remember thinking, "Wow! Is this normal?" and that I would love this woman unconditionally for the rest of my life. She is truly an angel on Earth to me. Her daughter Natalie lives 15 hours away and I know she misses her very much. I often feel like an ursurper because I get to spend more time with Jackie than Nat does. Fortunately, Natalie is one of the kindest people I know and she has never showed any anymosity towards me and my relationship with her mother. When mom was alive, she hated Jackie, she would threaten me not to get close to Jackie and be upset with me if I bought Jackie a more expensive birthday or Christmas gift. At my wedding, I wanted Jackie to be led down the aisle after my mom and to sit beside my dad. This enraged my mother, and she was so mad and ugly to me that I cried half the night before my wedding. I was determined to give Jackie that walk down the aisle, she had deserved it. In the end Brad had to have a talk with my mother, one of many that would follow throughout our marriage, and mother left me alone about it. Jackie was escorted down the aise and sat beside my dad. After the ceremony Brad and I presented our mother's with a red rose. I gave one to my mother first, and then one to Jackie. My mom later told me that she threw hers away because the gesture was void after I had given one to Jackie. I didn't care, my heart was full.
My Aunt Margaret, who is not really my aunt, but she and her husband were close friends of my parents. I spent so much time around her when I was little that I just dubbed her "Aunt Margaret". Once, a few years ago, when mom was getting her life back together and going to church, I had a work trip that sent me to Aunt Margaret's home city. I was able to spend the night with her and Uncle Forrest. It was one of the best nights of my life! We sat up and had girl talk until two in the morning. She listened as I talked about mom, and my frustrations, and heartache over her past transgressions. She would ask meaningful questions that let me know that she was truly interested in learning how I felt, not just trying to make me feel better. She and uncle Forrest came to mom's funeral and I was able to spend some time with them then. She also sent me the most beautiful daily devotional. Aunt Margaret has truly been a blessing to me and I am so thankful to her.
Then there is my friend Callie's mom, Mrs. Dianne. She is so thoughtful and full of life, that she makes me smile just thinking about her. During college she would drive up with Callie's dad, to see Callie and I would race over to the apartmen as soon as they were in town to hug Mrs.Dianne's neck. Every year in college during spring break, we went to Callie's house. I couldn't wait to see her parents, I love them so much. The rest of our friends would be out back having a party and I would be in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Dianne for hours. The next day I would be laying on the couch reading a book while Callie's dad sat in his favorite chair and read the paper. We would both be drinking coffee while my friends were passed out or nursing hangovers. He would ask me questions about Callie and try to dig for dirt on her. Then he would always ask me to take care of Callie for him, and I did. He passed away four years ago, and Mrs. Dianne gave me some of his books, Historical novels and Biographys,which I cherish.
Then there is Mrs. Patsy, my friend Margaret Ann's mother. She is a wonderful, Godly lady, and so loving and generous with her time, it amazes me. We go to the same church, and I look forward to seeing her every Sunday. I have to have my weekly hug from Mrs. Patsy and Mr. Bill or my week won't go well! I also have this desire to please Mrs. Patsy because I think so highly of her. A few months ago something was posted on my facebook wall and it was offensive to her. I was crushed. I was so afraid that she would think bad of me for this post. She never mentioned it to me, and I still get my weekly hug. I have looked over at her during church and often wondered what it would be like if she adopted me? I know that I would learn to sew, and cook and be a better wife and mother in her care. Marge and I are basically like sister's anyway, so that could work!
I also have Mrs. Prissy. She is our pastor's wife, and I adore her. She is gorgeous, yet humble, funny, but serious and can brighten a room with one laugh. She is another one that I love to get a weekly hug from. If I don't see her on Sunday I miss her. She is a very strong woman as well. She lost her father and simultaneously had to nurse her husband, Pastor Ron to health during a bad sickness that he suffered from for months. Through it all she remained upbeat on the outside, never showing her worry or pain. Instead she gave out love and warmth to the entire church when we needed it the most. I would love to be adopted by her as well.
There are so many others, Mrs. Beth from Columbus, Brad's mother's friend who is so sweet to me and good to my boys. Mrs. Betty, Brad's friend Walter's mom, who is just so sweet and nurturing you couldn't ever imagine a harsh word coming out of her mouth. She has always loved on me since we dated and I loved every second of it. My mom's friend Patsy, who I wrote about before, who knew me as a baby and prayed with me at mother's bedside the day that she passed away.
I am attracted to these wonderful strong women and mother's because each of them has something inside of them that I am missing. A piece of my puzzle that I so desperately wish could be complete. I know that there are millions of girls in worse situations than I am who have lost thier mother, or thier mother has left them, or just didn't care about them growing up. I know that these girls also share this longing, for a maternal figure to take care of them, to hold them when they need it even though they are grown with kids of thier own. I pray for those girls, because we are all part of a different sect of women. I pray that these girls will see their mother's faults, like I have, and are hell bent on changing the course with thier own kids. Since Tucker was born, I have made sure to do everything my mother never did and I will continue to do so. One day I will have a daughter in law, and I will do my best to love and nurture her as well.
All this is to say that if you are a mother, PUT YOUR KIDS FIRST. And if you are a daughter who has one of these mother's that I have longed for, HUG THEM AND TELL THEM THEY ARE WONDERFUL! I have come to realize while sitting in church wondering if I could be adopted by one of these great women, that even if they took me in, they could never take the place of my mother. Flawed as she was, she will always be my one and only mother. I guess I will just have to keep making do with what I had and make sure that my boys have more love than they know what to do with.
As I have written before, my mom was not the best "nurturer". In fact, she was more like a sibling than a mother. I took care of her, not the other way around. Her friend Patsy told me about how she attends both of her grandchildren's baseball games most every Saturday and I immediately though, "Wow, that is great!" My mom never saw Tucker play a single game, and he started playing soccer at 3, basketball at 4 and flag football at 6. There were hundreds of opportunities for her to watch him play, but she never came. My dad and stepmom came all of the time, and my husband's parents drove two hours just to watch him play for an hour and then turn around and drive back, many, many times. Why didn't my mom make this effort? I will never know.
What I am going to write tonight has caused me to feel a deep sense of guilt for many years. I have always longed for a true "mother" figure in my life. I never realized what I was missing in my mother until I got to college. There were mother's that sent thier daughters goody bags to the dorms during rush, showed up on bid day and gave them flowers. Mom's that would drive from 8 hours away just to take their daughter's shopping or to get a new hair cut. My friends got care packages and clothes all of the time in the mail. My mother only saw one apartment that I lived in the whole time I was in college. I went home on the weekends a lot just to keep her company because she would make me feel guilty if I didn't. She never took me shopping as a teenager. She would give me money and I would shop with a friend on Friday nights at the mall or my daddy would take me. She never helped me fix my hair for a dance or cheerleader tryouts or a football game. She never gave me make up tips, or took me to get a mani/pedi. When I look back at my childhood and my teen years, I am not really sure where she was. Mother did not even attend my college graduation ceremony, which was one of the proudest days in my life. Thank goodness my dad and Jackie were there for me. All of my memories of her are of parties with mom and dad's friends at our house or on our boat.
I am sad that I did not get to have those mother daughter experiences. I am insanely jealous of my friends who have these wonderfully supportive and nurturing mothers. When my mom stopped drinking and got healthy we would meet for dinner and did go shopping a few times. Even those times could not make up for a lifetime of missed opportunities.
Throughout the past 15 years I have wished to be adopted by someone else's mother. I feel guilty writing that, because I feel like mom can hear my thoughts now. God blessed me with wonderful women in my life.
My stepmother, Jackie was sent to my dad by God, there is no doubt in my mind. My poor daddy was broken down and lost after dealing with my mother's drinking for 25 years. Mother was mean to him during the divorce and tried to turn me against him. Then daddy met Jackie and she changed both of our lives. They were married my senior year in college. I was so proud of them both and extremely happy for my dad. When I graduated and moved to New Orleans daddy and Jackie moved me. I will never forget that when we got to my apartment, Jackie took a broom, mop, bucket and Comet and went to work cleaning my apartment from the top to the bottom. She lined my shelves, she helped me arrange my kitchen, and the best thing of all; Took me shopping!! I was awestruck the entire two days at her generosity. She bought me a cooking set, a few pieces I still use today. She bought a vacuum cleaner, dirty clothes basket, bath towels, dish towels, cleaning products, everything that I would need to set up an apartment. I remember thinking, "Wow! Is this normal?" and that I would love this woman unconditionally for the rest of my life. She is truly an angel on Earth to me. Her daughter Natalie lives 15 hours away and I know she misses her very much. I often feel like an ursurper because I get to spend more time with Jackie than Nat does. Fortunately, Natalie is one of the kindest people I know and she has never showed any anymosity towards me and my relationship with her mother. When mom was alive, she hated Jackie, she would threaten me not to get close to Jackie and be upset with me if I bought Jackie a more expensive birthday or Christmas gift. At my wedding, I wanted Jackie to be led down the aisle after my mom and to sit beside my dad. This enraged my mother, and she was so mad and ugly to me that I cried half the night before my wedding. I was determined to give Jackie that walk down the aisle, she had deserved it. In the end Brad had to have a talk with my mother, one of many that would follow throughout our marriage, and mother left me alone about it. Jackie was escorted down the aise and sat beside my dad. After the ceremony Brad and I presented our mother's with a red rose. I gave one to my mother first, and then one to Jackie. My mom later told me that she threw hers away because the gesture was void after I had given one to Jackie. I didn't care, my heart was full.
My Aunt Margaret, who is not really my aunt, but she and her husband were close friends of my parents. I spent so much time around her when I was little that I just dubbed her "Aunt Margaret". Once, a few years ago, when mom was getting her life back together and going to church, I had a work trip that sent me to Aunt Margaret's home city. I was able to spend the night with her and Uncle Forrest. It was one of the best nights of my life! We sat up and had girl talk until two in the morning. She listened as I talked about mom, and my frustrations, and heartache over her past transgressions. She would ask meaningful questions that let me know that she was truly interested in learning how I felt, not just trying to make me feel better. She and uncle Forrest came to mom's funeral and I was able to spend some time with them then. She also sent me the most beautiful daily devotional. Aunt Margaret has truly been a blessing to me and I am so thankful to her.
Then there is my friend Callie's mom, Mrs. Dianne. She is so thoughtful and full of life, that she makes me smile just thinking about her. During college she would drive up with Callie's dad, to see Callie and I would race over to the apartmen as soon as they were in town to hug Mrs.Dianne's neck. Every year in college during spring break, we went to Callie's house. I couldn't wait to see her parents, I love them so much. The rest of our friends would be out back having a party and I would be in the kitchen talking to Mrs. Dianne for hours. The next day I would be laying on the couch reading a book while Callie's dad sat in his favorite chair and read the paper. We would both be drinking coffee while my friends were passed out or nursing hangovers. He would ask me questions about Callie and try to dig for dirt on her. Then he would always ask me to take care of Callie for him, and I did. He passed away four years ago, and Mrs. Dianne gave me some of his books, Historical novels and Biographys,which I cherish.
Then there is Mrs. Patsy, my friend Margaret Ann's mother. She is a wonderful, Godly lady, and so loving and generous with her time, it amazes me. We go to the same church, and I look forward to seeing her every Sunday. I have to have my weekly hug from Mrs. Patsy and Mr. Bill or my week won't go well! I also have this desire to please Mrs. Patsy because I think so highly of her. A few months ago something was posted on my facebook wall and it was offensive to her. I was crushed. I was so afraid that she would think bad of me for this post. She never mentioned it to me, and I still get my weekly hug. I have looked over at her during church and often wondered what it would be like if she adopted me? I know that I would learn to sew, and cook and be a better wife and mother in her care. Marge and I are basically like sister's anyway, so that could work!
I also have Mrs. Prissy. She is our pastor's wife, and I adore her. She is gorgeous, yet humble, funny, but serious and can brighten a room with one laugh. She is another one that I love to get a weekly hug from. If I don't see her on Sunday I miss her. She is a very strong woman as well. She lost her father and simultaneously had to nurse her husband, Pastor Ron to health during a bad sickness that he suffered from for months. Through it all she remained upbeat on the outside, never showing her worry or pain. Instead she gave out love and warmth to the entire church when we needed it the most. I would love to be adopted by her as well.
There are so many others, Mrs. Beth from Columbus, Brad's mother's friend who is so sweet to me and good to my boys. Mrs. Betty, Brad's friend Walter's mom, who is just so sweet and nurturing you couldn't ever imagine a harsh word coming out of her mouth. She has always loved on me since we dated and I loved every second of it. My mom's friend Patsy, who I wrote about before, who knew me as a baby and prayed with me at mother's bedside the day that she passed away.
I am attracted to these wonderful strong women and mother's because each of them has something inside of them that I am missing. A piece of my puzzle that I so desperately wish could be complete. I know that there are millions of girls in worse situations than I am who have lost thier mother, or thier mother has left them, or just didn't care about them growing up. I know that these girls also share this longing, for a maternal figure to take care of them, to hold them when they need it even though they are grown with kids of thier own. I pray for those girls, because we are all part of a different sect of women. I pray that these girls will see their mother's faults, like I have, and are hell bent on changing the course with thier own kids. Since Tucker was born, I have made sure to do everything my mother never did and I will continue to do so. One day I will have a daughter in law, and I will do my best to love and nurture her as well.
All this is to say that if you are a mother, PUT YOUR KIDS FIRST. And if you are a daughter who has one of these mother's that I have longed for, HUG THEM AND TELL THEM THEY ARE WONDERFUL! I have come to realize while sitting in church wondering if I could be adopted by one of these great women, that even if they took me in, they could never take the place of my mother. Flawed as she was, she will always be my one and only mother. I guess I will just have to keep making do with what I had and make sure that my boys have more love than they know what to do with.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Full Moon
I have always made references to how insane people act during the full moon. Anyone who has ever worked with the public can tell you that during a full moon, the crazies come out of thier shells. Thankfully I do not have to interact with the public on a day to day basis. I have little patience for dealing with irrate individuals that want to blame me for everything going wrong in their lives.
All this to say that I can now tell how the full moon seems to affect me. I have realized that during the full moon phase, my creative juices start to flow and the urge to keep working on my manuscript comes back to me. My mom actually asked for me to bring her a copy of my book before she passed away. I wish that I had taken the time to print it out. It was odd that she requested to read it, because I had not mentioned it to her in a long time. Odder still, when she asked to read it, a light bulb went off in my head that she was getting close to dying.
I graduated from college in 1999 and moved straight to New Orleans to work. One would think that a new grad would be itching to enter the party lifestyle and New Orleans would be the place to do just that. My experience in NOLA was not good. I missed my parents, my home state, and my friends. I detested the smell of the city that I thought I loved, and felt an eerie sense of darkness everywhere there. I wasn't just suffering from "girl from a small town syndrome" because I had also lived in New York, and New Orleans was like another world. Before moving to New Orleans, I loved the city's mysteries, the history of voodoo and most of all my all time favorite author Anne Rice. Living in the famed city as an outsider, not a native, was a whole different ballgame than just being a tourist. I met some interesting individuals though, and there are times that I want to go back and visit with my husband in tow. I want to show him the little wonder spots I found scattered around the District and the historical sites of the city. I digress, my point is that I went to one of the biggest party places in the US and hardly had fun at all. I ended up moving back home after 6 months. I moved in with my mother because I was worried about her drinking. I was only able to take living with her for two months before I left there and moved in with my dad and stepmom. Then I started driving back and forth to hang out with friends in Birmingham. It was during this time that I met the love of my life and have been married to him for almost 10 years!
The full moon makes me feel reckless. I had reckless moments in between my move from Gadsden to Birmingham. I look back now and know that I was mad at my mom for trying to drink herself to death. I was only 22 and had the world at my feet, but I ran from it instead of embracing it. For about four months I lived night to night, drink to drink, dance to dance with my girlfriends. I fell in a gutter in downtown Birmingham, and almost lost my Steve Madden shoe. I drank a bottle of wine by myself before going out at night and could shoot tequila better than any man in the bar. I ran every day, hang over or not, and was in the best shape of my life. What I didn't know was that I was in pain,and no running or drinking could help me. It wasn't until I met my husband and started going back to church that the pain dissipated. All during college and for the year after I had graduated I had held God back at an arms length. I prayed to Him daily but would not give in to His silent urging for me to come back to him. I tried to hide, but He found me. I can still remember the night that my dad called me to tell me that they had found my mom unconcious in her kitchen, blood everywhere from where she had cut herself in a drunken stupor. "You have to come home," my stepmom told me on the phone. I was standing in the parking lot of a local bar, getting ready to go inside with my friends. I told her that I would be there tomorrow and hung up. I closed my mind, and my heart that night and walked into that bar with my head held high and a twenty dollar bill in my hand and bought a round of shots for my friends. Later that night I ran from our apartment to the tennis courts and sat in the dark with a beer bottle and wept. I laid myself flat on the court and screamed to God. I asked him "Why??" "Why me? Why now?". I don't know how long I had been there when I heard my friends yelling for me. They were worried because they didn't know where I had gone. I was trying to escape everything, and I had no idea that what I needed was right there with me. God gave me and my mother another ten years after that. I was baptized that same year and have not been the same person who laid on that tennis court since. However, there are nights like tonight, with the moon full, that I feel the pull of restlessness. Thank the good Lord, that I belong completely to Him and know that He alone can calm the storm within. My prayer is that everyone can come to know His grace as I do. There are so many souls in this world who are desparate for solace. I pray that they let God into their hearts. I pray that they open their hearts and mind completely to Him, and that they will no longer suffer.
All this to say that I can now tell how the full moon seems to affect me. I have realized that during the full moon phase, my creative juices start to flow and the urge to keep working on my manuscript comes back to me. My mom actually asked for me to bring her a copy of my book before she passed away. I wish that I had taken the time to print it out. It was odd that she requested to read it, because I had not mentioned it to her in a long time. Odder still, when she asked to read it, a light bulb went off in my head that she was getting close to dying.
I graduated from college in 1999 and moved straight to New Orleans to work. One would think that a new grad would be itching to enter the party lifestyle and New Orleans would be the place to do just that. My experience in NOLA was not good. I missed my parents, my home state, and my friends. I detested the smell of the city that I thought I loved, and felt an eerie sense of darkness everywhere there. I wasn't just suffering from "girl from a small town syndrome" because I had also lived in New York, and New Orleans was like another world. Before moving to New Orleans, I loved the city's mysteries, the history of voodoo and most of all my all time favorite author Anne Rice. Living in the famed city as an outsider, not a native, was a whole different ballgame than just being a tourist. I met some interesting individuals though, and there are times that I want to go back and visit with my husband in tow. I want to show him the little wonder spots I found scattered around the District and the historical sites of the city. I digress, my point is that I went to one of the biggest party places in the US and hardly had fun at all. I ended up moving back home after 6 months. I moved in with my mother because I was worried about her drinking. I was only able to take living with her for two months before I left there and moved in with my dad and stepmom. Then I started driving back and forth to hang out with friends in Birmingham. It was during this time that I met the love of my life and have been married to him for almost 10 years!
The full moon makes me feel reckless. I had reckless moments in between my move from Gadsden to Birmingham. I look back now and know that I was mad at my mom for trying to drink herself to death. I was only 22 and had the world at my feet, but I ran from it instead of embracing it. For about four months I lived night to night, drink to drink, dance to dance with my girlfriends. I fell in a gutter in downtown Birmingham, and almost lost my Steve Madden shoe. I drank a bottle of wine by myself before going out at night and could shoot tequila better than any man in the bar. I ran every day, hang over or not, and was in the best shape of my life. What I didn't know was that I was in pain,and no running or drinking could help me. It wasn't until I met my husband and started going back to church that the pain dissipated. All during college and for the year after I had graduated I had held God back at an arms length. I prayed to Him daily but would not give in to His silent urging for me to come back to him. I tried to hide, but He found me. I can still remember the night that my dad called me to tell me that they had found my mom unconcious in her kitchen, blood everywhere from where she had cut herself in a drunken stupor. "You have to come home," my stepmom told me on the phone. I was standing in the parking lot of a local bar, getting ready to go inside with my friends. I told her that I would be there tomorrow and hung up. I closed my mind, and my heart that night and walked into that bar with my head held high and a twenty dollar bill in my hand and bought a round of shots for my friends. Later that night I ran from our apartment to the tennis courts and sat in the dark with a beer bottle and wept. I laid myself flat on the court and screamed to God. I asked him "Why??" "Why me? Why now?". I don't know how long I had been there when I heard my friends yelling for me. They were worried because they didn't know where I had gone. I was trying to escape everything, and I had no idea that what I needed was right there with me. God gave me and my mother another ten years after that. I was baptized that same year and have not been the same person who laid on that tennis court since. However, there are nights like tonight, with the moon full, that I feel the pull of restlessness. Thank the good Lord, that I belong completely to Him and know that He alone can calm the storm within. My prayer is that everyone can come to know His grace as I do. There are so many souls in this world who are desparate for solace. I pray that they let God into their hearts. I pray that they open their hearts and mind completely to Him, and that they will no longer suffer.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
A Chasing after the Wind
"To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God. This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." Ecclesiastes 2:26
King Soloman was such a wise man. I enjoy reading the book of Ecclesiastes more than any other book in the Bible. One reason I enjoy it so is because Old King Sol is blunt. He gets right to the point, and leaves no room for romanticism or optimism. The first time I read this book of the Bible I thought, "This is one seriously depressed old king who needs a Zoloft, stat!" I imagine King Solomon, old, and fat, with a long white flowing beard, dressed in his fancy tunic, lounging on a chase with a cup of wine in one jeweled hand and a pen in the other as he writes this book. By the end you feel as though he's looking to find the closest cliff to jump from or to get his hands on a poison readily available to drink and end the nonsensical life he lives.
However, once you get past the brute force of his words, you realize how these words transcend over thousands of years to reach back to us today. I read Ecclesiastes in the months that Brad and I were trying to decide if I could quit working full time to be at home with the boys. It was a hard decision, one that we were even lucky to have gotten to consider. We worked over our budget spreadsheet hundreds of times, had late night discussions of our goals and dreams and what we thought was the right life for our kids. First and foremost we wanted to know what would be right for our family in the eyes of God. To get this answer we turned to the all encompassing James Dobson. About as blunt as King Soloman but with a grasp on what the small man faces. We decided to make the jump and two and half years later we are still standing. Poor, but standing.
In each family there is usually a saver and a spender, sometimes you have a family where both parents are spenders, or savers. Brad is a saver, I am a spender. My mom was a saver like no one I have ever known. My dad was a spender. I'm sure that Brad wishes that I had inherited this saving trait of hers. She could turn one dollar into a hundred in two weeks, one hundred dollers into a thousand in a month, etc. She never over spent, she never bought anything that wasn't for a practical need.
Last Sunday Brother Ron, our minister, who Brad and I admire and adore, preached on giving. Brother Ron, much like King Solomon gives it to you straight. The money in our hands does really not belong to us, it all belongs to God. He only requires 10% but He expects much more from us, not just in monetary means. Brad and I were touched as we always are by Bro Ron's sermons and are going to cut a few things out of the budget to give more offerings.
The other question that was raised in one of the sermons is what are you saving for? If you hoard all of this money, which really isn't yours to begin with, when are you ever going to make use of it? My mother did this. She hoarded her money and was stingy with it until toward the end. I never wanted her money, I just wanted her time. Money was everything to her though, and it means very little to me. I don't care if a person has one dollar to thier name, if I love them and want to spend time with them I will make it a point to do so.
Mother also hoarded paperwork, reciepts, doctors reciepts, notepads with notes written on them, I even found a check that my granny had written my mom back in 1989 in a stack of paper on a desk in her house. Brad and I had gone to start cleaning out Mom's house last Sunday. We are trying to get it ready for the market and will hopefully have it listed soon.
My precious stepmom and my dad had already cleaned out the refridgerator and pantry for me so when Brad and I go there with a huge box of industrialized trash bags we got to work. Every drawer was jam packed paper, from years back, bills, reciepts, doctor's notes, you name it, it was in these drawers. It took us 4 hours and eighteen industrial size garbage bags to get the house to a point where it can be cleaned.
On one hand I was glad to have Brad with me, he helped me stay the coarse, kept me moving so that I wouldn't get mired down in the memories that were strewn all around me.
Since the day that I had gone to pick mom up from her house to move her into the Point at Goldenrod, I had not touched her bed. The sheets were still laying as she had left them. Her brush was on the table along with tissues, her glasses and various books. When I had woken her up that morning her 02 was low, and I could tell this as soon as she woke up. I was trying to rush her hoping that if I could just get her to the assisted living they would know what to do. I didn't want to call an ambulance and have her wind up back in the hospital from where she had just returned the night before. She sat up on the side of the bed and said she felt sick. I got her a towel and gave it to her as Connor came running in. I had to shoo him back outside to the yard where my dad was respectfully waiting on me to bring her out to the car. Once she threw up I got her a glass of water. Her hands were unstead and she dropped it on the floor. I refilled it and gave it to her, helping her bring it to her lips. She drank the whole glass and sat it on the table. The glass is still sitting there. I wouldn't let Brad touch that table or the towel, or the brush. We had to undo the bed and throw out the matress and box springs. I threw the new sheets that I had just bought her, that she had been sleeping on, out with it as well because we now know that she had a staff infection.
Throwing that bed out of the house was ceremonious in a way. That bed was basically her death bed. She had laid dying in it for the past six months. There was a part of me that could have layed in her spot, and wrapped my arms around the covers and never moved. But the rational part of me knew that it needed to go. Rationalization and grief do not mix well. In fact those to emotional factors are on opposite sides of the caring spectrum. How can one be rational in thier greif? How can greif come across as rational to an ungreived person? There is no meeting of these two, they stay on the opposite sides of the valley of death.
As I continued to go through all of her crappy cooking supplies and tupperware I kept thinking about all of the nice things that she could have had, but never had bought in order to save money. Save money for what?? She's gone now, and the money is left but she can't spend it on anything. While she lived, she squandered her cash, and saved to go boxes as tupperwear. She bought most of her groceried from the dollar store because it was so much cheaper than walmart. We always went dutch when we met for dinner, she had a set amount to spend on the kids at holidays, which was well and good. Why didn't she take some of that squandered money and take the kids on a vacation with. Why didn't she spend the extra two dollars to drive to our house instead of meeting us for dinner fifteen minutes closer to her? I guess she was always afraid that the money would run out before she did. She was wrong.
I look back at her house and her lifetime of saving and hoarding things that were of really no purpose in this life. Then I look at the time she missed with her grandchildren, the soccer games she never made, the basketball games she never saw, the flag football games she never attended and I realize that she had already missed out on some of the best days of her life. Why? Because we lived too far away, a whole hour, and because most of the games were played in the morning, before her normal wake up time of noon.
I wonder if she is looking back at her life while in the present heaven and seeing all of these missed opportunities. My children remember Nana, and Connor especially has a fondnest for her. But what they remember most about her is the things that she did buy them because they were so precious and far between.
I don't want to be remembered by an inatimate object that will eventually be placed in a box because someone is no longer playing with it. I want to be remembered for being there. For being tangible, attached to the wants and desires of my children and one day my grandchildren. I want to be remembered for not chasing after the wind, but by being blown along through life by a zephyr wind picking up memories as I go.
King Soloman was such a wise man. I enjoy reading the book of Ecclesiastes more than any other book in the Bible. One reason I enjoy it so is because Old King Sol is blunt. He gets right to the point, and leaves no room for romanticism or optimism. The first time I read this book of the Bible I thought, "This is one seriously depressed old king who needs a Zoloft, stat!" I imagine King Solomon, old, and fat, with a long white flowing beard, dressed in his fancy tunic, lounging on a chase with a cup of wine in one jeweled hand and a pen in the other as he writes this book. By the end you feel as though he's looking to find the closest cliff to jump from or to get his hands on a poison readily available to drink and end the nonsensical life he lives.
However, once you get past the brute force of his words, you realize how these words transcend over thousands of years to reach back to us today. I read Ecclesiastes in the months that Brad and I were trying to decide if I could quit working full time to be at home with the boys. It was a hard decision, one that we were even lucky to have gotten to consider. We worked over our budget spreadsheet hundreds of times, had late night discussions of our goals and dreams and what we thought was the right life for our kids. First and foremost we wanted to know what would be right for our family in the eyes of God. To get this answer we turned to the all encompassing James Dobson. About as blunt as King Soloman but with a grasp on what the small man faces. We decided to make the jump and two and half years later we are still standing. Poor, but standing.
In each family there is usually a saver and a spender, sometimes you have a family where both parents are spenders, or savers. Brad is a saver, I am a spender. My mom was a saver like no one I have ever known. My dad was a spender. I'm sure that Brad wishes that I had inherited this saving trait of hers. She could turn one dollar into a hundred in two weeks, one hundred dollers into a thousand in a month, etc. She never over spent, she never bought anything that wasn't for a practical need.
Last Sunday Brother Ron, our minister, who Brad and I admire and adore, preached on giving. Brother Ron, much like King Solomon gives it to you straight. The money in our hands does really not belong to us, it all belongs to God. He only requires 10% but He expects much more from us, not just in monetary means. Brad and I were touched as we always are by Bro Ron's sermons and are going to cut a few things out of the budget to give more offerings.
The other question that was raised in one of the sermons is what are you saving for? If you hoard all of this money, which really isn't yours to begin with, when are you ever going to make use of it? My mother did this. She hoarded her money and was stingy with it until toward the end. I never wanted her money, I just wanted her time. Money was everything to her though, and it means very little to me. I don't care if a person has one dollar to thier name, if I love them and want to spend time with them I will make it a point to do so.
Mother also hoarded paperwork, reciepts, doctors reciepts, notepads with notes written on them, I even found a check that my granny had written my mom back in 1989 in a stack of paper on a desk in her house. Brad and I had gone to start cleaning out Mom's house last Sunday. We are trying to get it ready for the market and will hopefully have it listed soon.
My precious stepmom and my dad had already cleaned out the refridgerator and pantry for me so when Brad and I go there with a huge box of industrialized trash bags we got to work. Every drawer was jam packed paper, from years back, bills, reciepts, doctor's notes, you name it, it was in these drawers. It took us 4 hours and eighteen industrial size garbage bags to get the house to a point where it can be cleaned.
On one hand I was glad to have Brad with me, he helped me stay the coarse, kept me moving so that I wouldn't get mired down in the memories that were strewn all around me.
Since the day that I had gone to pick mom up from her house to move her into the Point at Goldenrod, I had not touched her bed. The sheets were still laying as she had left them. Her brush was on the table along with tissues, her glasses and various books. When I had woken her up that morning her 02 was low, and I could tell this as soon as she woke up. I was trying to rush her hoping that if I could just get her to the assisted living they would know what to do. I didn't want to call an ambulance and have her wind up back in the hospital from where she had just returned the night before. She sat up on the side of the bed and said she felt sick. I got her a towel and gave it to her as Connor came running in. I had to shoo him back outside to the yard where my dad was respectfully waiting on me to bring her out to the car. Once she threw up I got her a glass of water. Her hands were unstead and she dropped it on the floor. I refilled it and gave it to her, helping her bring it to her lips. She drank the whole glass and sat it on the table. The glass is still sitting there. I wouldn't let Brad touch that table or the towel, or the brush. We had to undo the bed and throw out the matress and box springs. I threw the new sheets that I had just bought her, that she had been sleeping on, out with it as well because we now know that she had a staff infection.
Throwing that bed out of the house was ceremonious in a way. That bed was basically her death bed. She had laid dying in it for the past six months. There was a part of me that could have layed in her spot, and wrapped my arms around the covers and never moved. But the rational part of me knew that it needed to go. Rationalization and grief do not mix well. In fact those to emotional factors are on opposite sides of the caring spectrum. How can one be rational in thier greif? How can greif come across as rational to an ungreived person? There is no meeting of these two, they stay on the opposite sides of the valley of death.
As I continued to go through all of her crappy cooking supplies and tupperware I kept thinking about all of the nice things that she could have had, but never had bought in order to save money. Save money for what?? She's gone now, and the money is left but she can't spend it on anything. While she lived, she squandered her cash, and saved to go boxes as tupperwear. She bought most of her groceried from the dollar store because it was so much cheaper than walmart. We always went dutch when we met for dinner, she had a set amount to spend on the kids at holidays, which was well and good. Why didn't she take some of that squandered money and take the kids on a vacation with. Why didn't she spend the extra two dollars to drive to our house instead of meeting us for dinner fifteen minutes closer to her? I guess she was always afraid that the money would run out before she did. She was wrong.
I look back at her house and her lifetime of saving and hoarding things that were of really no purpose in this life. Then I look at the time she missed with her grandchildren, the soccer games she never made, the basketball games she never saw, the flag football games she never attended and I realize that she had already missed out on some of the best days of her life. Why? Because we lived too far away, a whole hour, and because most of the games were played in the morning, before her normal wake up time of noon.
I wonder if she is looking back at her life while in the present heaven and seeing all of these missed opportunities. My children remember Nana, and Connor especially has a fondnest for her. But what they remember most about her is the things that she did buy them because they were so precious and far between.
I don't want to be remembered by an inatimate object that will eventually be placed in a box because someone is no longer playing with it. I want to be remembered for being there. For being tangible, attached to the wants and desires of my children and one day my grandchildren. I want to be remembered for not chasing after the wind, but by being blown along through life by a zephyr wind picking up memories as I go.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Now It Begins
Today Connor and I were eating lunch together at our favorite place, Moe's. As usual, Connor was eating, bouncing in the booth, and talking up a storm. Not good table manners I know, but he's so darn cute. Anyway, a little boy and his mother came in and sat a few booths behind us. All of a sudden the little boy stood up and yelled, "Nana!". Connor stopped in the middle of a bounce and looked right at me. For a minute he stood still and my heart started to beat as I wondered what might be going through his three year old mind. Calmly he said, "Mommy, I wish God hadn't taken MY Nana to heaven. I wish she could come and eat with us at Moe's" My heart sank into my stomach and I looked down at my salad, willing myself not to cry.
This week has been extrodinary. Every day, I have had a sudden, sporadic, body shaking, episode of weeping. I guess I have finally began to realize what was, will be no more, and that there is not going to be any turning back. My mom is gone. For the rest of the time I reside on this Earth, I will be without her. I have pushed my emotions as far down inside of me as they will go, and it seems as though they are breaking free, quite without my permission. Thankfully as I feel the tears creeping up on me I have been able to run to a safe place, a place where no one can see me, especially my boys. I want to be strong for them. I don't want to bring up Nana to them for fear of making them sad, yet I don't want them to forget her either.
One image that I have pushed back into my mind is the last one that I have of seeing my mom alive. It was the Wednseday night that I moved her into the assisted living facility. That night was the first of what was to be several ice storms that we have had lately. I had gotten to the hospital to pick mom up around three. She was mad because as I had brought her a change of clothes up to the hospital to change into, I had forgotten to bring up a pair of underwear. I had the underwear and everything else that I had bought and brought from Birmingham to move her into her room that night. They were all packed in my car, and my car was way down in the parking lot of the hospital. It was freezing outside, I didn't have a coat, I had worked that day and was tired, and it was sleeting. As soon as she found out that I had forgotten the underwear she got mad at me, in the way that she always did and then I got mad back. I was tired and frustrated, it had been a LONG two months worth of driving back and forth from Birmingham to Gadsden. I had found her unresponsive at home twice, and had to force her to go to the hospital twice. On top of this I had spent two weeks finding a place for her to go that was not a nursing home, that would be nice and like home for her because I knew that she didn't want to leave her house. I had spent the Sunday before at Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and JC Penney buying her new clothes because all of her old ones were too big, as well as buying things to decorate and fix up her new room so that it would be nice and make her feel better about being there. The week before when I had driven her to the assisted living to move in, I had to take her back to the hospital where I was picking her up that Wednesday. The fact that she was mad over underwear flew all over me. However, I went back down the elevator and out to my car to get that underwear because I knew it was the right thing to do.
By the time I had gotten mom moved into her room it was getting close to 8:00 and there was ice on the sidewalk and parking lot at the assisted living. I was worried about driving back to Birmingham. I had to work on Thursday and then I was taking my dad to Atlanta to pick up my half sister and neice from the airport. They were flying in from London, and it had been two years since I had seen either of them. All that to say that when I was with mom that night, I thought I would be coming back the next week to see her for Christmas, and I was ready to get her settled and have a normal life again. The sweet ladies brought her vegetable soup and cornbread to her room and I sat with her as she ate dinner. I made sure her comforter set was on the bed, her clothes, that I had rewashed to make them smell fresh, were placed neatly in her drawers. The new towels were washed, folded and hung in her bathroom. Her room looked nice, and she seemed pleased. She thought that she was only there temporarily, and I was playing along with her explaining that if she ate well and took her medicines and got stronger, she may be able to go back home. While she was eating and I was sitting on the bed she asked, "Why is this happening to me?" and I said, "Why is what happening to you?" she said, "This." and pointed around at the room. I started to speak and she said, "And don't even say its because of my smoking because I will start in on your weight. I couldn't be in this shape from smoking. Millions of people smoke and aren't in my shape!" I wanted to say that she had also drank more than she had eaten for twenty five years but I didn't. I just nodded my head and told her that she was just lucky to be alive and that she was blessed that we had found The Pointe at Goldenrod, and this nice new room. Then she said, "You know, I have been thinking and I want to be cremated." I was shocked and said, "What? Why?". She said, "Because I don't want to have bugs crawling all over me and inside of me. What difference will it make anyway?" I waved her off and said that I didn't want to talk about that right then. The assisted living had an open house that night and there were homeade brownies and chocolate covered pretzels in the lobby. I went to get her some of those and a big glass of milk. I walked back up to the kitchen and when I came back in her room she was laying on the bed, eating her brownies and watching the news. She told me that I had better get going if I was going to go because the roads were freezing. She stood up and told me thank you for buying her all of those nice things (with her money) and that she loved her new clothes. Then she gave me a hug. If I could go back in time I would have stood there and hugged my mom for an hour. If I only knew that was the last hug that she would give me. Instead, I barely hugged her because I could feel every bone in her back as I hugged her and it made me cringe. My last image of my mother when she was alive is her standing in the hallway, wearing the new white shirt and khaki colored velour pants I had just bought her, blowing me a kiss and waving goodbye.
Oh, if only I could run back down that hall and wrap her in my arms. I would tell her that I loved her over and over and never leave her side. Now I have the questions that inevitably would have come to me: Why didn't I stay longer that night? Why didn't I get to the hospital earlier to pick her up? Why didn't I sit down on the bed and talk to her instead of making sure her room was just right? Why, why why????
I know that there is no way that I could have known that would be the last time I saw her while she was concious. I also know that she is in a much better place now, and that I will spend eternity with her. So why am I tormented by the "What ifs" and "I should haves"??? This life on earth is cruel. I am so thankful that I know what lies ahead and that one day I will be sad no more. Until then, it has begun, this horrible down swift current of regret. Thankfully I have God by my side as I ride this current, and I know that He will see me safely to calmer waters. I just wish that I could get there fast.
This week has been extrodinary. Every day, I have had a sudden, sporadic, body shaking, episode of weeping. I guess I have finally began to realize what was, will be no more, and that there is not going to be any turning back. My mom is gone. For the rest of the time I reside on this Earth, I will be without her. I have pushed my emotions as far down inside of me as they will go, and it seems as though they are breaking free, quite without my permission. Thankfully as I feel the tears creeping up on me I have been able to run to a safe place, a place where no one can see me, especially my boys. I want to be strong for them. I don't want to bring up Nana to them for fear of making them sad, yet I don't want them to forget her either.
One image that I have pushed back into my mind is the last one that I have of seeing my mom alive. It was the Wednseday night that I moved her into the assisted living facility. That night was the first of what was to be several ice storms that we have had lately. I had gotten to the hospital to pick mom up around three. She was mad because as I had brought her a change of clothes up to the hospital to change into, I had forgotten to bring up a pair of underwear. I had the underwear and everything else that I had bought and brought from Birmingham to move her into her room that night. They were all packed in my car, and my car was way down in the parking lot of the hospital. It was freezing outside, I didn't have a coat, I had worked that day and was tired, and it was sleeting. As soon as she found out that I had forgotten the underwear she got mad at me, in the way that she always did and then I got mad back. I was tired and frustrated, it had been a LONG two months worth of driving back and forth from Birmingham to Gadsden. I had found her unresponsive at home twice, and had to force her to go to the hospital twice. On top of this I had spent two weeks finding a place for her to go that was not a nursing home, that would be nice and like home for her because I knew that she didn't want to leave her house. I had spent the Sunday before at Target, Bed Bath and Beyond, and JC Penney buying her new clothes because all of her old ones were too big, as well as buying things to decorate and fix up her new room so that it would be nice and make her feel better about being there. The week before when I had driven her to the assisted living to move in, I had to take her back to the hospital where I was picking her up that Wednesday. The fact that she was mad over underwear flew all over me. However, I went back down the elevator and out to my car to get that underwear because I knew it was the right thing to do.
By the time I had gotten mom moved into her room it was getting close to 8:00 and there was ice on the sidewalk and parking lot at the assisted living. I was worried about driving back to Birmingham. I had to work on Thursday and then I was taking my dad to Atlanta to pick up my half sister and neice from the airport. They were flying in from London, and it had been two years since I had seen either of them. All that to say that when I was with mom that night, I thought I would be coming back the next week to see her for Christmas, and I was ready to get her settled and have a normal life again. The sweet ladies brought her vegetable soup and cornbread to her room and I sat with her as she ate dinner. I made sure her comforter set was on the bed, her clothes, that I had rewashed to make them smell fresh, were placed neatly in her drawers. The new towels were washed, folded and hung in her bathroom. Her room looked nice, and she seemed pleased. She thought that she was only there temporarily, and I was playing along with her explaining that if she ate well and took her medicines and got stronger, she may be able to go back home. While she was eating and I was sitting on the bed she asked, "Why is this happening to me?" and I said, "Why is what happening to you?" she said, "This." and pointed around at the room. I started to speak and she said, "And don't even say its because of my smoking because I will start in on your weight. I couldn't be in this shape from smoking. Millions of people smoke and aren't in my shape!" I wanted to say that she had also drank more than she had eaten for twenty five years but I didn't. I just nodded my head and told her that she was just lucky to be alive and that she was blessed that we had found The Pointe at Goldenrod, and this nice new room. Then she said, "You know, I have been thinking and I want to be cremated." I was shocked and said, "What? Why?". She said, "Because I don't want to have bugs crawling all over me and inside of me. What difference will it make anyway?" I waved her off and said that I didn't want to talk about that right then. The assisted living had an open house that night and there were homeade brownies and chocolate covered pretzels in the lobby. I went to get her some of those and a big glass of milk. I walked back up to the kitchen and when I came back in her room she was laying on the bed, eating her brownies and watching the news. She told me that I had better get going if I was going to go because the roads were freezing. She stood up and told me thank you for buying her all of those nice things (with her money) and that she loved her new clothes. Then she gave me a hug. If I could go back in time I would have stood there and hugged my mom for an hour. If I only knew that was the last hug that she would give me. Instead, I barely hugged her because I could feel every bone in her back as I hugged her and it made me cringe. My last image of my mother when she was alive is her standing in the hallway, wearing the new white shirt and khaki colored velour pants I had just bought her, blowing me a kiss and waving goodbye.
Oh, if only I could run back down that hall and wrap her in my arms. I would tell her that I loved her over and over and never leave her side. Now I have the questions that inevitably would have come to me: Why didn't I stay longer that night? Why didn't I get to the hospital earlier to pick her up? Why didn't I sit down on the bed and talk to her instead of making sure her room was just right? Why, why why????
I know that there is no way that I could have known that would be the last time I saw her while she was concious. I also know that she is in a much better place now, and that I will spend eternity with her. So why am I tormented by the "What ifs" and "I should haves"??? This life on earth is cruel. I am so thankful that I know what lies ahead and that one day I will be sad no more. Until then, it has begun, this horrible down swift current of regret. Thankfully I have God by my side as I ride this current, and I know that He will see me safely to calmer waters. I just wish that I could get there fast.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Revelations and Contemplations
We took the boys to the cirucs today. It was Connor's first circus and Tucker's 6th! Brad and I were anxious as to whether or not Connor would like it. As soon as the first clowns appeared he started cackling and pointing at them all. Tucker would lean over and say, "Look at him!" Or "He just dropped that ball!" and they would laugh together. Watching the two of them together at the circus was neat. We had taken Tucker to the circus since he was two, and it had always been just the three of us. So to watch both of my children enjoying the circus at the same time, was very enlightening.
Growing up an only child, I always wished for a brother or sister. I would dream of one of the older girls at school being my big sister. Or one of the cute older boys being my big brother and my protector. Most people would think that is silly, but being an only child can be lonely. Watching my two children tonight enjoying the circus together made me even more aware of how very blessed they are to have each other. This is yet another one of those little life lessons that God has taught me. By not growing up with a sibling, I knew that I wanted to make sure that my son or daughter would not grow up as an only child. Seeing those sweet boys, who have the same smiles, the same expressions, and the same precious laugh; confirmed to me that once again God took me through something only to make me a better person with a broader outlook on the other side.
After the circus I went to dinner with my sweet friends from church. We had a great time laughing and sharing about our kids and our lives. I am so glad to have found our church. It has been such a good place for both Brad and I. We feel accepted and liked there, and when we leave each Sunday I feel refreshed and ready to tackle the world head on thanks to our wonderful pastor. On the way home, I had the urge to call mom and tell her about my night. She was a night owl, like myself, and I could always call her at night. I would normally call her on the way home from dinner with friends, or any other time I was in the car without the kids. She slept until 3:00 in the afternoon because she had no energy, so nighttime was the best time to call her. Of course I broke down after this urge to call her hit me. I don't know why, but I can't seem to cry about losing her anywhere but in my car. Maybe it's the music or the fact that in the car was when I would usually talk to her. Whatever the case, I had a good cry tonight and then went through her purse that is still downstairs. I can't bring myself to bring it upstairs for some reason. As I was sitting there crying I became thankful that I was not dependant on mom. I became thankful that we did not have a closer relationship than what we had. I realized that if mom and I had the same kind of mother/daughter relationship that I have envied my friends as having with thier mother's, I would probably not be able to function for my grief right now.
For the first time I can see the reason for my childhood. God has a plan for all of us. When we suffer, we question why He would let us suffer as He does. We ask what we could have done to deserve what has happened to us, or what we have missed out on. For twenty years I have been torn up inside over not having the type of mother who took care of your every need. A mother who would rush to your aide, even as an adult, when you needed her. A mother who went shopping with you, took you to get your nails done, gave you advice on how to raise your children, and who helped lead you to God in your childhood. I think that God has revealed why the mother I had longed for, was not to be mine, tonight. If she had been more than what she was, and if I had needed her more than she needed me, I would be completely devestated right now. God reveals everything in His time. This revelation has taken twenty years, and the loss of my mother to be understood by me. The wait was worth it, I feel more at peace. God is good, all of the time, all of the time.
Growing up an only child, I always wished for a brother or sister. I would dream of one of the older girls at school being my big sister. Or one of the cute older boys being my big brother and my protector. Most people would think that is silly, but being an only child can be lonely. Watching my two children tonight enjoying the circus together made me even more aware of how very blessed they are to have each other. This is yet another one of those little life lessons that God has taught me. By not growing up with a sibling, I knew that I wanted to make sure that my son or daughter would not grow up as an only child. Seeing those sweet boys, who have the same smiles, the same expressions, and the same precious laugh; confirmed to me that once again God took me through something only to make me a better person with a broader outlook on the other side.
After the circus I went to dinner with my sweet friends from church. We had a great time laughing and sharing about our kids and our lives. I am so glad to have found our church. It has been such a good place for both Brad and I. We feel accepted and liked there, and when we leave each Sunday I feel refreshed and ready to tackle the world head on thanks to our wonderful pastor. On the way home, I had the urge to call mom and tell her about my night. She was a night owl, like myself, and I could always call her at night. I would normally call her on the way home from dinner with friends, or any other time I was in the car without the kids. She slept until 3:00 in the afternoon because she had no energy, so nighttime was the best time to call her. Of course I broke down after this urge to call her hit me. I don't know why, but I can't seem to cry about losing her anywhere but in my car. Maybe it's the music or the fact that in the car was when I would usually talk to her. Whatever the case, I had a good cry tonight and then went through her purse that is still downstairs. I can't bring myself to bring it upstairs for some reason. As I was sitting there crying I became thankful that I was not dependant on mom. I became thankful that we did not have a closer relationship than what we had. I realized that if mom and I had the same kind of mother/daughter relationship that I have envied my friends as having with thier mother's, I would probably not be able to function for my grief right now.
For the first time I can see the reason for my childhood. God has a plan for all of us. When we suffer, we question why He would let us suffer as He does. We ask what we could have done to deserve what has happened to us, or what we have missed out on. For twenty years I have been torn up inside over not having the type of mother who took care of your every need. A mother who would rush to your aide, even as an adult, when you needed her. A mother who went shopping with you, took you to get your nails done, gave you advice on how to raise your children, and who helped lead you to God in your childhood. I think that God has revealed why the mother I had longed for, was not to be mine, tonight. If she had been more than what she was, and if I had needed her more than she needed me, I would be completely devestated right now. God reveals everything in His time. This revelation has taken twenty years, and the loss of my mother to be understood by me. The wait was worth it, I feel more at peace. God is good, all of the time, all of the time.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Words
I have stolen a quote from a friend by the name of Pendragon. I had to post it today.
"A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanged; it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in color and content according to the circumstances and time in which it is used." – Olive Wendell Holmes Jr.
Many of you who have read my blog will remember the night that I struggled over my mother's hard words and I quoted "Some words when spoken, can't be taken back" courtesy of Eddie Vedder. The quote above only lends validity to Vedder's lyric, as well as my feelings toward the spoken word.
Let this be a reminder today to choose our words wisely, for once a syllable is uttered, it can morph into a monster to those who hear it.
Happy Wednesday!!
"A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanged; it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in color and content according to the circumstances and time in which it is used." – Olive Wendell Holmes Jr.
Many of you who have read my blog will remember the night that I struggled over my mother's hard words and I quoted "Some words when spoken, can't be taken back" courtesy of Eddie Vedder. The quote above only lends validity to Vedder's lyric, as well as my feelings toward the spoken word.
Let this be a reminder today to choose our words wisely, for once a syllable is uttered, it can morph into a monster to those who hear it.
Happy Wednesday!!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Praise
It seems as though I decided to throw myself a great big pity party a month ago and it is all the rage, for me that is. This party, which consists of lethargic periods of time where I do nothing but sit and stare at my children, or the t.v., or a book that I'm not really reading. There is food in abundance at this party, most of which contain too much sugar and fat. Finally, there is the late night dances where I toss and turn, willing myself to stay awake so that I don't have to dream. The party is decorated with a thick fog that I seem to swim through on a daily basis.
I'm not sure how normal people grieve the loss of a loved one, but I am pretty sure that I am not doing a great job of it. My body seems to be shutting down on me due in part to this endless pity party that I am throwing for myself. I have a fractured foot, a cold that will not seem to go away, and I am an "Ill Bill" twelve of the twenty four hours a day.
On Saturday I woke up in a fog, as usual, with my first thoughts being of my mom. Connor, my peristent 3 year old had woken me up at his usual wake up time of 6:30 a.m.. As I walked down the hall, holding him in my arms, and descended the stairs, with his sweet head on my shoulder the Doxology popped into my mind.
Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye Heavenly Host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen
Where in the world had these words come from? It was then that I realized that instead of having pity for myself, I needed to be praising God for the blessings that I still had with me. One of which is my sweet children, both Tucker and Connor are the most precious blessings God could ever have sent me.
Pity comes from the enemy, Praise from the Holy Spirit. If we let ourselves fall into a state of despair, we are giving into the enemy. I for one am shutting down this stupid party. It has cost me too much precious time as it is. From this day forward, I will promote a fun filled, lift the roof, sing like I'm in the shower, Praise party!! Anyone is invited, and we can all imbibe in our blessings together!!
In His hands,
April
I'm not sure how normal people grieve the loss of a loved one, but I am pretty sure that I am not doing a great job of it. My body seems to be shutting down on me due in part to this endless pity party that I am throwing for myself. I have a fractured foot, a cold that will not seem to go away, and I am an "Ill Bill" twelve of the twenty four hours a day.
On Saturday I woke up in a fog, as usual, with my first thoughts being of my mom. Connor, my peristent 3 year old had woken me up at his usual wake up time of 6:30 a.m.. As I walked down the hall, holding him in my arms, and descended the stairs, with his sweet head on my shoulder the Doxology popped into my mind.
Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye Heavenly Host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen
Where in the world had these words come from? It was then that I realized that instead of having pity for myself, I needed to be praising God for the blessings that I still had with me. One of which is my sweet children, both Tucker and Connor are the most precious blessings God could ever have sent me.
Pity comes from the enemy, Praise from the Holy Spirit. If we let ourselves fall into a state of despair, we are giving into the enemy. I for one am shutting down this stupid party. It has cost me too much precious time as it is. From this day forward, I will promote a fun filled, lift the roof, sing like I'm in the shower, Praise party!! Anyone is invited, and we can all imbibe in our blessings together!!
In His hands,
April
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Influences and Inspiration
There is a syndrom called, "Adult Children of Alcoholics". This syndrom applies to any adult who grew up with an alcoholic parent. The syndrome also applies to children of addicts. The common denominator with ACOAs is that each child experienced some degree of mental or physical trauma as a result of thier parent's addiction.
Some alcoholics beat thier loved ones, and fervently apologise for thier abuse when they become sober. Other alcholics mentally abuse thier loved ones and put on an act to show the world that nothing is ever amiss in thier household, which leaves the child to question if they deserved the tongue lashing of the night before, if they are making more of what happened, or just dreamed it all. There are several other horrible occurances that take place inside the walls of homes all over the world and owe thier orgins to alcohol or drugs. Children are weaker, impressionable, vulnerable, and therefore perfect targets.
I was fortunate that my mother never inflicted physical abuse on me. Her abuse was mental in nature and I still suffer wounds that will never heal due to the things that were said to me, or to others about me by my own mother. When she was sober, she loved me and treated me well. Mother became sober in 2000 when her liver shut down, and she was sent out of the hospital on hospice care with only a few months at most left to live. Miraculously her liver regenerated and for about 7 years she was perfectly healthy and never had another drop of alcohol again. She kept smoking of course, but it and coffee were her only vices.
The characteristics of someone who is diagnosed as being an ACOA are as follows:
Adult Children:
...guess at what normal is.
...have difficulty in following a project through from beginning to end.
...lie when it would be just as easy to tell the truth.
...judge themselves without mercy.
...have difficulty having fun.
...take themselves very seriously.
...have difficulty with intimate relationships.
...overreact to changes over which they have no control.
...constantly seek approval and affirmation.
...feel that they are different from other people.
...are either super responsible or super irresponsible.
...are extremely loyal, even in the face of evidence that loyalty is undeserved.
...tend to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsivity leads to confusion, self loathing, and loss of control of their environment. As a result, they spend tremendous amounts of time cleaning up the mess.
As you can see, the habits of a parent greatly affect thier children in ways that will not be discovered until adulthood. I suffer from almost everything on this list as a result of my mom's alcoholism.
My mom and I made our peace, as much as I could make peace anyway. I have no regrets. I believe I loved her as any daughter would. Most importantly I made sure that she felt loved. It was my goal never to let her know how much her drinking had mishappened my life.
Mom was a significant contributer to Celebrate Recovery at CrossPoint Baptist church. I am going to offer to give her testimony for her, because she was too embarassed to give it herself when she was alive. I feel that if these recovering alcoholics, addicts and family members that attend Celebrate Recovery services all over the south can hear my mom's message they will all understand themselves better and see out the Lord after they see what He did for her.
In the ten years that she was sober, she was baptised and was at her church volunteering, attending Bible studies, every Wed. night and Sunday morning she was there. Until she became sick again. See, God gave her ten years, and then he let her body catch up to her actions. He gave her ten years to come back to Him, and then He took her to be with Him. I am eternally grateful to God for saving my momma, so that I will see her again soon.
If you know of a church who has a Celebrate Recovery program in the States of Alabama, Tennesee, Georgia, or Mississippi, please let me know. I am going to devote time to fullfill my mother's legacy, in the hopes of bringing more people to Christ. At the same time, I want to tell this story of fear, torment, and redemption so that mother's and father's who may currently be struggling with an addiction, will realize how much thier addiction will affect thier child. I am hoping that if they listen to my testimony, as well as mother's, they will stop the abuse and focus on thier children.
Some alcoholics beat thier loved ones, and fervently apologise for thier abuse when they become sober. Other alcholics mentally abuse thier loved ones and put on an act to show the world that nothing is ever amiss in thier household, which leaves the child to question if they deserved the tongue lashing of the night before, if they are making more of what happened, or just dreamed it all. There are several other horrible occurances that take place inside the walls of homes all over the world and owe thier orgins to alcohol or drugs. Children are weaker, impressionable, vulnerable, and therefore perfect targets.
I was fortunate that my mother never inflicted physical abuse on me. Her abuse was mental in nature and I still suffer wounds that will never heal due to the things that were said to me, or to others about me by my own mother. When she was sober, she loved me and treated me well. Mother became sober in 2000 when her liver shut down, and she was sent out of the hospital on hospice care with only a few months at most left to live. Miraculously her liver regenerated and for about 7 years she was perfectly healthy and never had another drop of alcohol again. She kept smoking of course, but it and coffee were her only vices.
The characteristics of someone who is diagnosed as being an ACOA are as follows:
Adult Children:
...guess at what normal is.
...have difficulty in following a project through from beginning to end.
...lie when it would be just as easy to tell the truth.
...judge themselves without mercy.
...have difficulty having fun.
...take themselves very seriously.
...have difficulty with intimate relationships.
...overreact to changes over which they have no control.
...constantly seek approval and affirmation.
...feel that they are different from other people.
...are either super responsible or super irresponsible.
...are extremely loyal, even in the face of evidence that loyalty is undeserved.
...tend to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsivity leads to confusion, self loathing, and loss of control of their environment. As a result, they spend tremendous amounts of time cleaning up the mess.
As you can see, the habits of a parent greatly affect thier children in ways that will not be discovered until adulthood. I suffer from almost everything on this list as a result of my mom's alcoholism.
My mom and I made our peace, as much as I could make peace anyway. I have no regrets. I believe I loved her as any daughter would. Most importantly I made sure that she felt loved. It was my goal never to let her know how much her drinking had mishappened my life.
Mom was a significant contributer to Celebrate Recovery at CrossPoint Baptist church. I am going to offer to give her testimony for her, because she was too embarassed to give it herself when she was alive. I feel that if these recovering alcoholics, addicts and family members that attend Celebrate Recovery services all over the south can hear my mom's message they will all understand themselves better and see out the Lord after they see what He did for her.
In the ten years that she was sober, she was baptised and was at her church volunteering, attending Bible studies, every Wed. night and Sunday morning she was there. Until she became sick again. See, God gave her ten years, and then he let her body catch up to her actions. He gave her ten years to come back to Him, and then He took her to be with Him. I am eternally grateful to God for saving my momma, so that I will see her again soon.
If you know of a church who has a Celebrate Recovery program in the States of Alabama, Tennesee, Georgia, or Mississippi, please let me know. I am going to devote time to fullfill my mother's legacy, in the hopes of bringing more people to Christ. At the same time, I want to tell this story of fear, torment, and redemption so that mother's and father's who may currently be struggling with an addiction, will realize how much thier addiction will affect thier child. I am hoping that if they listen to my testimony, as well as mother's, they will stop the abuse and focus on thier children.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Compartments
Have you ever tried to reorganize a drawer, a closet or your desk at work? When you are in an act of reorganization you tend to devise compartments for items to be stored in. I believe that we do the same thing with our minds. There are different compartments inside our minds reserved for memories. My mind contains a Pandora's box, and I am afraid that opening it will cause destruction to myself and others. In this box I believe I have thrown all of the memories and images of my mom's last days on Earth. For some reason, these images try to escape the box when I need them to stay put. For instance, when I lay down to sleep, I remember her being sick in her bed, and trying to get her to the hospital. When I am in the shower, I remember how skinny she had become, resembling a holocaust survivor, and how I loathed touching her back for feeling her bones. I also remember the final time I saw her, in the funeral home when the mortician called me back to identify her body.
These images creep out of their compartment and I quickly shove them back inside. There are other compartments inside this box where I can remember the sounds of her cough, which would make me wince and want to run away from the sound. I can remember that hacking cough from the age of 8 until I left for college. To this day, if I hear a "smoker's cough" it makes me want to curl up into a ball. Other images and memories inside this box include tender ones, her smile, her laugh, and the love she showed to her grandsons.
I want to lock this box up and throw it deep inside my subconscious so that I can keep the hurt away. I attempt to do this every time a memory creeps to the surface. My mind has learned to quickly move on from the memory, a defense mechanism I have subconsciously devised over the years to stay sane. I have never had to rely on alcohol to lock the memories away, but the past two years I have had to start taking sleeping meds to keep the dreams away and to allow me to sleep at all. For it is in the silence of the night that sorrow can creep under the covers and wrap its arms around me so that I feel lost in its grip.
My greatest fear for myself is that one day this Pandora's box will open, and there will be nothing that I can do to close it.
These images creep out of their compartment and I quickly shove them back inside. There are other compartments inside this box where I can remember the sounds of her cough, which would make me wince and want to run away from the sound. I can remember that hacking cough from the age of 8 until I left for college. To this day, if I hear a "smoker's cough" it makes me want to curl up into a ball. Other images and memories inside this box include tender ones, her smile, her laugh, and the love she showed to her grandsons.
I want to lock this box up and throw it deep inside my subconscious so that I can keep the hurt away. I attempt to do this every time a memory creeps to the surface. My mind has learned to quickly move on from the memory, a defense mechanism I have subconsciously devised over the years to stay sane. I have never had to rely on alcohol to lock the memories away, but the past two years I have had to start taking sleeping meds to keep the dreams away and to allow me to sleep at all. For it is in the silence of the night that sorrow can creep under the covers and wrap its arms around me so that I feel lost in its grip.
My greatest fear for myself is that one day this Pandora's box will open, and there will be nothing that I can do to close it.
Friday, January 14, 2011
In Retrospect
A winter storm blew in from the west and knocked the pants off the south. There have been schools cancelled for a week in some places but where we live, we had one day out of school and two days of reporting to school at 10:00 am.
These few extra hours with my children and my husband reminded me of the blessings that are abudant in this life.
The week started off well and got even better. Brad gave me a wonderful anniversary night surprise with flowers, a card, and by renting a movie I had been wanting to see. Simple but precious gifts from a sweet man trying his best to make me happy, and he did!!
Reflecting on my marriage, and how happy and blessed I am has made me think about my parents marriage. I remember that my mom would get upset with my dad if he didn't give her an expensive piece of jewelry for every anniversary. If dad didn't come through with some sort of diamond, she would pout and be mad at him for days, weeks, months on end. I learned by watching her that when you expect things to be given to you because you feel entitled to them, you do not deserve anything but pity. It is a person who can look at the tiniest of gestures and see the love and kindness that the gesture itself represents. I learned many lessons by watching my mom go through her life. Here are a few things that I picked up on along our journey together:
1. Take nothing, and no one for granted. No one wants to do something for you out of guilt, they want to do it because they love you. If you guilt someone into doing something for you, the only thing you get in return is neglect.
2. Never hold grudges. Forgive and forget.
3. Focus on the positive. If everything in life is making you miserable, then maybe is actually you who are miserable with yourself. Misery loves company, but Happiness and Misery do not get along.
4. People do not have time to hold your hand and help you do everything in life. If you want something changed, DO IT! If you have a problem, FIND A WAY TO FIX IT!, If you have a question, ASK SOMEONE WHO KNOWS SOMETHING ABOUT IT. Going on and on for months about mundane things that could be taken care of in a matter of minutes is exhausting for you and everyone around you.
5. Cherish the ones who love you. Treat them with respect and love at all times, even whe you are frustrated. Never, ever make them doubt your love for them. Lift them up, praise them, focus on thier attributes, and by all means, forget about the negative in a person.
6. Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins.
7. Make a promise, keep it. Never tell a child you will do something and then not follow through.
8. Love, love, love your husband. If you have a man who loves you, love him back. Treat him with respect and tell him thank you for all that he does or has done for you and your children.
9. Never lash out in anger with words filled with hate. Once a word is spoken, you can never take it back.
10. Put others above yourself. Always show gratitude and fortitude.
11. Be thankful, for everything you get in this life!! From the sunshine coming in your windows in the morning, to the sound of your child's laughter or your husband's snore. Be thankful that you can see and hear those things for those are your blessings from God. If you don't pay attention, you will miss all that God has in store for you.
Thank you mom for giving me these life lessons, though they are all things that I believe you never understood. I look at my life, and know that I had to get to this time in my life, by leaving my past with you behind. Washing away all of the hurt, anger, and frustration has helped clean the slate and I can truly see what was meant to be good again.
Happy New Year! 2011 you WILL be good to me!
These few extra hours with my children and my husband reminded me of the blessings that are abudant in this life.
The week started off well and got even better. Brad gave me a wonderful anniversary night surprise with flowers, a card, and by renting a movie I had been wanting to see. Simple but precious gifts from a sweet man trying his best to make me happy, and he did!!
Reflecting on my marriage, and how happy and blessed I am has made me think about my parents marriage. I remember that my mom would get upset with my dad if he didn't give her an expensive piece of jewelry for every anniversary. If dad didn't come through with some sort of diamond, she would pout and be mad at him for days, weeks, months on end. I learned by watching her that when you expect things to be given to you because you feel entitled to them, you do not deserve anything but pity. It is a person who can look at the tiniest of gestures and see the love and kindness that the gesture itself represents. I learned many lessons by watching my mom go through her life. Here are a few things that I picked up on along our journey together:
1. Take nothing, and no one for granted. No one wants to do something for you out of guilt, they want to do it because they love you. If you guilt someone into doing something for you, the only thing you get in return is neglect.
2. Never hold grudges. Forgive and forget.
3. Focus on the positive. If everything in life is making you miserable, then maybe is actually you who are miserable with yourself. Misery loves company, but Happiness and Misery do not get along.
4. People do not have time to hold your hand and help you do everything in life. If you want something changed, DO IT! If you have a problem, FIND A WAY TO FIX IT!, If you have a question, ASK SOMEONE WHO KNOWS SOMETHING ABOUT IT. Going on and on for months about mundane things that could be taken care of in a matter of minutes is exhausting for you and everyone around you.
5. Cherish the ones who love you. Treat them with respect and love at all times, even whe you are frustrated. Never, ever make them doubt your love for them. Lift them up, praise them, focus on thier attributes, and by all means, forget about the negative in a person.
6. Vanity is one of the seven deadly sins.
7. Make a promise, keep it. Never tell a child you will do something and then not follow through.
8. Love, love, love your husband. If you have a man who loves you, love him back. Treat him with respect and tell him thank you for all that he does or has done for you and your children.
9. Never lash out in anger with words filled with hate. Once a word is spoken, you can never take it back.
10. Put others above yourself. Always show gratitude and fortitude.
11. Be thankful, for everything you get in this life!! From the sunshine coming in your windows in the morning, to the sound of your child's laughter or your husband's snore. Be thankful that you can see and hear those things for those are your blessings from God. If you don't pay attention, you will miss all that God has in store for you.
Thank you mom for giving me these life lessons, though they are all things that I believe you never understood. I look at my life, and know that I had to get to this time in my life, by leaving my past with you behind. Washing away all of the hurt, anger, and frustration has helped clean the slate and I can truly see what was meant to be good again.
Happy New Year! 2011 you WILL be good to me!
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