Disrupted 4th of July

My thoughts were all gathered to write a post on Monday morning but my body had other plans. I'll tell you about that later. While I'm a day late expressing some of my most recent thoughts about the 4th of July, I still believe that some of us need an attitude adjustment when it comes to the birth of our country and what it really means to be an American who honors the flag and the Constitution and Bill of Rights that were meant to maintain the freedoms so many of our ancestors died to give us. How much we owe them for their sacrifices and their willingness to give all so their posterities could have what many of us take for granted and seem intent on losing all in the name of social and political progress.

How I honor and love my faithful, strong and committed ancestors. They were not wealthy or powerful individuals who drew great masses to their ideas. They were simple, hardworking farmers and small business owners who struggled to put food on their tables and pay their bills. Many of them lost every material possession more than once because people took objection to what they believed. They were driven from their homes with nothing but the clothes on their backs and what they could carry in their arms, and they lost family members and loved ones along the way as they struggled to find a new place to call home. Like many groups of people we read about in the scriptures, their faith in God was strong. They knew he would guide and protect them as long as they did not deny the truths they had been given. And even if their lives were lost, they had the inner knowledge that their obedience would eventually be rewarded in the life to come.

Perhaps that's why I am drawn to genealogical research so much. I love learning about my ancestors and while life histories do not go back very far, I love to trace different family lines and see where people came from and where they ended up. Some of my lines go back to before the birth of Jesus Christ. I have family in South Africa, dozens of European countries, Canada and Australia. I'm sure I will eventually be able to trace branches around the world. How excited I am to meet each one of them some day and learn their stories. My only real claim to any fame is being related to President Woodrow Wilson on my material family line. But as simple as my own life is, I hope I can make each of them proud of me in some way. 

From many of the news reports touting the events of yesterday, Americans in general are feeling less patriotic each year and are becoming very vocal about it. Celebrations were down in nearly every community and the violence didn't take a day off. All that is happening in a country where everyone once stood for the flag, sang the national anthem with enthusiasm, attended Independence Day parades, studied the Constitution at school and was given a more correct accounting of history troubles my heart and brings tears to my eyes because despite all the turmoil, disregard for civil liberty and downright evilness that is so rampant in our society, we still live in the greatest country on earth that provides us the most freedoms. This country was preserved for the final days before the Savior's return to earth. It was a new land of complete freedom from tyranny and oppression. But most important for me, it was a place of religious freedom where people could worship God, live by his commandments and enjoy every blessing available as long as they were willing to work for what they needed and wanted and fight to maintain everyone's freedom. 

While our founding fathers were not perfect--as none of us are--I believe they were great and brilliant men God ordained to come to earth to design a government that was meant to preserve every liberty that is being stolen from us today by men and women who love power, money and personal indulgence more than living by any of the laws that made this country a true world power that was honored and respected by other nations. I love to see people in positions of influence who are taking a stand against the evils that are meant to destroy our society and often wish I was half so brave. But like so many people of my generation, the fear-peddling that is meant to stop us from expressing how we feel is a little daunting.

Still, my heart is filled with gratitude and love for the country I will always call home, even though I can't express my inner feelings to all of the people I love because they have bought in to so many of the misguided ideologies that cause me to tremble and shake because they are nothing less than a fulfillment of prophesy. Like many other Christians, I pray for the Savior's return, but God is in charge of that. My only recourse is to stay as close to him as possible and stand with others who share similar beliefs. Regardless of what we may be required to face before our lives are over, I want to be on his side when I pass through the veil.

So how has that changed my view of July 4th? I didn't do any outward celebrating, but I did spend some time reading about our founding fathers and the importance of not having our constitution rewritten or completely done away with like so many people in power seemed determined to do. I know it is hanging by a very thin thread right now, but it was inspired of God and our nation is only failing because so many of our people have turned their backs on him. I also spent some time in my back yard marveling at the beautiful variety of flowers God has created and looking up at the majestic mountains to the east of my home. I thought about all the blessings I have that are a direct result of living in America and knowing that God will prevail. 

My wakeup call for another reevaluation came on Sunday night. The muscle in my right arm was hurting so much I couldn't sleep. It's been doing that for almost nine months now, but I'd been avoiding seeing a doctor because I would only be told to quit digging in my yard and doing other things I have a real passion for. About one in the morning I got this crushing pain in the center of my chest. It wasn't like the normal indigestion that always gave me a start. It came on without warning, radiated to my shoulder, and lasted for several minutes before stopping as suddenly as it began. Whatever was going on had gotten my attention, but the pain in my shoulder left at the same time the intense pain in my chest did so I just let the sleep come.

Since I have a long history of heart problems and am under the care of a cardiologist, I figured it might be wise to see what was going on. So I headed straight to urgent care the next morning and asked to see the doctor. When I told the receptionist what was going on she told me I needed to go to an emergency room because they weren't equipped to deal with things that could be so potentially life threatening. I was no longer I pain, just a heaviness in my chest and some nausea and dizziness that was making me very uncomfortable. 

There was a hospital less than a block away, but I wasn't sure my insurance would cover a visit there and my doctors were at the hospital twenty to thirty minutes away, depending on the timing of the lights. Being my very independent self, I drove myself down the freeway and along busy city streets praying all the way that I wouldn't cause an accident. There were only four people ahead of me in the emergency waiting room. I felt like a fool for not just letting nature take its course but it was a little late to leave once I had told the young man behind the desk why I had come.

I was amazed at the speed with which the specialists began working on me but was only told that I was lucky it hadn't gotten really busy yet. An ECG was taken and a few minutes later I was put in a room and told to strip to the waist. It had been 40 years since I had been in an emergency room, but I tried to concentrate on the book I'd brought with me to read. Not unexpectedly my blood pressure was much higher than anyone wanted it to be, and I didn't like having all my vital functions monitored, but the first real pain came when my blood was being drawn for the test that would show if I'd had a heart attack. An IV had to be inserted and the student who was learning how to do it nicked something when she tried to push the needle further into the vein. I didn't let my displeasure show in any way but was very glad when her supervisor took over. 

While the blood test was being run, I had two chest e-rays and was given a nice warm blanket. When the doctor finally came back she said the enzyme detecting a heart attack wasn't there but the marker indicating a blood clot in my lungs was so she was ordering a CT scan of my chest. That was a little unnerving but it came back clear, other than the discovery of gall stones--something very common in women over 40 but rare in men. I felt blessed but very foolish for wasting so much time in the ER room, even though I knew my double insurance would cover the costs. It was at that point that I asked her about my arm. I think she was a little worried about the length of time it had been bothering me because she ordered another e-ray to make sure the bone was okay. 

Four hours later I was ready to go home and very grateful for having such a kind and caring doctor--one I wished I could see on a regular basis since I often feel my doctor of record isn't all that great and his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. She took the time to really listen and answer any questions. To help assuage my feeling foolish for responding to a false alarm she told me that most of the people who come to the ER with a possible heart attack are fine, but it's always best to listen to our bodies when something unexpected and unexplainable is going on, especially when we have a history of heart disease in our family and have are seeing a cardiologist on a regular basis.

She hadn't found any indication of bone cancer which she had suspected and she was confident the ongoing pain was nothing more serious than bursitis that could be easily treated with cold compresses and Aleve--less disruptive to the kidneys than Ibuprofin. Before leaving she told me not to worry about the gall stones unless I had another possible flair-up when I should consult a surgeon about taking them out. And if I started to pass one I would know it because the pain would be excruciating with nausea and throwing up. 

So a day I had planned to spend writing, reading and working more in my yard was spent in the emergency room where I was lucky enough not to have had a mild heart attack and where no blood clot was found in my lungs. I'm not excited about having gall stones, but at least I now know what's wrong with my arm and how to treat it without letting all the yard work go. And if I do have any more pain like what I had on Sunday night I have a better idea of what the culprit might be.

So despite all that is going on around me, along with my own human frailties and body that is aging more rapidly that I would like, there is much to be thankful for. I didn't hear from either of my children yesterday even after texting them and wishing them a fun 4th, but they're young and doing things with their families and friends as they should be this time in their lives. And their decisions in how they spend their time do not take away from the gratitude I feel for being born in a free country where I can live life on my own terms, as long as my actions do not infringe on those of anyone else. I have full confidence and trust in my Heavenly Father and know that things are unfolding as they should. My role is to stay strong to my beliefs while loving and serving others the way Christ did while he was here. For someday he will return and what a joyous time that will be for all who still remain here and for those of us who have gone before and are still his faith disciples.

Introspective Holidays

Holidays, even the most uncomplicated ones, are hard. Perhaps I'm only speaking for myself because most everyone I meet seems to love the hustle, bustle and often consternation associated with huge family dinners, trying to make everyone comfortable and happy and purchasing gifts or tokens of affection that won't immediately be returned for something else. I know most of you are thinking about Christmas, birthdays, Halloween, Valentine's Day and Easter, but we've had three very important ones the past month that have made me realize how pathetically sad my own life has become--Mother's Day, Memorial Day and Father's Day.

These special days bring little besides a huge lump to my heart and tears that can't be stopped from sliding down my cheeks at the most inopportune moments. Remembrances from the past bring to the foreground once again all I've missed by not being part of a family that was encouraged to spend time together and keep in touch once we had gone our separate ways. I suppose my latest bout of melancholia started on Friday when one of the men I work with told me that he and his wife were heading to Idaho again. They'd been there over Memorial Day to decorate graves and talk about good times from their childhood with siblings and friends. This time they were simply going to play board games and enjoy being together.

I haven't seen two of my siblings for nearly twenty years. Perhaps they would have come for my brother's memorial service if it hadn't been during Covid when flights were almost impossible to get and large gatherings were prohibited. I remember that time vividly because my brother's daughter from South Carolina drove all the way with her family so she could give her father's life history in a thirty minutes service on a cold and blustery November day at the cemetery a quarter of a mile away from the home daddy had built for us.  Sandon died the day after Thanksgiving alone in his room at the nursing home from a sudden heart attack. 

He had been badly burned a few years earlier when he fell into a fire pit while at a party and couldn't get out. The people he was with waited until they thought he wouldn't survive before throwing him in the back of his van and leaving it outside the emergency rooms doors at the local hospital. He was so badly burned and swollen that it took three days for him to be identified and transferred to the burn unit at the University of Utah. When I first saw him his head was swollen to twice its normal size and he was hardly recognizable. But he grasp my hand and despite my reluctance to be where I was watching him suffer I couldn't bring myself to leave the room as more dead skin was pulled from his body and he was given further burn treatments. I loved him dearly and had watched over him as best I could throughout his life because I have never gotten over being blamed for the accident that left him with lifelong mental and physical disabilities.

My one sister who lived there and had been responsible for overseeing his affairs let everyone know that quarantine rules meant only seven people would be allowed at his graveside service. She was not happy because his daughter was driving across country and bringing her entire family with her. I hadn't had much contact with my niece in decades, but she was the only one of six children who would even talk to her father after their parent's divorce and she had called the the day before Thanksgiving to tell me that someone wasn't right with him. When I relayed the message, I was told he was doing just fine.

I wanted desperately to go to the service, even knowing that it was a long drive over what could be some very bad roads and I wouldn't get to see his face, but how could I take the place of someone who was sacrificing so much to get there? I cried a lot after making that decision and telling my sister that one of my niece's children could take my place. My son was outraged when he heard what was being planned. No regulations had been set as to how many people could be out in the cold, fully masked to attend a memorial service. He believed my sister just wanted to be in control as she always did. He said I was going and he and his wife were taking me. We would stand on the outside the fence if necessary.

Knowing I was going to be there regardless of what had been said, my sister asked me to say a few words. I might have done so had it not been one of the saddest experiences of my life. There must have been thirty-five people present--separated into three distinct groups that wouldn't walk six feet to talk to each other. My brother's ex-wife and her children who had not spoken to their father in nearly twenty years clustered together  away from the tent that had been set up for family. My two sisters who lived in town and even got to see him before the casket lid was closed sat underneath the tent with members of their families. I was terrified to go near them because I knew I wasn't welcome so I stood with my son and daughter-in-law and a couple of other people I didn't know. 

I was having a very emotional time, especially after learning that my niece had been in town the night before when my sisters went to the mortuary, but they hadn't told her that she was allowed to see him too. This sweet young woman was as broken-hearted as I was. She had been estranged from her family since the day she chose to be part of her father's life, while everyone else chose to keep on hating him. After some not so gentle persuasion I sat underneath the tent out of respect for my brother and listened to my niece give a beautiful life sketch, but I wasn't encouraged to say anything so I kept quiet. I couldn't have expressed what was in my heart anyway when there were so many uncharitable feelings floating around, but God gave me the courage to speak to most everyone before leaving the cemetery.

That experience brought back with undiluted clarity what happened the day my mother died nearly twenty years earlier. I had gone over to her house after work knowing that all of my siblings were coming since she was in the final stage before succumbing to cancer. A different niece met me at the door. She was in tears because she had been there the entire day and no one had invited her to go into grandma's bedroom to say goodbye, not even her mother. I took her arm and moved her in front of me down the hallway. The room was full so we both stood at the foot of the bed for a few minutes. There wasn't time for either of us to say much because three of my sisters--the two who had been at my brother's service and my youngest one--told the rest of us to leave because mother needed some rest. 

Another sister and I followed our two brothers into the back yard. There we talked and paced for over three hours before we were told to come back. Mother was dead. She'd been cleaned up and was wearing one of her prettiest nightgowns, but we had been excluded from her final moments. I couldn't wrap my head around the cruel insensitivity, but it was far from being the first time. Sandon and I had only been allowed to see her for a few specified minutes each week since her diagnosis while our two sisters got to spent every day and night with her.

When I told mother that twenty minutes every Monday night while my one sister was gone wasn't time enough, she just told me that she was doing what her caregivers wanted. But she had a job for me. She wanted me to type all my grandmother's short stories and readings and put them in book form so all my siblings could have them. That was a monumental task since many of them were handwritten and some not even finished, but I did it in record time and had binders ready for everyone specified before her death. I wish I could say that my time with her increased after my pleading, but I can only recall one short conversation where we talked about  Sandon's accident. She said she didn't remember telling me it was my fault but she was in a state of shock and could very well have.

As I'm sure you can tell by now, the dynamics in our family were not healthy. As adults we children were not encouraged to talk to each other. Mother wanted to be the disseminator of information and decide who needed to know what. And since many of us were scared of her, and busy with our own lives, we didn't rock the proverbial boat. It was different then anyway because calling long distance was cost-prohibitive and most of us were too poor to take a trip to see anyone. But the sorrow I feel over not being part of a loving and connected family is very real.

I guess that's why these past few weeks are always so hard each year. It's starts with Mother's Day and knowing that my own mother may have loved me, but she didn't appear to like me and was not capable of showing strong positive emotion. My father was somewhat different from what I can remember. He was tall and thin--a real cowboy who loved riding his horse and announcing or clowning at rodeos. His hands were strong and his heart willing to support and care for his large family. But his grief over the accident where his own little son was so severely injured must have been almost impossible to bear.

How I envy families where the love is strong and siblings actually like spending time together. But I've had to accept that some things will have to wait until the next life to be resolved. I want to be with my family forever. I know it's possible but have no idea how it will happen since we can go years without contact in this life and no one seems to care. 

There's one plot left in that cemetery in Idaho where my parents, my brother and two brother-in-laws have been laid to rest. My two sisters will be placed beside their husbands when their missions in this life are over. Daddy purchased eight plots before my youngest sister was born, and I know he felt good about having a resting place for his wife and all his children. And while I've always been grateful to have a designated spot for my physical body when my spirit leaves it behind, I'm not sure that's where I want to be anymore. Regardless of the fact that it's already been paid for, two siblings spots have already been filled with someone else and my son says he wants me closer to where he is.

Not that it's really going to matter, except for knowing where my body is, but I do need to be making a few permanent decisions. That includes finishing my life history that is so painful to write only bits and pieces now exist. However, if I want my posterity to understand why I am more than a little messed up, but a true peacemaker at heart, I need to take that journey through my past one more time. Perhaps I will see things somewhat differently than I once did and my compassion and understanding will show through. 

I really want to rid myself of the anger, jealousy and judgment that has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I want to see others as God and my Savior do. There is a bit of divinity in even the vilest of sinners because they were created by Heavenly Parents who love without condition. I think I felt that way more yesterday than I have for some time as fathers were honored at church and I thought about how much I missed mine and how different my life may have been had he been allowed to live past my thirteenth birthday. But everything happens for a reason and we were not sent to earth to indulge every desire. We are here to learn, grow and develop into people who are prepared to return to their heavenly home.

And just so you know, I sent a Happy Father's Day text to the man I've been writing about. He didn't respond, but I decided that I would only be hurting myself if I didn't since I've sent one for the past four years. I don't know what's in his heart because he won't tell me. But maybe it's better that way. I'm trying to stay focused on the light, and he's a long away from doing that right now. More about that later, but it's time to get on with my day. Folding clothes and running errands await me.  

Still Trying To Get Out Of That Hole

Wish I could say that I am back to my highly-motivated, driven and productive self again--writing up a storm each morning after making sure my beautifully-blooming flowers and promising vegetable garden have enough water, and not even minding that I got so little sleep because the ideas for characters, plots and settings were coming so fast. But I'm not there yet. While my heart is starting to heal from being so unapologetically crushed as I reported in my last entry, my head still has a way to go. 

However, the last seven years of being a published author have shown me that childhood dreams can come true and I have the inner determination, along with God-given, cultivatable talents, to accomplish whatever goals I set. I think most of us feel that rush of adrenaline and excitement when the creative juices are flowing and we're doing something that lifts our spirit, makes us smile from our heart and brings a feeling of calm and peace. We need that to offset all the commotion that often makes the world feel like a lonely, overwhelming and scary place we're not sure we want to be part of.

I've wanted to be a writer since penning my first novel at the age of fifteen. And I do mean writing it with a pen on sheets of notebook paper when I should have been studying, especially math since I have never understood more than the basics. It was far from being an upbeat, lighthearted story like most of the ones being produced for juvenile readers in those days, but it was my first real attempt at trying to put into words  the thought and feelings of a confused, introverted and hurting teenager who had already seen far more of the underside of life than she was capable of understanding. 

Those of you who have read past posts know about my being blamed for the accident that nearly cost my little brother his life and forever changed the dynamics of our home life when I was five. Some might even recall my sharing the poem I wrote about being molested by my violin teacher and not having my mother believe me. And there was nothing fun about spending six months in bed with Rheumatic fever when I was in the third grade or losing my father so unexpectedly when I was thirteen.

Silently suffering through so many traumatic ordeals when I was a born introvert caused me to withdraw further than I might have into a world of my own making. I was far more comfortable confining myself to the windowless basement bedroom I shared with three sisters where I could read books underneath the covers at night and play with my dolls and paper dolls instead instead of having to interact with even members of my own family, unless I was doing my assigned chores in a prompt and efficient manner. I was terrified of causing someone else pain or becoming more damaged than I already was.

That's why not being able to write these past two months has been so difficult. I like being lost in my head. It keeps me from having to deal with unpleasantness like being dumped by the only guy where there's been a mutual attraction the past ten years--and all because I wouldn't fall into bed with him like every other woman he meets. The sensuality he exudes on stage is hard to miss. But like so many other love-starved females, I wanted to believe he possessed more important qualities than the obvious. Unfortunately, the mystique created to bring the women in an audience back for a repeat performance disappears almost as quickly as the bright lights overhead.

Despite the number of days that have flitted into oblivion since my last contact with him, I still feel stripped of every inner hope that made writing fiction so much fun. Not that I've lost my belief in love and the sheer joy it can bring, but I do feel like I'm stuck in some giant hole of my own making whose edges are so high and crumbly that there is little chance for escape. Taking something that was, in realty, little more than a beginning friendship and allowing it to take away my sanity is childish at best. But I can't deny that our texts and conversations brought a brighter ray of sunshine even on a cloudless day. And I can't seem to stop the mental image of a scene from the movie "The Thorn Birds" where Barbara Stanwick's character, a seventy-year old woman who has just been rebuffed by the young priest she has a crush on, ends up telling him that her outer appearance does not match how she feels inside. She's still that young, vibrant girl who wants to be in love.

Maybe that's simply a fact of life that must be accepted by those of us who have never found the kind of love we desire while in this sphere called mortality. But I won't deny that it felt heavenly to have an attractive man hold my hand, kiss my lips, smile at me with a certain light in his eyes and sneak his arm around my waist while we were talking to other people. I'd never had that before, even when I was married. My husband was a cold and offish man. He never took me on a date, remembered a special holiday or even acted like he cared. If I had surgery or lost a baby, I was expected to be up the next day taking care of household duties. And sex was nothing more than an act to get me pregnant because he wanted a child of his own, not the two we had adopted. And he had the very unmanly habit of letting me know that everything not up to par in our lives was my fault alone.

I have been starved for physical contact my entire life, and feeling some of it during what can only be called my twilight years was a heady experience I didn't want to lose. But perhaps those unexpected feelings need to be mourned like so many other losses I have endured over the years. God made me with a tender heart for a reason, and I love helping people whenever I can. However, there is a flip side to that gift and one that Satan is certainly capitalizing on right now. It's being jealous and judgmental of women who have what I most desire and beating myself up for every possible flaw I see in myself. 

Since the evil one couldn't get me to go against a promise I had made to God, he chose a more effective tactic--using lifetime weaknesses against me. The last two months I've basically lost interest in doing things that once brought great joy, have stopped putting my health before my food indulgences and spend every night watching TV reruns instead of reading and doing handwork for people who might one day appreciate the effort. If it wasn't for yard work, gardening and two days of committed service to others, I would be a basket case of disproportional size.

I know I'm not the only one who has ever felt that way, and maybe it's okay to indulge in sorrow and pain until that stage of the grieving process is over. But I'm to the point that I either start swimming against the current or sink. I've always told myself that it's better the be alone than with the wrong person, and I still believe that. And my being able to write what I have in this post, and the last one, has been an enormous undertaking and help. You see, I am writing again. It might not be a novel, but it is exploring human feelings and tendencies that translate into better understanding my next character. 

We are no longer living in an "Ozzie and Harriet" or even a "Brady Bunch"world where the worst thing we have to contemplate is burning the Sunday roast or one of our children getting a bad grade at school. Most every headline is designed to cause an intense emotional reaction regardless of which side of the political fence we're on. Instead of trying to live together in harmony, the powers that be seem determined to pull us apart by focusing on our differences instead of our commonalities. 

I find myself wishing we could go back to simpler times when neighbors talked to each other about things that really matter and schools were a place where children learned to read and write without undo social pressures. But I fear those days are gone, and I need to make peace with where I stand right now. Not that I know how to get over another broken heart--even if it was mostly based in a non-reality--but I know I have to try. So I hope you'll be hearing from me more often and that the next time I write I may have even opened a file where I have a story-starter ready to be developed. 

Now, I'm going to get my allergy shots and pick up a few things at the store. I'm finally able to sleep laying down after weeks sitting up in a chair so I could breathe. That's a blessing in itself, and I need to pay more attention to God's tender mercies because they're happening every day, even if I'm unable to see them.

Books by JS Ririe:

The Truth About Strangers - Book 3
The Trouble with Strangers - Book 2
The Hearts of Strangers - Book 1

Rivers of Rage

Beyond the Glass Doors

Kismet Finds a Way

Crossfire at Bentley

Final Allegiance - Reagan Sinclair, FBI - Book 1

Resilience - Reagan Sinclair, FBI - Book 2

Safe Haven - Reagan Sinclair, FBI - Book 3

Unsheltered - Reagan Sinclair, FBI - Book 4

Welcome Redemption - Reagan Sinclair, FBI - Book 5

Indecision’s Flame - Book 1

Lost - Indecision’s Flame - Book 2

Exposed - Indecision’s Flame - Book 3

Betrayal - Indecision’s Flame - Book 4

Reawakening - Indecision’s Flame - Book 5

Unraveling - Indecision’s Flame - Book 6
Destiny - Indecision’s Flame - Book 7

So Long, Bishop - by Viola Ririe

All books available in print or eBook format a: https://amzn.to/2BXNSdv

Broken Heart, Moodiness and Self-reflection

I'm finally sitting at my kitchen table with my computer open in front of me again. It's been a strange four months of abstinence when it comes to writing and not at all what I intended after sending my twentieth book, in seven and one-half years, to be published in January of 2023. That series (The Trouble With Strangers, The Hearts of Strangers and The Truth About Strangers) had forced me to open thirty year-old wounds and reexamine a very painful and debilitating part of my past. While the storyline was fiction, the trauma, self-doubt and hope that life could become better was very real because it was based on my own marriage of emotional and mental abuse that caused my body to start shutting down and the doctor to tell me that I would be dead in six months if I didn't do something to relieve some of the stress. That wasn't easy when the source of that undermining anxiety was coming from the very person who has vowed to be there to love, protect and support me.

Walking away, and losing nearly everything in the process--home, friends, family, financial security, my standing in the community and even my own children until they were able to see beyond the lies and coverups he immediately began spreading--wasn't easy. But the man I had married twenty-two years earlier knew how to manipulate and coerce and make me look like I was a crazy person only fit for being committed because I had the audacity to leave him. But taking my life back and fighting for what I knew was right, despite all it cost, soon brought some of the peace I so desperately needed as I continued to pray for help, understanding and guidance while continuing with my education. I went back to my teaching position at our small local high school that fall with only a couple of teachers and the principal in my corner. He called me into his office the first day and told me to watch my back because the good people of the community were out to crucify me and would stop at nothing to make sure it happened. That was a bitter pill to swallow after serving them in so many ways for nearly two decades, but people believe what they want and can become very vocal and almost obsessively cruel about it. 

I suppose one of the worst days was when a so-called good woman I had known for many years came to my small, dark and drafty basement apartment where I was trying to put my life together again to tell me that I could never return to Heavenly Father unless I went back to my husband, made things right with him and then stood in front of the congregation at church and apologized for disappointing everyone. They had looked up to me and I had failed them. That came just days after my one any only confrontation in the parking lot with my husband where he told me that if I would just come home I could have my own bedroom and come and go as I liked as long as we could be seen together in public so everyone would think my leaving had been a huge misunderstanding and we were doing great. My answer was a resounding "NO" even when he told me that he had grown to love me but just hadn't bothered to tell me. 

The heart-felt series I had just completed was a way of bringing closure to a very traumatic experience--where I truly had come frighteningly close to losing myself completely--by letting people I would never meet know what had really happened during some awful years of betrayal and psychological torture. You see, I had promised God before leaving the house I had helped to build with my own hands, the flowers I had so loving planted and the beautiful memories I had created with my children when we were alone that I would never say anything negative about my husband to them or anyone else who knew us as a couple because Heavenly Father had witnessed what went on inside our home and was the only one who could fairly judge since no life was sin or error free. I just wanted to keep on living so I could be there for my children should they ever want me as part of their lives again. 

But I digress. What I really want to talk about was what happened during February, March, April and May. It put me in a tailspin of emotional upheaval that I'm just beginning to work through since I still believe in happy endings, even though I have yet to find one for myself. You see, I based one of the characters in that series on a man I met several years ago. He was handsome, charismatic, talented and involved with someone else. But there was a definite spark between us that only grew stronger during the brief moments we saw each other when I went to visit my sister twice each year. Believing in the sanctity of relationships, I didn't think much about him until a year and a half ago when he became unexpectedly available and during one of my visits really kissed me. For a girl who has not opened her heart to anyone for over twenty years that was a very heady experience. 

We began texting and talking on the phone occasionally but I was leery of any real involvement because we were so different and lived far enough away from each other that it was unlikely we would ever spend much time together. But having a writer's imagination when I started this series he unintentionally became part of it. Our friendship seemed to be growing in the right direction and I even send him a homemade quilt for Christmas because he was always saying that he needed me to keep him warm. I loved how he made me feel desirable, playful and so unlike the very reserved and cautious person the world saw. During one of our lengthy --3 to 4 hour-- telephone conversations I let it slip that I had based a character in my latest book on him. He said the honor was all his and would love a copy. I sent The Trouble With Strangers knowing he would never read it because he'd never read an entire book in his life. He'd floated through school on cliff notes and the movie version of most everything. But even if he did, he would learn more about me and perhaps even see in himself the possibilities I did.

I was excited and yet filled with a certain amount of apprehension to see him in April because I knew at least one of my peculiarities would have to be dealt with eventually. But ten days before my flight his mother died unexpectedly. He'd lost a brother in November which made this death doubly hard. Even though I tried to be there for him he pulled away somewhat--a very natural thing to do in times of grief--and I wasn't sure what would happen when I got there. One of the safety provisions my sister and I had set in place for when we traveled was to stick together like glue so we wouldn't end up in a situation we couldn't handle. She was married and I was single, and we both had strong religious beliefs that kept us from being party girls like most every other woman we met. 

He took us out on his pontoon boat for a lovely afternoon soon after we arrived, but when we got back to his house he caught me alone and asked me to sneak him into my condo room late that night so we could be alone. Here I was a senior citizen who had been alone for twenty years facing a moral decision I thought had been left behind for decades. My heart screamed out to know what it was like to make love to a man where the sexual tension was causing my whole body to shake. I had only had sex during my marriage. Any hope for love was destroyed on my wedding night when my husband told me I had married him under false pretenses because my breasts were not as big as he thought they were. But as I looked into this amazing man's hopeful eyes and watched his full, inviting lips move sensually back and forth I knew I could never betray God by giving in to physical desires. I believed God meant it when he said that physical intimacies were sacred and not to be shared with anyone other than a spouse. The man standing in front of me had had many lovers and I couldn't become just another conquest to him.

To say that I handled the situation poorly is an understatement. I tried to get my beliefs across through the tears. He said he understood as he kissed my forehead and would never be the man to persuade me to stray from anything that was truly important. But as my sister and I pulled away from the curb I knew that while he might understand my desire to do what I felt was right he wanted more than a plutonic relationship. It was all or nothing with him just as it had been with every other man I had dated after my divorce. I cried most of the night and the rest of the week was nearly intolerable. He avoided eye contact whenever he saw me and made sure he wasn't available to talk. He disregarded every text but one and that was only to say that he didn't know he was acting cold and that he always wanted me to be his friend and know that he loved me. We barbecued before I left but there was no hand holding or snuggling, just a few quick pecks on the lips that let me know we were at an impasse that would never be crossed until he was willing to talk. 

That hasn't happened yet and I've been home for almost two months. I've received two brief texts. One with smiley faces only and the other saying that he's just moody and knows he pushed a wrong button that made me have to put him in his place in front of my sister. He figured we laughed about it all the way home. 

I will spare you the rest of the sad details, but I've been nursing a bruised spirit along with a broken heart while trying to understand how I could have been so wrong about someone's intentions and desires. He opened his heart to me about so many things and shared parts of his life that I knew were painful for him to discuss. I also know that I never should have expected a relationship to continue when I wasn't willing to bend to the desires of the flesh like most everyone in today's world of promiscuity and satisfying every desire does. I even know I would have been dumped eventually anyway because I'm not exactly experienced in that area and have set eternal goals that will only be realized if I stay true to my beliefs. But even that knowledge doesn't stop the pain, the tears, and the wondering what I could have done differently that might have saved what I thought was a worthwhile friendship.

But I am glad that I'm finally able to articulate my feelings in what I know is a safe environment. No one out there in cyberspace knows who I am or who I am talking about, but every one of my readers knows what it's like to be hurt by someone he or she loves. And yes, I did love that guy and still do, but I'm ready to let him go and try to get on with my life. That means focusing on what's truly important to me--family, work, church, community, service, starting to write again and becoming closer to my Heavenly Father and my Savior. Through all the heartache of the past few months there has been no one for me to talk to other than God and I know He will always listen to and answer any prayer in the way that will be most beneficial. 

I haven't been able to talk to my sister about what happened even though she was there. She believes his only motivation in pursuing me was to have sex and when that didn't happen he was no longer interested. Maybe she's right since I'm way past my prime and there are plenty of willing women, but I'm not quite ready to believe someone over sixty is still that shallow, even if he is moody. I think he saw something different in me that he liked but didn't know how to pursue a relationship that wasn't based on instantaneous physical gratification.

Anyway, that's something that may never be known and full recoveries from anything out of the ordinary take time. But unless something drastic changes, come the end of September I will be seeing him again and have no idea of the reception I'll get. It could be a very cold and tearful one. That's why hope that God will make everything right in the end is so important. It helps me find fulfillment and happiness in what I have now, and I have a lot. Not just the one thing I've wanted my entire life. Meeting the right man while still in mortality is looking more doubtful each day, but perhaps by the time I pass through the veil I will have learned what I need to about loving and being loved. After all this life is a test, not just a place for self-indulgence and taking risks. And when we need answers to our most pressing problems we need to quit filling all our moments with unnecessary distractions so we can hear what God has to tell us. 

That's what I'm trying to do now. It's quiet and peaceful where I'm at, and there's  plenty of time for reflection.

A New Kind Of New Year

I had been giving 2023 a lot of thought even before the new year began. Our world is in so much turmoil and people are so intent on getting what they want, without any regard for human life and the unbelievable consequences their decisions cost, that I was unable to see how any goals I set would help relieve much of the suffering. I am an older woman, who has only managed to make it because I don't believe in debt or credit cards since they can so easily become traps that require doing something unethical or even illegal to get out of. I was raised by parents who grew up during the Great Depression of the 1930's and we were taught not to spend money on anything we didn't need and to save every dime possible for the rainy days that would always come.

While those principles often seemed harsh, they have been one of the biggest blessings of my life. But they have also been a stumbling block because I never learned how to do special things for myself or purchase the niceties that most everyone else considers necessities, even my own children. I have hated watching them struggle over the years, and have helped whenever I could, but I know that we only learn by paying the debt our actions bring. At least that's the way it's always been for me, and I'm learning as much now as I ever have because I finally understand how much I can benefit from the wisdom of others.

Perhaps that's why I was so deeply touched during a talk given a couple of Sundays ago by a man young enough to be my son. His topic was how to make positive changes in the right way--very applicable for a new year. He began by saying he doesn't believe in setting goals because they never work for long. The enthusiasm of committing to lose weight, exercise more, spend less money or whatever else it might be soon dwindles as life goes back to normal after the holidays end and old patterns seem to come back like warm and comfortable friends. Even if those twenty pounds are lost, the satisfaction is soon gone because it simply means that another goal needs to be set.

He said he equated a new year with deciding what minor changes could make his overall life better. They didn't have to be anything noteworthy, and preferably not, because that would make them too hard to fit into an already busy life. Perhaps it resonated so completely with me because I have been thinking along similar lines for weeks. I was conditioned from early childhood not to believe I was worth much. It stemmed from my mother blaming me for the accident that nearly cost my younger brother his life and condemned him to a lifetime of disabilities, surgeries and the inability to do most of the things he really wanted. I was five and he was three when my father accidentally ran over him with a tandem disc while getting ready for spring planting on our farm.

Guilt is a horrid taskmaster and I wasn't the only one to suffer. But that experience was soon followed by many others that stripped what was left of my fragile self esteem. After recovering from six months in bed with rheumatic fever at the age of nine, I was molested by my violin teacher. When I approached my mother about it, I was told it never happened because he had been her violin teacher too and had never touched her. Two years later my father died and soon after that I went through two more bouts of Rheumatic Fever. One of them caused significant hair loss which was one of the worst things that could happen to a teenage girl because I became so self-conscious I could hardly look at anyone.

I ran away from home during my senior year after my mother came after me with a butcher knife but was lucky enough to get an academic scholarship to college--good for one year and more if I kept my grades up. Unfortunately, I found that boys could like me and I was so desperate for approval I let my grades slip and had to work even more outside jobs to complete my education.

In other posts I've talked about my marriage and how destructive it was to my soul. I won't rehash those things here, but like everyone else, I am a composite of everything that has happened to me in this life. And I would imagine what I learned in the life before we came here, because I have always believe in God and my Savior and that we have a specific reason for being here during this age of our world. I might not understand how everything is connected, but I do know I can turn to them regardless of what I am going through at any given minute.

That's why I'm taking a very different approach to what I want to accomplish during 2023. It took several weeks of praying to even know where to start before I was led back to an old therapy I found in a series of books that have helped me find clarity when everything around me was a jumbled up mass of confusion. It's the easiest exercise I've ever encountered, along with being the most beneficial and productive. It can only be done when a person has at least a half hour of silent aloneness when thoughts and feelings can run unobstructed. I begin by writing down the question I wanted answered with my dominant hand on a sheet of clean paper, and then answering with my non-dominant one. It often takes time to decipher what I've written, but is so worth it I try to tell everyone I meet about the process. 

I have always believed that we have the answers to our most puzzling difficulties inside, we just don't know how to access them. I also know that there are many different dimensions to me--most of them children who just want to be heard. I've accessed my playful child, my soulful child, my frightened child, my spiritual child, my tempestuous child and many others as the need arose. They each have a very specific reason for addressing me; some with censure, some with information and some with nothing but love. This time, I approached them all and waited to see which one was ready to address me. 

Here's what I said in my request: "I don't know how to move forward from where I am right now--not spiritually, physically, mentally or emotionally. I have no idea about what goals to set or what changes will be the most beneficial. But mostly I don't know how to focus and figure out where to start. What's standing in my way against the changes I need to make and how do I move past it so I can love and nurture myself like I want to do with others?"

Then I switched hands with my pencil and allowed the ideas to come. I was quite amazed at the response. I won't duplicate everything I wrote but will share the highlights in bullet points. I'm hoping that what I learned about change will help someone else because it came from a place where I was obviously ready to accept the deepest truths.Yours may be quite different, and much less disjoined, but my personal response seemed to be linked to learning to accept and love myself just as I am.

    ~ Stop acting like there is something horribly wrong with you 

    ~ Your challenges are hard and life-altering, but not impossible to overcome

    ~ You're different than other women, but that doesn't make you bad

    ~ You feel for the less fortunate because you are one of them. Embrace that and keep trying to include the misfits that will never become one of the beautiful people because they hurt inside just like you do. Love them like you want to love yourself

    ~ Start looking for the things you do well, write them down and find ways to build on your strengths

    ~ Forget about all your sister's beauty and how many people love them. God looks on the heart and you want yours pure, not weighted down by how you look. That only breeds discontent and self-absorption

    ~ Keep trying to reach out to others. Succor the lonely misfits who, like you, have never felt they belonged

    ~ Look in the mirror and see with your heart instead of your eyes. Your body will continue to deteriorate, but your heart is just learning how to soar

    ~ Keep working on things you can leave behind to build and bring joy to others

It wasn't exactly what I expected, but it was definitely what I needed to hear. Since then I've been turning off the television after dinner so I can work on other things.  I've been riding my stationary bike for at least 20 minutes while reading an edifying book. Then I work on some stitchery project for an hour or so while listening to some of my favorite music. I had stopped making things by hand because everyone seems to be more impressed by what can be purchased at a store, but I've already decided what projects I can do for family and friends for birthdays and other holidays. 

The love and time involved never seems to cross their minds, but I no longer care. I'm doing this because it gives me time to really think about the individual I am creating something unique for. I also do fifty reps with five pound weights, read my scriptures, say my nightly prayer and even tried out a face mask I was going to give someone else. They're not huge changes, but they're ones I can live with and hopefully I will see some positive results by tweaking a few points in my nightly routine--like lowering my blood sugar and blood pressure and adding relief when it comes to aching joints and swollen ankles. There really is nothing uplifting about being glued to an entertainment source for four to six hours when there is no positive interaction. The only plus was bodily rest and feeling a little less lonely.

When I look in the mirror now, I am trying to study my face like God would if he was gazing at me. There would be no more despicable self-talk about being old, fat, wrinkly, ugly or unloveable. Someday I will be at my best again because my spirit body has never aged, and I want my insides to match what can be seen on the outside. I won't say that it's changed my life yet because I've only been viewing myself differently for a week, but my heart does feel lighter. And with that, I know the real changes I need to make will come eventually because I deserve being treated with kindness and love. 

I wish all of you an epiphany of your own that will help you see the parts of yourself that could use a little tenderness. The best change comes gradually and is not rushed before its time. I will never be young again, nor will I be as fit and trim as I was when everything was working as it should. I want to be one of those older ladies who radiates beauty because she is kind, thoughtful, forgiving, patient and wise. After all, old age is a blessings if used the right way. It's a time for reviewing a life well spent and preparing for a glorious future.   

If you like to read, you might enjoy my new series about one woman's journey from abuse to truly living and loving again. The last book in the series came out this week. THE TRUTH ABOUT STRANGERS in print and eBook formats is on Amazon at https://amzn.to/2BXNSdv   As always, those with Kindle Unlimited can read any of my books for free.  

We all have so much we can offer others, we just need to be brave enough to do it.

What's on Your Christmas List?

I have been awake for the last hour and a half watching the day come alive through my bedroom window. It's peaceful, calm and beautiful outside with the white, pristine snow covering the grass, trees, road, sidewalk and roofs of my neighbor's houses. No one on my street has ventured outdoors yet and I can walk onto my front stoop in my pajamas and breath deeply of the crisp, invigorating air and twirl around with joy without fear of anyone seeing me. I would love to jump into the nearest pile of snow or form an angel with my body like I did as a child. But common sense tells me that a woman my age would not be able to get back on my feet as easily as I did sixty-five years ago.

Still those quiet moments free from all the confusion of the world today give me time to reflect on the pure joy of the Christmas season and the miraculous gift of my Savior, Jesus Christ, who taught his brothers and sisters the way to return home to God and gave his life freely as a ransom for every sin that would ever be committed, regardless of how heinous it might be. As I watch the atrocities being committed throughout our world today and the gross and unjust pain inflicted on the innocent, I have to admit that my finite mind cannot begin to understand the infinite love that allowed him to make such a selfless sacrifice. He knew that the majority of people who arrived on earth would not take his message seriously and would do everything in their power to stop others from using the gifts of faith, obedience, selfless love, overcoming temptations and trials, and going through the steps of true repentance when something was amiss that would enable his glorious gift to work for them.

But he did it because we needed a Savior--someone truly worthy of that role--for our Heavenly Father's great Plan of Redemption and Happiness to work. Without him, our bodies would simply decay in the ground and our spirits would have no place to go when our hearts quit beating. He won the victory over both physical and spiritual death that would allow us to live on through all eternity, and the only way I can show my gratitude is by trying to live as he taught. It's an overwhelming responsibility because humanness so often keeps me distracted from doing what is most valuable. Even in a very fallen world, there is so much beauty and numerous worthwhile ways to spend my time that it is often difficult to decide between the good, the better and the best.

I love the beautiful Christmas hymns that are sung this time of year in church meetings, by carolers, over the radio or at devotionals or special social gatherings. They reflect what my heart knows is true, and I feel great sorrow when I hear of a church being defiled, Christmas trees not being allowed in public libraries or people being ridicules for believing in the greatest miracle this world has ever known. I know I was watching from my vantage point in the premortal life that night when Mary and Joseph arrived at the inn and found no place for them to stay. And even though I was not given an even relatively pleasant singing voice, I know I was part of that heavenly choir praising God and proclaiming our Savior's birth because I knew my journey to earth would come. And when it did I would need the gift he freely gave as he prayed so fervently in the Garden of Gethsemane that blood seeped from every pour.   

While Christ's birth and resurrection are indelibly linked, I love the time spent thinking about him as a newborn baby laying in the arms of his earthly parents. How overwhelmed and excited they must have been not fully understanding the critical role they would play, but trusting that God would help them and he did. My Christmas list this year is short, and there is nothing of a material nature on it. I simply want to share the light I have inside with others who appear to be stumbling around in the dark because they don't know where to find what they most need. I'll do that by baking goodies to take to my neighbors, sending off Christmas cards and texts, listening the the beautiful music of the season, wrapping meaningful gifts for family and close friends and offering service wherever I can. 

I've always had what I needed most, regardless of my financial situation. It's the gift of knowing about and loving my Savior that was instilled by imperfect parents when I was a child. We never had much in the way of material possessions but there was always food on our table and a roof over our heads. And the small gifts we got were treasured. I still have my lady doll and the head of my baby doll that I finally put on a body I made myself, and the books I loved back them are still on my shelves. I tried to create the same atmosphere when my children were young. They didn't get a whole lot of expensive gifts either, but they could recite the story of the Savior's birth by heart.

Perhaps my most memorable Christmas was when my son was three. We were at his grandparents and there had been a gift exchange. All the little boy cousins his age got matchbook cars but his grandmother gave him crocheted chicken she had purchased at a church bazaar that pooped jelly beans. I watched as the excitement in his eyes went out as he unwrapped his gift. But instead of throwing a fit like others of his cousins had done because they didn't get what someone else did, he put his little arms around his grandmother's neck and told he loved his gift. I still get teary-eyed just thinking about that because he is that same wonderful, compassionate and loving man today. What greater gift could I be given as a mother?

Since the sun is now coming up and my mind is drifting to the activities of the day, I want to end by sharing three poems. The first is my reflections on my Savior, the second a letter my grandfather once sent when I was alone at Christmas, and the third about Christmas at my house when I was a child. I hope each of you reading this will think about the true meaning of the season and feel the peace and joy our Savior wants us to experience the year round as we remember who we are and from where all our blessings come.  

My Savior

In this world of modern marvels,

one seldom takes time to think

of the creator of both heaven and earth,

Jesus Christ, the Savior of all mankind.

 

But who is this man?

A babe,

born in a stable in the village of Bethlehem. 

A boy,

reared as a carpenter in Nazareth. 

A citizen,

of a conquered and subdued nation. 

A man,

whose mortal footsteps never went beyond a 150 mile radius. 

A scholar,

who never received a school degree. 

A preacher,

who never spoke from a great pulpit.

A citizen,

who never owned a home.

A traveler,

who moved about on foot, without money. 

 

He is Jesus Christ,

author of our salvation.

His life, brought light and understanding

of things eternal and divine. 

 

His teachings, influenced the behavior 

of unaccounted millions.

 

His matchless example became the greatest power 

for goodness and peace in all the world. 

Grandpa's Christmas Letter

I am not yearning for a white Christmas

as well you may have guessed.

The white stuff that so delights you

can stay in the mountains in drifts.

 

Christmas, as other holiday, is just another day.

My parents who were not into gift exchange,

but gave more to the needy than anyone else in the valley,

being liberal with us when they sensed the need.

 

I understand their viewpoint now that I am older.

Too much money is wasted on throwaway gift giving.

So, granddaughter dear, do not send me things

I do not need or have any particular desire for.

 

The things people need more of 

in this country of ours are

worthy compliments,

appreciation, and just plain love.

Childhood Christmas

 

When I was a child, Christmas meant anticipation,

taking our pennies and dimes 

to Kresses or Woolworths

to buy simple, well thought-out presents.

 

We were poor, and the six of us children shared 

one basement bedroom and a couple of cots in the hall.

We didn’t know just how poor we really were until we 

went to church or school and saw what others wore.

 

We’d read the story of our Savior’s birth

from the book of Luke on Christmas Eve,

then open one specific present,

homemade flannel pajamas from our parents.

We would hurry off to bed as soon as we were wearing them,

all thoughts of sleep gone until we knew Santa had been there.

That meant creeping up the stairs as many times as we dared

tiptoeing on the edges so they wouldn’t crackle or creak.

 

But we never saw if the jolly old elf had arrived.

An old Army blanket, suspended in the living room doorway 

was too formidable an object to either push aside or crawl under

when we knew what would happen if our parents found out. 

 

At five in the morning, Daddy hurried out to the barn,

Mom called Grandma and Uncle Douglas, saying it was time.

We would warm ourselves by the old coal stove trying to keep 

our excitement down so we wouldn’t explode.

The morning would still be dark when the magical barrier

came down and we kids rushed to find our pile of presents.

There was never much to look at, for money was not,

a doll, a book, plastic animals for the boys.

 

A new pair of shoes and a homemade dress or shirt, 

an orange, peanuts and hard candy for our stockings.

They were simple holidays, but happy ones.

Dad played with us and Mom fixed the traditional meal.

After Daddy died, leaving seven little children alone,

the real joy of the Christmas season was gone.

We still got gifts and kept the blanket in front of the door,

and Grandma and Uncle Douglas came to spend the day.

 

But Daddy wasn’t there to make the holiday special, 

to play with us or to hold us tight in his protective arms.

The hole in our family was so immense we went through

motions but were never really happy and smiling again.

 

That was also the time when the real meaning of Christmas 

made more sense for death is part of life just as birth is.

Christ walked the earth, by example showing the way,

atoning for sins, dying so we can be a complete family again.

 

I have seen many Christmas’ since I was a child but 

none have been more meaningful than those of early days,

except for the Christmas’ I shared with my own children

when they were young and starry-eyed and still believed.

 

I played the magical elf, and my son and daughter 

climbed the stairs to see if Santa had been there.

There were more gifts purchased from stores but homemade ones

still played a significant part along with a festive meal.

 

They were glorious times, but life moves on, children grow, 

have children of their own, and our part in the celebration changes.

But the meaning for the day is always clear, and the gift Christ gave 

can only be repaid by faithful, humble and complete devotion.