Why I Forgave the Dog Who Bit Me

I tell everyone it was my fault but really the dog had a choice. Sure, I shouldn’t have feed the visiting dog at the same time as my own beasts, I should have realized this other dog didn’t see me as a pack member. I forgot that often one can be perceived as a threat even when intentions are honorable. The dog (not one of our beasts) bit me, leaving me with 6 stitches and a thumb that aches a month later. Still, the fight was a choice and the aggression was unnecessary.

I immediately recognized my mistake, I took the dog’s side, looking out from her perspective even as blood soaked the towel and dropped onto the floor. I understand fear and protectiveness and poor impulse control. I too have bitten when I should have backed off. I know I have caused rips and tears and bloodied up those who merely want to come near. Forgiving the dog was easy, forgetting is harder. I’m leery, a bit anxious when I am around her. When you discover the harm one is capable off, do you ever truly let down your guard? So it is with relationships I long for, can I ever ask them to forget harsh words when the ache surely reminds them I have teeth and may let instincts rule sense when I feel threatened?

I keep visiting the dog, I pursue relationship. Respect and awareness are heightened as we move forward. I choose not to let fear and distrust destroy either of us. To those who have felt bitten by my responses to perceived danger, I ask, “Can you see for even a moment how situations looked through my eyes?” It isn’t in my nature to toss our harsh words, to hurl judgements and leave scars, yet I did just that. During the first few days of learning my son died, I drew boundaries around my pack, I snapped and growled and said things I so wish I could take back.  My objectivity was non-existent, my assessments faulty, just as the dog who bit me. She sensed danger from those around and a fight ensued. How can I not forgive this canine and accept my role in it, I have been her?

The truth is that this dog is kind and loving and gentle. I approach her slowly, I allow her to sniff around, I am working on regaining her trust. I pet her with my other hand, the wound barely healed, often throbbing and reminding me that relationships are hard and rife with wrong moves and restarts. Determining that ignoring her or excluding her or avoiding all potential interactions is not workable for a member of the family, I move slowly and gently reach out to her.  She in turn cuddles and offers comfort. We offer grace, we are careful with each other and we allow each positive moment to blur our difficult past.

I pray that one day I will be offered the chance to show that I don’t normally bite, that I usually offer love and comfort to those around.

Selectively Mute

I keep wondering about the first word uttered by someone who is selectively mute. Imagining all the words unspoken, sounds and sentences swallowed and smashed within the soul, the pressure of holding it all in, finally some phrase escapes, repaving the path for those that follow. The trust involved in sharing that first vocalization, or is it anger  pushing it up and out? When I received my son’s death certificate, I stopped writing. I wanted to scream and rant and point fingers and hurl insults at God and all who enabled my child’s drug use. What could only be the Holy Spirit guiding me, I chose to go mute, lasting now for over three months. I didn’t ask for guest writers to fill the pages of my blog, I didn’t warn anyone that I was taking a break like I did after suffering the second concussion. I just stopped, a bad move when numbers of followers is the measure of meaningfulness to writers of blogs. I became mute.

The words wouldn’t come at first, too deep was my sorrow and too personal was my pain. Words that once were my catharsis now were treasures to be shared sparingly with only a close circle. Requiring absolute trust meant my utterances were heard by only a few, tentative whispers and long howling cries to sanctuary friends who accepted that I was sad, still sad, no end in sight to my sadness. My child died from heroin, fentanyl, speed and xanax. There, you know the truth I have carried for 3 months, a truth I suspected but secretly hoped was false. What if he really had died of some natural cause, how would that be better? Yet 11 years of fighting his addiction seemed wasted, the money, the energy, the hopes. Still, there was comfort in believing he most likely fell asleep, like we say of the elderly who go peacefully. I try to tell myself he wasn’t in pain as he lay in his kitchen, overdosed and alone. I know though the truth, that his life was painful and agonizing and miserable, his use confirms it. Addiction is a bitch, a horrid monster and he was consumed with it. Three months to speak this truth. Finally the pressure to hold the words in has become too great.

I watch friends and family and fellow worshipers watch me. They celebrate and congratulate me when I seem to be having a good day. “You look so good, it is great to see you smiling.” Meeting the expectations of those who prefer to hurry me along in this ugly grieving causes me to laugh and share a joy and put on clean clothes and shut the door to my anguish in public. I go silent. I don’t say that I showered only once that week or that as soon as I leave church or their company, I will collapse exhaustedly for another week. Pushing down sorrow is slave labor. There is no rest, no escaping the ache that is deep within my bones. There is no cure for an apathy that screams , “I just don’t care,” an act of rudeness that would hurt others, that allows for no return. I cannot trust myself to speak kindly, with compassion to others, I go silent. Remembering the anxiety during my first pregnancy, wondering what labor truly would feel like, would I be strong enough and would I embarrass myself by pooping on the hospital bed, I fretted and worried and dreaded, almost. Yet actual birth, the contractions as my body sought to expel the child within was fast and glorious and surely hurt like hell although I don’t remember so much. I do recall that my body took over, an engineering feat that could only be designed by the Master of all. Grieving is desperately trying to reverse that process, trying to hold tears in and push away thoughts and keep from shitting on friends. Silence is preferable, until the pressure is unbearable and the expectations be damned.

I have often wanted to write of joys, indescribable blessings that surprise me and bring a respite from the pain, like those moments when the monitor says you are in between contractions. I have wanted to write of my anger, the fury that sharpens my tongue and explodes from my body as I light another cigarette and throw the damn ball for the dog. I have wanted to write of the tiny moments of peace, of the disturbing dreams and the emptiness, but I went silent, knowing my thoughts were not fit to express in polite society and could cause harm to others. Selectively mute for three months, resisting the urge to wipe the dust away from my laptop, pushing pushing pushing the words back inside. Until now.  Until this day when I can safely say that I am sad, I am still sad. I can’t find the light and I have little grace to offer.

Choosing to break the silence has become an equal burden to maintaining my quiet. Progress? Please do not expect that.  Wisdom, I have none. Every breath counts when you are giving birth and when you are dying and when you are trying to remember that smoking is bad and pop tarts aren’t dinner. I am still trying to breathe, to bring air into this messy soul and shattered heart. I have broken my silence, though, if only to relieve a bit of the pressure within, if only to say that I am still here.

I Close The Curtains

Tugging the curtains across the windows, I tell myself it is for privacy. Kids racing on bikes, neighbors walking dogs, someone crossing the street to retrieve mail, I am in full view of any who wander by. My slumbering beasts are disrupted, my Netflix binge is interrupted, the sounds of life outside of my cave seep through inciting my anger. Bright sunlight fills the living room, an invitation to chop down last year’s stalks from plants sprouting anew and I close the curtains. The kids have grown, the elderly neighbor has slowed, a new family is exploring the street and I close the curtains on them all. Inside my home, in my heart winter prevails where mourning looks like thick blankets and heavy sweaters, short days and long nights.  I cannot bear to look at the daffodils that haven’t bloomed since the bulbs were stuck into the ground outside my front window over 10 years ago but now wave in the breeze with brilliant yellow petals, pretending there is hope.  Closing the curtains in determined rejection of change and new life and the joyful shouts of kids in last summer’s tee shirts, I sink further into the chair to escape into old episodes of ER where people are dying and crying and always there is someone who is saved.

 

 

 

The Long Saturday

Many years ago, our family watched a movie together that struck the children deeply, The Passion of Christ. None of us have been able to attend a second showing, the images of Jesus nailed to the cross, suffering and mourning so clear, we got the message and haven’t been able to shake it, even during difficult times. I remember Arrow being especially moved and vocal, he was angry at how Jesus was treated, he couldn’t grasp the cruelty. During later years as he moved away from believing, when he resisted going to church and he began to play with other religions during his incarceration, I trusted that the child who once read every book in the Left Behind for Kids series and who ached over this movie still had the seeds of faith within him. No one was witness to his last moments, we cannot say for sure that he called out to God or begged for forgiveness or even rejected it all as he took his last breath. I can only continue to believe that the Holy Spirit was with my son, given to us by God’s Son during his last breaths.

I attended the Good Friday service this week at our church, or part of it. I made it through the beginning songs but when members stood on the altar and portrayed those who witnessed Jesus’s death with an authenticity I could feel and get lost in, I found I couldn’t witness this murder. One young man gave insight into the soldiers who carried out the job of crucifixion, a horrible job that becomes doable when only with detachment, the separation of one’s heart and one’s body. I have been that guy, witnessing horror, participating in the destruction of others by mocking and questioning and above all, not stepping in to say no. Plum asked me the other day if there was ever any kids I didn’t like when I went to school. As I struggled to answer his question, memories of one particular little girl came to mind. She was different, annoying, she was too skinny and wore odd clothes. She had no friends so the day she decided to sit with me at lunch, to join my group, what to me was an implication that I accepted her and maybe could be like her, my fragile identity and need for acceptance from the larger group resulted in a shameful bullying incident that has haunted me for 45 years. When she refused to move even after we told her to, I dumped my tray of spaghetti on her. I cringe as I write this, unable to fathom the cruelty I lived out. When I was disciplined, it was not with suspension or spanking, instead a favorite teacher took me into his room and said the worst thing possible, that he was disappointed in me. That moment solidified for me that I had a choice about how I was going to grow into my character. I could follow the group, I could seek acceptance by behaving horrifically, or I could see the humanity in all around me and choose kindness. I evaluated the popular group I so wanted to be in with and found that I really didn’t have anything in common with them, I really was more like the girl on the fringe. I cannot say that she and I became great friends but I never again rejected her, I did eat lunch with her and I found she had gifts I had previously overlook and discounted. As that respected teacher spoke to me, I lost the ability to detach my heart and crucify others. I didn’t share the whole story with Plum who is kind to the odd kids and would be shocked that his grandma once behaved so poorly. One day though, he will hear this truth and will know that kindness is always our best choice.

Our pastor gave a moving portrayal of the man who hung on the cross next to Jesus, his gasping breaths and last minute acceptance of the offer of salvation, so real and true and horrific, I wanted to bolt from the room. I have been that guy, living a life of deception, suffering the consequences of mistakes that have taken away any dignity or hope, only to turn my soul over to the only One who continued to hang with me, the One who has offered me forgiveness again and again. When I was first imprisoned, when I sat in the jail cell in shock trying to absorb my reality of two and a half years away from my children, I too was gasping for air, only to find it stale, piped in, rife with desolation as others struggled to breathe as well. I begged God to let me die, I sought some means to end it all, the agony of it all wracked my body. Yet in the darkest moments, when I couldn’t escape my horror, I was flooded with the presence of the Holy Spirit, the reminder of the Footprints poem would not leave me, I found a peace I didn’t want, didn’t believe I deserved, as I knew Jesus would carry me when I couldn’t walk. I survived, I healed, I returned a stronger, surer woman who was determined never to be used by a man again, who would seek out God for my redemption always. Unlike the man on the cross, my conversion moment has been stretched over decades, a constant need to turn my eyes away from the harsh realities of this world and focus on God.

Next came the sounds of Jesus’s mother, wailing as she watched her son die. During the last three months as I have sought out God to make sense of my son’s death, I forgot about another mother who lost her son. Alternating between finding comfort knowing God fully knew my pain and being angry that He didn’t stop the loss, I never imagined how Mary must have felt. Yet her son offered comfort even to her in that moment, He instructed another to be her child. He assigned her another son, he solidified that even if she was childless through His death, she would continue to be a mom. He knew they would need each other as they grieved, as mourning threatened to destroy all hope. My wounds are too raw, too fresh, my other child is not joining with me to mourn. Mary’s sorrow was too real to me, I had to leave. As she proclaimed that she didn’t want Him to be Jesus, savior of the world, but just her son, I knew in that moment her mother’s heart just wanted her son back, not this man who made His own choices and suffered the consequences. She couldn’t rescue the baby she had carried, bereft, she cried out at the injustice, at the death of her joy. I have truly been Mary, my son  imperfect but loved by so many,  he too left way too young, he had much left to do on this earth.

Listening from outside the sanctuary, I heard bits and pieces of the witness of others. I considered that Jesus was someone different to each, multiple levels of mourning and relationship were evident during His execution. Friends and followers watched, confused and searching for answers. Left wondering how it all could go so wrong so swiftly, dreams of a better future shattered, swept away as the crowd celebrated. Considering how my son died as suddenly, warning signs clear just as Jesus foresaw His own death, yet ignored, discounted. Still those around my son mourn in shock. His friends, his family, co workers, teachers, all  replaying what happened, searching for answers, desperate to find a different truth than the reality that this was inevitable, that the choices Arrow made led him to his own destruction. Our sins led to the death of Jesus, we are complicit, our very nature made it necessary for the sacrificial lamb to die. Is the same true for my son? What did we miss, what wrongs were committed that encouraged his substance abuse? What more could we have done over the 11 years of his addiction to help him chose life over this disease? Yes, the witnesses to his death are left wondering, wishing for an answer to explain this loss, knowing none will ever bring him back. Hopes for a better future died that morning as they both took their last breaths. The long waiting through Saturday, after that horrific Friday, filled with confusion and seeking ends with the joyous discovery of the empty tomb on Sunday, for the followers of Jesus. My Saturday blanketed Sunday and Monday and all the days after. I’m struggling to get to Sunday, the day of restoration and affirmation.

My son’s birthday falls close to Easter each year. I know there is a story in that, preparation during 26 years to remember the promises of God at the end of the story, to not get stuck in the desolate Saturday of a hard life. As I look back on each year with him, as we baked cakes and blew out candles and sent cards to prison and rejoiced that he was among us for another chance of a bright future, I was being trained, conditioned. Don’t look merely at the emptiness of my heart, rejoice in the transformation of a life. Watch as my sins as a bully in elementary school and his drug use are opportunities to turn toward the light, see grace scatter shame like bits of colored egg shells swept into the trash. The good stuff is inside of us, the flashy colors and decorations an enticement to us to go deeper, find the prize within, to gain nourishment for our souls. Still I am stuck on Saturday, a seemingly endless wait to discover joy again and accept all the grace that Easter brings. I replay the voices from the sanctuary, listening to the witness of believers and doubters alike and know that Sunday will come, one day I too will delight in the empty tomb. Spring is late this year, vacillating between sunny 70 degree days and late snow showers and I find comfort in that. I’m easing into this slow spring season, beginning to notice the birds excitedly chirping, allowing the rain to fall onto my head and sprouting shoots of early flowers to remind that Sunday is around the corner. Embracing the humanity of those who witnessed the execution of my Savior, of those who missed signs to save my son, I realize there is hope enough for me.

 

 

A Return to our Love books

“If you’re still my small babe or you’re all the way grown,
my promise to you is you’re never alone.

You are my angel, my darling, my star…
and my love will find you, wherever you are.”  Nancy Tillman

 

Each night as we settle in, PJ’s on and snack at the ready, we read books from Plum’s ever growing library. Three to six downstairs, then as sleepiness begins to overtake him, we move up to his bed and read a couple more as he eases into the night. For many years, our routine was strict, we read our “love books,” a beautiful collection by Nancy Tillman. Rolling over, snuggling in, he would drift off to sleep as I quietly read, moderating my pace and volume until his eyes closed. Completely conditioned, the words that expressed how deeply and widely he was loved were the last he heard each night. Deep peace filled me as well, I cherished the opportunity to speak words of love, knowing the last that he heard each night was how special he is to me.

Sadly, this routine got destroyed when he began to read by himself, he chose books about battles and Pokemon and ninjas and resisted the “love books” enough that they sat neglected on his shelf.  He preferred to chatter and tell some deep truths and horse around with grandpa, fighting sleep and too many cuddles. I often revisited the books, suggesting we read those, at least one but was unceremoniously told no. The child was growing into his boyhood and didn’t want the mushy stuff. Recently though, I won the book selection choice and I read words of love to my grandson and also to myself. I heard not my voice as I read but the relentlessness of God, who loves me on good days and bad, when I am playing and sleeping and think I’ve been bad. Pease entered my soul again, I realized how much I had missed our nightly routine of centering ourselves on unconditional love. As I reached the point in the book that says, “If you are still my small babe or all the way grown, my promise to you is you are never alone,” I found I was speaking to Nick. That I had spoken this to Nick, when he sat on the bed and listened to me read these books to Plum, back when he joined our home again. When he first came home from prison, he eased into our routines first by watching. Then he took over reading the books to Plum as I sat on the bed, listening to the sound of his voice speak love to his child. The circle was complete.

This night when I read the words aloud I was reminded that I needn’t fear that my son doubted my love, that he was alone as he died. My love has followed him everywhere, through the misery of his drug use to the fear and anxiety of imprisonment to the glory of his recovery. He knew my love was ever present, even on days he knew he had been bad. Plum and I speak often about the difference between accepting bad behavior and unconditional love. Plum, just like his father, knows that I love him at his worst and at his farthest away. Peace filled my lungs with each breath, each word I spoke. Grief can bring doubts and fears and regrets that rob us of the joys that abound. This night, I was offered a sweet memory that settled the raging worries, offering truth and perspective, highlighting forgotten joys.

Sneaking the books in to our routine several times since, I can admit that I have picked this particular book up several times to read just to myself, even though the words are etched into my memory. God’s love will find us wherever we are, when we are grieving and broken and filled with sadness.

 

 

 

On The Bridge

Growing up, I didn’t hear much about evil in church.  The focus was more on gaining a relationship with Jesus, accepting God as the foundation for our lives. Yet more and more I realize that light cannot be appreciated without darkness. I’ve read tons of quotes about the stars shining brightest in the dark of night, I get the concept. What I didn’t realize though was the role of evil, how much the hard times in my life have been the devil attacking me when I am the reaching out to God, when my faith was getting stronger. I have to admit it feels weird to even type that, such is my discomfort with “devil talk”.  What has seemed like a foreign way for me to understand and practice my faith, an attitude more fitting for those other kinds of churches is now becoming a clear concept of how this world works. It certainly has aided me in recognizing the role of shame and insecurity and even depression, removing my sense that I have brought this stuff on myself, furthering the need for self-punishment. I’m not suggesting I don’t have personal responsibility for my actions but understanding the goal of magnifying and distorting and oppressing me is strictly that of the evil one, I begin to find the power of choice, of turning to the Light.

When it became clear that the abuse I experienced as a child was deeply impacting my relationships and I needed help to right my thinking again, I entered therapy. This time though, I didn’t search for a counselor who had years of experience dealing with sexual abuse, although she does. I sought out a faith-based therapist who could help me resolve the questions of how could God have allowed this to happen. Spoiler alert: she doesn’t have that answer but what she did offer was a bridge to God that encouraged me to cross over into trust, where I could see not a God who shares responsibility for my suffering but a God who ached with me and wants more of my life. She has also exposed the role of the evil one, something I had always discounted, pooh-poohed as more hocus pocus than spirituality. Opening my mind to the dangers of darkness, the way my heart and soul have been pursued not just by a relentless God but also a sneaky destructive evil, I have become empowered to make different choices. I can not only desire the light, I can choose it.

When bad things happen, we instinctively wonder where God is, how can these horrible events occur, much like the admonishing Jesus endured on the cross: if you are who you said you were, why can’t you stop this, prevent this, make it all better. What I am finally grasping all these years later is that the two are not mutually exclusive. God is indeed who He says he is and bad things happen as evil seeks to rule this world. It comes down to choice, when we have the option to magnify hurtful words and promote violence through bullying we have turned away from the light that seeks to shine through it all. We give power to the oppressor, we abandon the One who aches to accompany us even when all is horrible, maybe especially when our hearts are broken and we are frightened and when we begin to feel blanketed by sadness.

I was almost to the surrender part, the place where I could see with clarity that God had not left me alone in the room with my father, that God had not left me to sit in prison with a shattered soul, that He had been right with me and gave me tools to survive, then unexpectedly my son died. Rocked, shocked, shattered, I almost gave in to the darkness, allowed the loss of my son to turn me away from God. Seriously, could there be a better time to question the faithfulness of a God who didn’t save my son? Yet over and over, in spite of what felt like the ultimate betrayal of God’s love, I found countless ways that He was shining through. His disciples have walked with me, guided me back to the bridge, bringing dinner and sending cards and asking me again and agin how I am, listening to me cry and giving me opportunities to serve in the midst of it all. God spoke to a friend who was herself feeling darkness of fear and hopeless descend and she offered me the opportunity to sit daily with her mother, a beautiful woman who is losing herself to Alzheimers. In the midst of my sorrow, I was given hours each day to step outside of my pain and stay just in the present moment as I guided her through daily living tasks and listened as her snippets of past memories replayed on a continuous loop. Each time she told me about her time as a bus driver, we spoke as if I was hearing it for the first time and I felt delight. Each time. Because I was with a woman who was living out her joys over and over, not one who sat in bitterness and shame and sorrow. She was not reliving the hardest times, those she had already released from her memory. I saw the power of looking always towards the Light.

Turning my perspective away from a personal character flaws and into realization that evil is afoot, hardening hearts and sowing discord, I am free to see the real person, the true struggle and feel compelled to share more of my light, more of my hope and certainly more of my prayers. For too many years, I internalized the darkness, accepting the blame for circumstances, doubting my own worth. Bad things happened, I must be bad. God must not extend His promises to the likes of me, why else would all this keep occurring? These days, I am leaning into the complexities of words like because, in spite of, even though. When taken into context of relationships, causation and blame and responsibility are highlighted. Heartbreaks don’t find us BECAUSE of God, He remains present IN SPITE OF our circumstances and the evil we face, He will bring good and joy EVEN THOUGH we may not see it or even want it. It all changes how I see our Father.

More clearly I perceive how evil breaks up marriages, how children are led into estrangement, how we accept others as lesser because of color or bank accounts or political beliefs. Giving into the darkness of judgement and division, of depression and resentment, satan wins and we all lose. Conversely, where the Light shines, we live out   grace and forgiveness and compassion and a deep desire to right wrongs. The Light is always there, waiting to warm us and show us joy and purpose. A bridge has been built and I am stepping onto it, trusting that I will be held securely even when I stumble, even when I fall.

Will you join me on the bridge? The view is amazing.

 

 

On This Day

Early each morning, I grab my phone and search Facebook, not for the latest pictures of a friend’s dinner or the promoting I receive to go to the same events as all my friends, but to look at the compilation of pictures and posts that Facebook offers through the “On This Day” generator. Still, I have been dreading this one, my son’s birthday. It has been barely 3 months since he died, since I learned we will celebrate no more birthdays, hear his laugh and watch him with his son never again. His birthday is so close to Easter each year, my faith is refreshed or challenged even greater every year, depending on how much he has struggled with addiction, how long he lived in sobriety. Today, as I looked over all the previous posts and prayers and pictures I had posted, I was reminded of the faithfulness of friends who have joined us, not just yearly but daily as we prayed for our son. I am reminded of how hard we fought to give him a chance. I am reminded reminded reminded but I will not get lost in all the memories. Still seeking the promises of Easter, I am looking to the Light. This child’s birthday was no accident even if his death was. Long ago God knew that I would need to be surrounded by purple, the color of resurrection and Arrow’s favorite when the hurt and worry and fear would be threatening to destroy me.  The knowledge that I will see him again soothes a mama’s aching heart on this day, my son’s birthday.

Until we celebrate together again, happy birthday Nick. My love will follow you everywhere.

April 5, 2016

“I am thankful for my struggle because without it I wouldn’t have stumbled across my strength” Alex Elle

April 5, 2015 

Happy Birthday to my favorite son! I know you no longer share my faith yet how amazing that your day, the day of your miraculous birth falls this year on the greatest day in the life of a Christian.  You see, you were a miracle to me, always have been.  My mother struggled with fertility, lost many babies before uncle Joe was born and then several more between he and I.  When your father and I wanted a family, I couldn’t get pregnant right away and began to freak.  what if I did the same as my mom?  it took a long time before sis came a long and then I lost one between you.  I was so very sick and on steroids and lots of antibiotics during the pregnancy with you, i was terrified you wouldn’t be ok.  and then my grandfather died right before you were born.  I just felt it was an omen.  but you came and were perfect and always so very sweet and healthy and your heart was the biggest part of you.

Scott feels like my life has been a test of my faith and a chance to say i still believe in the midst of the storm.  I have had too many storms, I am growing so incredibly weary, yet I still believe.  My faith in God isn’t gone, just my faith in my ability to weather all of this.  The story of Easter is that Good Friday is the worst day ever, the day Jesus was killed for me.  a horrific death where he was separated from His Father.  then Saturday comes and it is all about the waiting and the confusion for the followers, wondering now what.  because we know that on sunday, they roll the rock away and the tomb is empty, that God had fulfilled His promises.  Pure Joy on Sunday.

But for me, at this point in my life, I am stuck on Saturday.  I am waiting for the pure joy of reconciliation with Alex and the joy of seeing my granddaughter.  The confusion and worry and frustration are non stop.  But in the midst of this, God reminded me about your birth.  It comes on this most special sunday.  And you are still alive.  and you are amazingly mature and full of thoughts of the future and taking ownership of the past.  This is the miracle of Easter for us this year, the promises kept.  it was a long 9 years of saturday.

So whether you believe or not, God is using you in many ways to pick me up off the floor and get me back in the game.  Happy birthday my miracle.  I love you.  thanks for growing up and not just getting older.  you mean the world to me. I cant wait to celebrate so many more birthdays with you.  mom

April 5, 2014 

“Sometimes God makes better choices for us than we could have ever made for ourselves.”
― Jennifer Hudson Taylor

 

April 5, 2013 

It’s just a phase it’s just a phase it’s just a phase it’s just a phase

April 5, 2012  

today i am so very very grateful for the chance to say it is my son’s 21st birthday and he is safe and sober, i can trust he will be alive to see the next one.

 

April 5, 2012 

blessed with friends who take me for coffee and lunch, who listen to me blather on about my woes and hug me when it is over. blessed to walk in to church and share a story, a smile, a tear and communion. blessed to spend the evening with Plum who helps heal an aching heart with his joy

April 5, 2011 

20 years ago i met an incredible boy, one who has great wit and intelligence, charm that should be spread among many, and a smile that will melt your heart. i praise God that we get to celebrate this day and i thank so many friends for all the diligent prayers. what a blessing today is!

April 5, 2010 

okay prayer warriors.. today is Nick’s birthday and I want to thank you all for your dedication to getting him here! he turns 19 today but we can’t let up now, he is really in a battle and some days I fear we have lost him for good and other days I see my son shining through. so if you have a moment, please lift him up, that he might find a way out of this hell of addiction.