Strong arms

June 26, 2012


After a terrifying day post-op with complications threatening my recovery, I managed to stay awake long enough after my ten'o'clock meds to glance through the days' news, and suddenly realized that while I had awakened early that morning to a series of nightmarish situations,  fluid build-up, the inability to breathe, and so on -- people I knew and loved were in the face of danger. 


My grandparents, aunt and family have lived in Colorado Springs since I was a toddler. While Grandpa, Grandma and our beloved Uncle Kenny have been gone from us, for years now, memories of days in the 'Springs are as much of part of my life as birthdays and Christmas. One cousin's home lay directly in the path of the inferno, and my aunt and uncle's 45+ home had to be evacuated.


What a nightmare. A real live no waking and rubbing the eyes nightmare.


My little boys, back in the day, had recurring nightmares.


Two-year-old Randall used to sleepwalk, out into the living room, big chocolate-brown eyes glazed over, terrified of SillyDay ( that's all he could get out).


A tiny Craig had regular horrific visions of the Mesei Cats ( which turned out to be the nasty Siamese cats from Lady and the Tramp, torturing him -- and would coming running in the night, electric blond hair flying, to wedge himself into my sleepy embrace until he could fall asleep again. 


Baby Brett somehow retained the seemingly peaceful image of orangutans at the San Diego Zoo, strolling in front of his perch in the viewing enclosure, in a nightmare file that would cause him to cry out in terror every other night or so.


Those nightmares ended for my little boys as they grew older, but as we grow older we face equally terrifying situations where it seems there are no open arms to jump into. Spouses die, cancer strikes, relationships end,  businesses fail, homes are lost, catastrophes happen.


Whilst I recovered from my own medical nightmares, my cousin and his wife faced the loss of the their home and pending breast cancer battle with the strength and grace of the Garden of the Gods,  just up the road. Blessedly they had ample time to retrieve things from their home, making hurried trips back and forth between his older sister's house and the one with the flames rushing towards it. Their children gathered favorite possessions, and my cousin drove off with the last load as 'the bomb' of flames leaped the mountain ridge, seen exploding in his rearview mirror.

On Thursday he took his wife in for a lumpectomy, in the part of the 'Springs where life had gone on fairly regularly, picked her up, and headed out for a family weekend with one thought in mind -- be together and face the future as it comes.

I'm headed home today from an arduous, excruciating two weeks, preceded by a spring of highly dramatic events including the life and death struggles of my own son.

It's only been three weeks since Jon left for this stretch in Kuwait, ten days since I woke up from surgery and had to absolutely rely on the inner strength I have from God to be able to sit here, early this morning listening to the birds. The nightmares of Tuesday have abated, for the most part, but this will be a long recovery in which there will be many moments of wanting Jon's arms around me -- and the secure peace that they are there, if only in spirit. The nightmares in Colorado have abated, with much work to be done as well, and one young lady in particular has already decided that she wants a double window in the new house. They grow 'em good up there in the Rockies.

I made Jonathan laugh last night and the sound of his rumbly tones seemed to clear all the nightmarish strings away from my own scenario. It's been so hard on him to be so far away from me when I hurt and seemingly do nothing -- but his twice daily 'hugs' from Kuwait bolstered my lagging spirit and gave me courage. My cousin's practical, tender approach to his own situation has and will certainly do the same for his family.

These two guys depend on strength from a source beyond understanding. It's been a long time since I heard my cousin pray, but I'm guessing it's close to the same tones that I hear in Jonathan, across the globe, "Dear heavenly Father, hold on to Amy, let her know it will be all right, give her rest and strength and healing..."

Run into the same arms that they do, whenever you need to.

God never sleeps, and nightmares are banished within His embrace. There still may be ashes to clear, but you are safe within His arms.

Family Mottos...

Family mottos.

As I lie in bed this early Tuesday morning, a million thoughts run through my head, as if in preparation for the blank hours that will come to pass later today under anesthesia. HA

Family mottos. Nil Desperandum. That’s the family crest of the House of Hawkins, according to genealogists, and one of the sole reasons why I kept the surname of the Hurricane I was once married to. 

Nil Desperandum. Never Give Up.

Seems fitting for me, even though I was born under the House Of Bailor, which has no family motto on record, seeing as Bailor is a derivative of Biller, Bahler, Behler, or Balorski  -- my granddad’s favorite joke that we were Polish. HA

Personally, I think our family motto should be Praeteritorum Obliviscuntur. Forget the Past. Even people on the maternal side like to fling that one around. Stop bringing up the past, you’re not very forgiving. Stop focusing on the past, you can’t change it. Stop talking about what happened yesterday, it’s over. Is it??? Is it really???

Forget the Past. Seems like sound advice, doesn’t it? Very progressive, forgiving,  transforming.

Forget the Past. On closer examination, a little too simple, and a little too broad.

Certainly Retain the Good Memories is in order, quite uplifting and positive, but still overlooking One Huge Detail for a Christian heritage.

Praeteritorum Obliviscuntur applies to folks like Jehovah’s Witnesses, who don’t observe anniversaries or birthdays or holidays or other Past Occasions. They choose to live in the now – which is not all bad…

…except…

…especially for Christians, whose very essence focuses on a pivotal Moment in The Past.

The crux, literally , The Cross, of Christianity, lies in the past. Jesus’ choice to follow the Great Plan of Redemption lies totally in the past. His Birth, Ministry, Death and Resurrection are all permanently affixed to an era in human history from which THE ENTIRE WORLD KEEPS TIME.

A.D. Anno Domini. B.C.E. Before the Common Era. However you want to phrase it.

The Jews count back to 5772, so even they keep time according to God, if not the birth of Christ, from which all time is measured.   ALL TIME.

Forget the past belongs to those who are not accountable for what they have done, the ones who take forgiveness as a blanket fix-all for everything. Just forget about it. Ho-kay. 

We certainly can forget the past.

Or can we? Should we? DO WE???

Do we consciously block out the birth of our children, the touch of a loved one that has passed away, the sweet memory of a first kiss? Can we really forget how someone treated us for good or for bad, as it gently or forcefully shapes how we go about our own lives in model or avoidance of those memories? Should we forget Christmases and summer days and the first day of kindergarten, the smell of jasmine and the taste of biscuits on Grandma’s table? Shall we completely obliterate everything that has ever happened simply because God forgave our sins and we are free in Christ, and skip happily along to heaven?

No.

As Christians, we focus on The Past. The Scriptures. The Life of Christ. The life of the apostles. The life of the early Church. The Eucharist. The Crucifixion, the Resurrection – and we look forward to the Second Coming – but in the meantime, we are being saved, every day, from our own past, by that of Jesus.

That doesn’t mean you are given a clean slate from everything that ever happened. 

You are given a clean slate from The Consequences of every thing that ever happened in your life.

Big Difference.

God gave us memories to be able to cling to the Cross, and to each other, in fellowship.

Otherwise we’d just be busy bees, cross-pollinating the Gospel to flowers everywhere with no memory of why we are doing so.

Today I personally am moving forward from StupidCancer with my reconstruction. The scars on my chest will be replaced by something more regular, but I won’t forget them, nor will I want to. Those scars have rebuilt me from the inside out, causing me to look beyond my appearance and into my heart as to the woman God has called me to be.

Busy bees are awesome. They work hard and keep the plant kingdom alive, in turn keeping us alive. But not one of them has a name to remember, nor an eventful life, nor a family motto. They live they work they die. No memories, no history.

Praeteritorum Obliviscuntur. Nope.

Memoriam Salvatoris. Remember your Savior. He is the past, the present, and the future.

Memoriam Salvatoris. Remember. Your Savior.

Fleas

55-year-old Corrie Ten Boom lived with her aging father and sister in Holland, in the watchmaker's shop their family had maintained for 100 years, when the Nazis rolled in and took over. Their narrow, twisty, multi-level home behind and above the shop gave way to a Hiding Place. A small cupboard room off Corrie's own bedroom served as an escape from nosy Nazis for neighborhood Jews. After several years of covert ops smuggling the Jews out of Holland, the family was captured and sent to 'camps'. Corrie and her sister Betsy were flung into a barracks literally crawling with fleas. Corrie freaked out. The loss of home and family, combined with  disgusting quarters in which to 'live', did her in. Betsy told her to start praying, and Corrie balked. Betsy again told her to pray, and be thankful for the fleas -- and she did, but very reluctantly. They dealt with the fleas the best they could, and after a few days other women in the camp told them that they were the luckiest ones in the entire wretched place -- because no guards would ever come to molest them in the Flea Unit. 

I know a family that has been horrified by 'fleas'. You probably do too. Families that cling so hard to 'what they know' that they have no room in their arms for anything new.  

Their seeming contented, well-ordered, blessed-by-God existence has periodically been infested by 'fleas' in the form of divorce, abandonment, estrangement, breaking off of traditions by a few younger members, weddings with babies on the way, unapproved of son-in-laws, you name it. Sometimes the family glossed over certain events, like the ones involving babies, but the other infestations disbanded the family. Mostly philosophically but also physically in a few instances. 

Fleas saved the spinster sisters in Holland from being raped and molested, and they went to their graves pure in body despite being under Nazi rule. That's a miracle.

The Pharisees saw Jesus as a flea infestation, and they took steps to dispatch Him. Little did they know He already was ready to be dispatched to change history. 

These other 'life aberrations' in the family I know, and in others, who use the Bible as a shield against acceptance and variation, could be the opportunity that God has been waiting for them to use to let Him work further in their hearts. I hope that someday they will hear Betsy's words, and get down on their knees, and thank Him for the fleas. 

They just might save them. 

Camels, Goats, and Father's Day :-)

Having become a pretty devout Catholic, I wanted to go to Mass this morning before I have my BigSurgery on Tuesday, but the nearest parish is 20 minutes away and the logistics of getting up, dressed and into a cab to go to Beach Park were just too much for my post-surgery self this morning, so my aunt Donna and I walked, old-school, to the Methodist church I’ve been to before just four blocks away.

A nice lady across the way offered up a prayer for me in the joys and concerns after we exchanged the Peace, and then the West African dialect emanating from the Illinois Methodist pulpit this morning made me follow along a little more closely than I would have if I had gone to Mass in the next town over.

We listened to “Faith of our Fathers” as a meditation, and my throat got a little tight thinking about my dad and how much I miss him, and then I remembered a Father’s Day long ago, when my soon-to-be-estranged father made it clear that he would rather be with his little research assistant than with his own children on Father’s Day. 

Just a few years later, on a Horrid Vacation with my father and his research assistant to Egypt, a handsome Egyptian offered 4,000 camels to my daddy in exchange for my hand in marriage. iI was flattered and more than a little worried, since my future step-monster would have gladly taken the camels were it up to her. Fortunately I made it back to California. LOL

I mused on how I’d struggled with self-esteem and self-worth ever since, until God put me back into Jon’s life, and vice versa.Then I put away the sniffles, and tuned in.

The pastor talked of wanting to be more like Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, and Denzel Washington, HA, in order to draw a bigger crowd – but had finally decided that he, like so many “heroes” in the Bible, didn’t need to be famous to do God’s work. 

He spoke of red-haired little shepherd boy David, chosen to be king after the tall dark and handsome Saul, whom the people had felt was worthy to be king. ( He also pointed out that Saul was a spear-chucking, witch-consulting, impulsive swearing type guy which would explain why God chose the little shepherd boy with the slingshot to take up the throne. HA) He pointed out that the ancient Israelites weren’t much different than we are with wanting ‘the right image”, a celebrity king as a leader, instead of the right heart in leadership.

His soft West African accent strummed my heartstrings with the memory of the 4,000 camels, and underscored the ‘image factor’ theme of the sermon with a tale about an African bride who was passed over many times because she was plain. Other more beautiful brides would be chosen and given a fine dowry of many bulls for their beauty. A man who loved this plain girl for her heart gave her father 10 goats, instead the customary 1, as a sign of his devotion. His friends mocked him for offering such a large dowry. Sometime after they had been married, the friends were gathered and the most beautiful woman came to greet the man. They mumbled among themselves as to whom she could be…and the man said, “This is my 10-goat-bride. She has bloomed after being loved…” The sniffles re-emerged. 

That's me. 

I'm blossoming after being loved by Jonathan. Growing and blooming further and with more vivid color after finally understanding the unconditional, unending, all-encompassing love of God, made more comprehensible by the human relationship with Jonathan. I’m now “a 10-goat-bride”, although after I told him the story, Jon said I was a 40-bull-bride. What a love.

I’ve finally bloomed, after years of struggling with not being more ‘accomplished’, not having a long career or accolades or awards or financial gain; after wondering if I had any value to anyone.

With Jonathan seated next to me as Brett graduated three weeks ago,  I looked back at my life as a mother, raising three boys who became exceptional men. 

I don’t need any degrees or awards or accolades to validate my purpose in this world. I'm a pretty decent mother, as evidenced by my kids, and a passionate dedicated partner to a good and honorable man, as evidenced by his passion and tenderness towards me. I'm sure the next phase of my life will be equally as rewarding and wonderful, and equally less celebrity-factor-full. 

Amazing and wondrous nonetheless. As the pastor said this morning, "We are famous to God. What else do we need?"

This passage from The Message sums it up.

“Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don't see many of "the brightest and the best" among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families.

Isn't it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these "nobodies" to expose the hollow pretensions of the "somebodies"?

That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That's why we have the saying, "If you're going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God." 

1 Corinthians 1:26-31

Down The Rabbit Hole

'I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!'" - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland, Ch. 2

I've not changed in the night, but rather changed in the light. The past two years, for certain. Just this past week resulted a hodge-podge of travel, tears, tenderness, tumultuous emotions, anesthesia -- and a shifting of so much of what I knew in my childhood. LOL

Jonathan headed back to Kuwait a week ago tomorrow. Feels like he's been gone a month already...and when his gorgeous face popped up on the Skype screen I instinctively reached out and touched his face. We chatted animatedly for a little while this morning while I watched a series of flip-top yawns follow one after another, and I asked him to please go to bed. Jonathan and my relationship has changed me, physically and spiritually over the past two years. I glow. I grin. I giggle.

Last Sunday I left my home in the capable hands of Rand-all. Hugged Brett good-bye as he rehearsed for choir tour, had a margarita with Craig and Emily, and flew up to Chicago for the next phase of recovery from StupidCancer, and cried on the plane, missing Jonathan and dreading the pain of the next two weeks. Tuesday I lay underneath an x-ray machine while a clinician snaked a catheter through my arteries in preparation for a smallish surgery, where more veins and arteries were divided to increase blood flow to the chest region next week. I had a flashback to the pre-mastectomy tears of three years ago as I made the realization that I was once again A Patient. It didn't last too long. My Aunt Donna makes me spit out my food with the crazy things she says, and I am suddenly convulsing in mirth like I did and still do with her daughter Jennifer. Case in point, I was concerned that I might need a wheelchair to tour the Milwaukee Zoo in Saturday with an excursion from the hospital, and she said thoughtfully but with a mad gleam in her eye, "I'll just aim downhill." HA HA 

My Aunt Donna is not my DNA relative, but she has known my family for 54 years and known me all my life. Prior to last year she was simply, eternally, Aunt Donna of the Tupperware and peanut-butter pancakes and cooing-dove kisses/hugs at family events and Jenn's kooky mom. LOL Sometime around the time of my hysterectomy last year we became friends, women who had survived love and loss and betrayal and drama and kept laughing in spite of it all. This winter when my daddy died, she was the only one who listened to my grief AND truly understood the loss of the man I had loved, because she knew that man. 

This week we have laughed and cried and giggled and wept and laughed some more. The nurse doing my chart in the surgery unit listened to us warbling for half an hour and then remarked,  ' Your family is as crazy as mine. ' HHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA

This week Aunt Donna of the Tupperware has become a sister-in-life to me. She also has revealed things to me which I will take to the grave that completely set my childhood memories on edge. HA It's the eradication of everything I've ever known. HA  

We aren't just Aunt Donna and Little Amy of the past, but two women who have survived much,  are slightly whack,  but still manage to get a kick out of the little joys in life. We have both lost much. We have both been set aside by our families and set our families aside, in self-defense.For so many years I only saw her as a mother, who had some interesting parenting ideas that sometimes didn't work out so well... and now i see from a veteran mother's viewpoint. It's a humbling, tender epiphany. She has taken me under her wing, literally, this week, and I am so, so, so, grateful for her tender touch after such a prickly emotional spring and now this short season of surgery. 

She wasn't the greatest mom ever, but no one was, except for a remarkable Young Lady named

Mary, visited by an angel long ago. I wasn't the perfect child, but no one was, except Mary's 

Wondrous Child who grew to walk among us and know us and offer us grace in spite of ourselves. 

This morning I heard her musical laugh across the dining room, and I suddenly got homesick for all things things that have been lost over the years -- while at once grateful for the chance to hear her musical laugh. My heart welled up and spilled over with love and loss. 

Before we could leave the dining room,  it was suddenly time for Friday Karaoke at the Spa-Hospital. I got up and sang  James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" and a few selections later, The Carpenters' " It's Yesterday Once More" -- and then, at the end of the hour, the chaplains asked if there was anyone else who wanted to sing. I suddenly stood up and spontaneously asked the gospel-singing lady next to me to come up and sing "Amazing Grace". She hedged for a minute, giving another patient at the next table time to say 'I'll sing it with you'. Thirty seconds later, three strangers picked out three-part-harmony with perfect pitch, and sang Amazing Grace with amazing grace. Praise echoed through the rafters of the dining room and through everyone's hearts.

Life down The Rabbit Hole. Upside down, things out of order, lives upended. Keep singing. Just keep singing...and when we've been there, ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we've no less days to sing God's praise, than when we first begun. 

 

Re-adjusting the Course

The patchwork land spreads out under a hazy layer of clouds as my regional jet wings its way from the plains to the Great Lakes. As we climb, a patchwork of clouds floats below us, like whipped cream on green Jell-o.

My ‘aunt’ Donna waits for me there, ready to be my hand-holder and confidante and mirth-maker while I finally finish the last leg of recovery from StupidCancer.

I realize with a jolt that I forgot my headphones – which is funny, because Jonathan forgot his, too, when he left for Kuwait yesterday. Both of our headphones are in our bedroom back in Texas where neither of us are. HA

I also realize with a jolt that it is nearly exactly three years since I first made this flight to Chicago, to get in the limo for the Cancer Center.

At forty-one, I was a buxom blonde with shoulder length curls wishing she had a man in her life who’d know her and understand her, a mom with one kid out of high school and, one finishing up, and one just starting. I’d landed a position in sales and book reviews at the local newspaper, and after more than a few years of struggling to keep us all in macaroni and cheese with a roof over our heads while battling my oldest’s chronic blood disorder, I found out I had cancer.

Really??

The plague of poverty and loneliness wasn’t enough to keep me in check? Cancer?

Breast cancer? Really? I’d done all the right things, nursed my kids, lived on green tea and asparagus for years, and for what? Cancer. Cancer in my breasts, the one thing I thought defined me as a woman.

I got personal with my boys one day in the kitchen, telling them I was angry with God that I had cancer in the very places that I bonded with them as babies. Even though it made them uncomfortable, they knew that day how much mother-love I had for them, and someday, when their wives nursed their babies, they’ll understand how much overwhelming love those women have for those little squeaking bundles.

After three years of chemo days, hair loss, multiple surgeries, two more graduations, finding the love of my life and coming to terms with my tenuous place in my own childhood family dynamic, I’m coming full circle to finally have permanent reconstruction done. 

I cannot wait. 

After the second round of loss,  of my tissue expanders, I have had ongoing pain and crave relief from it. This surgery will be an ordeal – the lead nurse on my Care Team says I’ll be peeled like a banana. To me, after the long spring, except for Jon’s vacation, I’m looking forward to being heavily medicated and getting some rest.  HA

Jonathan is back in Kuwait after a wonderful two-week hiatus with us, celebrating Brett’s graduation, keeping the governor on my motor in the midst of prickly former relatives, gracing my life with smiles and silliness and sweetness after a long spring of non-stop emotional jogging. He’s been my shoulder, near and far, as I waded through Randall’s illness and assorted family nonsense this season.

Suffice it to say, after finally accepting the fact that I would never fit in the circle of my birth family, I quit.

Quit the family.

If they want to be my friends they are more than welcome, but after 42 years of trying to fit in and being called out for being different, I quit ( except for my mom and my aunts ). 

“Aunt” Donna is on the other side of that equation, as her kids have quit her for their own reasons, so we are a mother and daughter from different families who need the other for opposing reasons. My mom is still a vital part of my life, yet it doesn’t hurt to have a couple of extras.  Jonathan’s mom and I run very close in our view of things, and share the deep faith and mysterious passion for the Catholic church, as well as a deep love for Jonathan on different levels. Donna knew my dad when he was a wonderful man, once upon a time, making her the only person who also knew him like I did with whom I can talk to without  getting vitriolic when I bring him up.  Our rather large group of offspring more than make up for the pang of loss I feel separated from my own siblings, and my half-sibs help ease the sting as well.

So, here we are. Above the highest cloud layer for a few minutes as the sun casts golden rays into the little windows along the side of the jet. Once again, the past circles around me as I head into the future. The boy who amazed me with his passion for science fiction, now the love of my life, is in Kuwait, sacrificing day to day family time to being able to provide for them and for me while I recover.  I’m on my way to retrieving my figure which I sacrificed to keep my life three years ago, and spending a fortnight in and out of the hospital -- and in and out of memories of my daddy with my best childhood friend’s mom, who has known me since I was born.

This aircraft isn’t flying in a straight line from OKC to Chicago. The pilot has to keep constantly adjusting the flight path to maintain a curve so we move with the earth’s rotation and don’t overshoot our destination.

We have to keep adjusting our paths along our life routes, too, so that we get to where we are supposed to be. Turbulence may hit in the form of cancer and loss of loved ones. Some legs of the journey are full of delays and missed opportunities. Some flights get you right to where you want to go without a hitch. You have to work the whole way, though. Luggage gets heavy. Plane tickets have a price. Vacations only last so long before reality sets in and you have to get back into it before the next vacation.

If you are thankful for EVERYTHING, Everything stays in balance. Work, and vacation. Laughter, and loss. Companionship, and solitude.

It’s like a marriage, living your own life. You have to take it all as it comes, cherish the good parts and forgo the rest.

Taking all the parts as a whole and loving it all… “ I take thee, this my crazy life, to be my adventure, in sickness and in health, for better for worse, for richer for poorer.”

Amen.  

Put me on a highway, and show me a sign...♪

Last Wednesday we opened up the AZ storage unit and, after a fashion, got Jon's Harley on the road.

We tooled all over Sierra Vista on the bike for five days, as if we'd done that all our lives. Donning helmets and gloves and jackets and connecting our intercoms and leaning into corners and riding across the desert and so on.

After we packed up the rest of the boxes in the storage unit, I followed with the loaded truck while Jon went ahead on the highways to New Mexico, obviously taking photos along the way.

It's a different way of life for Jonathan and me, total nerds from toddlerhood on. LOL This is the boy who sighed deeply and painfully at the passing of Ray Bradbury yesterday, the bookish blond who has fifty-six volumes of stories by Edgar Rice Burroughs and deals with wires and servers and cyborg-like equipment on a day-to-day basis. I'm the geek queen who drove a '59 Chevy station wagon to school, is afraid of climbing on the roof, and cut her own hair most of her life. ( It's cheap, but also sometimes, mostly, unattractive. LOL)

Harley culture is entirely different. It's full of thought, so that is familiar territory to us. Jon's thought patterns deal in practicalities, so he loves all the internal details. The gear, the machinery, the dynamics. Mine deal in senses so I love the external details. The rumble, the wind on our faces, the stars in the night sky, being 'outside' while 'driving'. As in everything, we are in perfect balance.

Nonetheless, we both are getting used to the peril. A big wobble in the wind made time stand still while he steadied the machine, and when Route66, we've dubbed his ride, decided to balk and had to be towed in a trailer, there were some dicey moments. Suffice it to say, flip-flops, gasoline, and a slipping 800-lb 'horse' in a small confined area make for fervent prayer.

It's definitely different.

His kids are stunned. DAD? OUR DAD? DAD? ON a HARLEY? while mine echo the same, with MOM? running counterpart.

Not a few years back a cousin of mine made a similar huge life change, choosing a different school of thought and purpose than we'd all been indoctrinated since diapers. There was a huge uproar and she suffered for her decision to live her own life. To this day, I am so ashamed of myself for attempting to convince her to 'stay withing the Truth'. Who am I to say what Truth is??? I'm not God.

A few years later another cousin made a life change and had a gorgeous son, on her own. Not so backlash, because there was a baby, but she suffered, too, because she was choosing something different.

I could go into about twenty years' worth of nonsense within my own immediate siblinghood, but it's the same old nonsense, and I'm having a good day.

This morning a friend posted on FB about a life decision that her sister made and how to deal with it. Fake happiness? Tell her off? Which?

There was a man from Galilee who face a similar and very public dilemma. Should He state the Law and punish a woman for her offenses, or stay on the Path He preached, and allow free will and personal choices?

He wrote in the sand for a few moments, and then asked who was without offense in the crowd, and said they were fit to judge her if they had no stain.

The Eagles sang, "And when you're looking for your freedom, and nobody seems to care, and you can't find the door, can't find it anywhere, when there's nothing to believe in, still you're coming back, you're running back, you're coming back for more..." We always head back to ourselves. As long as we know we are not the end all, and we are constantly growing and evolving, circling ourselves is not entirely selfish. It';s touching base with what has been Created. Us.

We. are. amazing.

Riding a Harley isn't a sin, but it's certainly different. And a little inconvenient, if you want to ride safely. It takes a good five minutes to get your gear on, and it's sweaty and makes your hair flat; you cannot wear flip-flops while riding AND protect your feet.  Choosing a different religion, a different motherhood, a different lifestyle can be considered a sin, depending on the mob calling for judgement, and it's not without consequence. People will judge, but in the end, you are only share the road for a little bit. Your route is not theirs...and what happens to you is up to you and the Creator.

Choosing a different way is at once liberating and dangerous, just like riding a Harley. No matter what you choose, ask God to ride with you -- or at least succumb to Higher Power than yourself. You are not all that matters on the road, but you are precious nonetheless. Protect yourself. Plan well,  and keep your eyes and your heart open.

But remember, no one should ride alone for very long. Make sure you've got what you need for the journey, and remember to let the wind caress you as you head along.

'Put me on a highway, and show me a sign, and take it to the limit, one more time'

Perestroika

perestroika  (ˌpɛrəˈstrɔɪkə)
— n
	the policy of reconstructing the economy, etc, of the formerSoviet Union under the leadership of Mikhail Gorbachev
[C20: Russian, literally: reconstruction 'Tis the season of perestroika. I'd forgotten that word, as I have so many other things that transpired during the 90's as I attempted to raise myself and three young boys.  It was rumored that Gorbachev was the Antichrist solely based on the port-wine stain on his forehead, and for that hysterical reasoning and other hysterical incidents that occurred while I grew up with my little boys, perestroika fell to the wayside in my vocabulary until I started playing Words with Friends with my father-in-love, who has some sort of vocab genie in a bottle. :-D But I digress. Reconstruction after devastation and struggle and pain remains the theme of the day. Our oldest Younglings, Courtney and Randall, are each taking a different approach to life than the angry staggering they've each clung to tightly for most of their lives. Not so much their doing, simply that her daddy and his mommy were both in angry staggering households whilst they were in their formative years, and so they got that way by default. Recent events have softened each of their hearts, and while these two have The Most Biting Wit of any we know, we are proud of both of them and the success they are meeting since they each let the Light into their souls. Craig and Brett aren't reconstructing so much as continuing to build on the solid foundations they've laid for themselves through their hard work and dedication to success, but in a way they are. Their childhood finished, concluded last weekend with Brett's graduation, they can now choose their inter-family relationships and aren't bound by duty to anyone but God and themselves. Our clan in River City also is in perestroika. Carianne has raised her brothers and sisters for her parents, while Jon has been away and their mother has searched for herself while being present physically. (I did that, too, when Brett was in kindergarten, so no aspersions on her character, just observation of fact.) Now, with the twins' last year of school looming, she can begin to pursue her own goals.  Samantha is shifting from work to career in teaching. Hope is headed to San Diego to start school and Life once again. Jack and Laura are adjusting to their daddy's regular interaction in their life after never having it at all.  Jonathan is also in perestroika...emerging from the dust and devastation of living with an individual who could clearly be the individual in the Scripture, "but first remove the log from thine own eye before attempting to remove the splinter from another". That 'relationship' usurped all of his energy. All. Parental, personal, financial, spiritual. After spending an hour with us the other day, for the first time, his oldest daughter remarked that she'd never seen her daddy so happy, relaxed, and social. That 'relationship' caused him to have to work overseas for the last ten years, to support his teenagers -- especially the twins, with whom he has yet to construct a solid, Real, relationship. Yesterday we went through his storage unit and I came across countless accolades of his years in the USAF. Countless. I've always been proud of his service to his country, but getting a visual on his dedication increased my pride -- juxtaposed against the depravity of the 'home' that he extricated himself from two years ago -- made me glad he is in my life now, on so many levels. I am in the perestroika process as well, across my entire existence. I've finally come home to the Church, and I no longer feel guilty about who I am and how I live, as I now fully understand that the Church was built upon the love of Christ but led by people who were just as dumb, earnest, and doggedly passionate as me, just as much in love with Jesus as I am. I now have a rather large family who loves me unconditionally. None of them are my blood relatives, except for my mom and my boys, but they are my family and they love me for me, not for what they think I should be to make them comfortable. My own dear dad is laid to rest, physically, and emotionally, for all time. I am released from mandated, active parenting by the power of the diploma handed to young Master Brett last weekend. I'm headed to my Spa-Hospital in a week or so to finally, finally, resolve the after-effects of StupidCancer on my body. When I'm all healed up, it will be time for Brett to head off to college, and a new level of relationship with the kid who has been my comfort, my songbird, my stabilizer, for 18 years. (I was a little perturbed at the news of the third baby as I gazed at the two pint-sized idiots pummeling each other in the living room, back in 1993, but Brett has been a lifesaver for me in ways he will never understand. Holding a snuggly baby was just the beginning.) Perestroika. An excellent word to win points at Words with Friends, and an excellent concept for those of us who have survived cancer, war, abandonment, and needy, greedy, people. perestroika  (ˌpɛrəˈstrɔɪkə)    [C20: Russian, literally: reconstruction