Have we forgotten?

Friday the 13th has, by some, been marked as a day of bad luck. Superstitions sometimes are associated with the date. This most recent Friday the 13th came with horrific news that afternoon as I was running errands with my two sons.
We were driving thru some neighborhoods on our way to do some errands. My car radio was on, as it often is, and I heard the radio announcement about this mass murder being reported from Paris, France. I looked at my clock and it was just past 230pm. I looked over at my teenager and then at my younger son in the row behind me. I immediately thought back to a time when I was getting into my vehicle, pregnant with the teenager who sat next to me, as I listened to a nearly speechless radio announcer report the planes which had crashed into the twin towers.
Terrorists. Extremists. A small group of radicals with an agenda of terror and death.
I was not in New York, Pennsylvania or DC when "9-11" happened. I have never stepped foot on its soil. I did not know anyone whose life was lost in these attacks. But it affected me. I remember holding my belly and wondering why and how I could bring a child into this world with such terror going on in this world.
Fast forward 14 years. I have 6 children I am trying to raise in this God forsaken world. I was fast reminded a few days ago of both my luck and my blessings to be raising my family here but I do not feel safe. I am in fear of this group of radicals who speak of my country on their lips.
I purposely do not watch the news on television or listen to radio news programs. I shifted my attention in other directions several years ago and for many reasons. I have not been able to escape much of the news the last few days, however. I turned to settle into my late night routine of snuggling into bed and going thru my dvr to watch some of my programs and quickly found how they were replaced with coverage of the mass murders that took place in Paris. I watched a few and deleted many other recordings.
The other coverage I have seen about Paris has been Facebook. Several of my friends have opted to change their profile pictures so that France's flag's colors cover them. I saw this as a step towards solidarity and support from former coworkers, classmates, neighbors, relatives and friends. It made me feel as though we knew what the French people have now experienced. Our country knows what it feels like to be violated, raped, terrorized, and live in fear because of the actions of people who had an agenda they followed through on.
But changing a photo.......is it enough? I have seen many not mention or open discussion about it. Do we remember?  Have we forgotten? My news feed is covered in football posts and the occasional good wishes and prayers for an injured football player, but what about what just happened?? I am in shock. I am frustrated. I don't know what to do or say about the lack of reaction. Do we care? Do we really care? In one news report, they mentioned the NFL pledging to crack down further on security in upcoming games. These terrorists attacked innocent concert attendants and people frequenting cafes. It is the first attack in the West and it could happen to us here. In a 50,000 capacity stadium where fans gather to watch a game. That should be enough to pray for our brothers and sisters around the world, for prayers that these extremists be captured, and that evil will not prevail.
God be with us. God comfort us. God save us.

The Struggle Is Real And Comes In The Form of a Seventh Grade Girl

There is this awkward prepubescent girl that coexists in my mind. She is the one who is overlooked, that seeks approval and wants everyone to like her. I have been reminded of her many times in the last few weeks.

I read a blog that resonated with me and happened to compare the content of the article to being a 7th grader, getting pushed around in the hallways. Yes, that would be what I am relating to. Trying to find my way around without getting shoved into a row of metal lockers or dropping my armload of books. To avoid being teased and made fun of for what I am wearing (or not wearing) to school.

I have tried to evict this annoying girl out of my life but she always manages to stick around. Her presence is there and I am reminded that there is still more to address before she can grow up and move on.

Every once in awhile I will cross paths with a person from my past and the awkward prepubescent girl makes an appearance. Facebook is a venue where this will happen. I like to use it as a forum to stay connected to friends and family. The awkwardness comes when a former friend happens to leave a comment on the pages of a mutual friend. I get wrapped up in the old hurts and think about the reasons that friendship has dissolved. On a bad day, it gets me worked up.

I know about the different options of blocking parties so that they magically disappear, assisting with putting away the bad memories mixed in with significant portions and experiences I had with an individual. It seems, well, childish to hit a button to virtually erase their existence from an online world. I did this a few years ago, when the pain was too fresh and the wounds were too deep. It helped but it didn't prepare me for real life interaction or the occasional run in at the local store. In real life, you can't erase or block someone (although there are people who will debate this). To me it isn't reality.

Several years ago there were a group of friends, which included my only sister and best friend, who betrayed me and violated my trust. Well over 200 years of friendship existed between me and them. I am still working thru this and know so when I stumble across a situation that requires trust and acceptance. That awkward, insecure prepubescent girl makes an appearance. I doubt my worth, I doubt their loyalty. I think back to the people who hurt me and try to protect this naive girl whose outfit isn't designer labeled and not a single digit size. I know the depths of the hurt and at the hands of people who I loved and try not to make the people in my life today see this girl who hasn't gone away.

I know that I have grown from the pain and that it has made me stronger. I give credit to support groups I've attended, a small group I belong to, lunch dates and weekly dinner dates, and attending church to the healing of my heart. I have leaned on my faith to get me through the rough patches when I felt alone and hurting. I have worked on being authentic and transparent as I muddled my way thru it. I try to give credit where credit is due. I believe there is a purpose to it all and the end result is ultimately growth.

But that prepubescent girl still sticks around..........

Making Changes

About a year ago I had to make some changes in my life. I had another surgery, this time on my leg, which forced me to slow down. Not having the capability to be mobile was very difficult and scary for me. The recovery time was slow and a challenge. I had been living with the pain for years and felt that the surgery was a step in the direction of improved mobility and health.

During this time, I had some reconstruction ideas about my life. I had been doing so many things for so long. Pouring out energy and running myself ragged. I have a passion and love for serving and was involved at my kids' school, at church, in a recovery group, not to mention trying to run an eight person family, helping house people in transition on my property and rescued a brother/sister set of dogs. Yeah, all in my free time.

I was gone three nights a week from home, attending a support group meeting and a step study. Friday nights I was regularly going out with friends after a meeting. Two Thursdays a month I attended a women's Bible study. I was doing a lot of individual activities but at the expense of my family.

Now, we haven't even addressed the activities of my kids! Tuesdays and Wednesdays my two oldest kids have youth group. Wednesdays I ran a youth volunteer day after school. Every other Friday my oldest daughter goes to visit her other mom. My oldest son was in baseball three out of four seasons of the year, which also included games and practices. My oldest daughter was previously involved in cheer for a few years.

My youngest three have social/emotional special needs and the youngest has a life threatening illness which requires a regiment of medication and treatments.

All of this makes for a very full life.

On top of this, I own my own business and have for the last ten years. I celebrated three years doing ministry work with my church. On average, I was working what I conservatively guesstimate between 40-50 hrs a week between the two. Who am I kidding? I am probably undercutting this by 20 hours.......

So, in my downtime as I am recovering from leg surgery, I had time to look over things. How I was spending my time and my life. I was burning up as much energy for two people, maybe more. I came to the sobering reality that I was sacrificing my children in the hustle and bustle of it all. It broke my heart. It still makes that lump in my throat form and my heart ache.

You see, a parent's actions will always affect their child. I realized how much what I was doing was affecting my children. My youngest attended daycare five days a week,  from morning until they closed. Often the long days left him exhausted by Thursday. (His condition leaves him to tire quicker than others but after I reduced his time I noticed his stamina improved.) Homework didn't always get done and when it did, it was rushed and the quality time wasn't there. We did ready to eat meals from the grocery store or quick prep meals high in sodium, calories and preservatives. I wasn't as involved with my children as I wanted to be. It made me so sad.

I needed to make changes but didn't know where to start.

Missing Him

I have been wanting to see the movie The Judge for quite some time. As life would have it, I got busy and I missed my chance to visit my local movie theater and take it in. I happened to see it on pay per view (or is a more modern term 'on demand'?) and rented it. It was a great expense. Not only did it have one but two of my favorite actors -- both Robert Duvall and Robert Downey Jr. That in itself makes for a masterpiece.

I knew of the story line. I knew it was going to pull some heart strings. I knew it was going to make me miss the hell out of my dad. And I was right on.

My dad had a lot of hopes and dreams for me. He always wanted a lawyer out of the family. I happened to entertain the idea and enrolled in a paralegal program which I finished. But, as my dad would know, it wouldn't go any further than a certificate. That wasn't my thing, my passion. I could argue and debate with the best of them, but I wouldn't ever make a living off of it.

My dad was a hard ass. He took pride in it. He loved to push people to the breaking point. It was a game to him. A battle of wits and skill. The weaker link would break under the pressure of the strong, unbreakable one. There were times I felt like a dog in a dog fight against my siblings. There were times I hated being played against them, especially when bad feelings lingered and grudges were held over heads and hearts.

I know that as my dad's oldest born daughter, I had big shoes to fill. He wanted a strong daughter. We were 2 weeks and 30 years apart in age. He missed out in the raising of his older sons but rarely talked about it. I am sure it was his own Achilles heel. Even though he didn't talk about it, I felt it. As a young girl, I think about 5 years old (I remember what teacher I had) he told me something that left an impression in my mind to this day. He told me that there would be people who would think I was not as good as a boy just because I was a girl but I had to show them I was, if not better, than a man. He would joke that he raised Amazon women only the joke wasn't in laughter but his own version of sarcasm.

I fought my way through the obstacles at school, in class, at work and even volunteering. I gravitated to male dominated careers. I found myself making my name known due to my job performance,  my younger age, and my attitude. I fully understood the term 'it's a dog eat dog world'. I didn't always select the jobs that my dad preferred but I always made a point to brag about my victories to him.

I sought his approval. He knew it. He would give me just enough praise and then correct my performance. I didn't know how to get around what he thought was constructive criticism. I just interpreted it as me not measuring up. He couldn't brag about me being some power hungry attorney, or a doctor or even married to one. I didn't know if I would ever make him proud to claim me.

When I decided I wanted to pursue a life in ministry, it wasn't clear to me what he thought. Anyone knows ministry work doesn't make you rich.....at least it shouldn't. Did I mention I made a switch and 'crossed over' from being a cradle Catholic to being a Protestant?  Yep, to break generations of Catholics on his side of the family. Not winning any awards or a submission for the 'Daughter of the Year Award'.

My dad was a man of strong faith and deeply rooted in the Word. He could recite Bible passages both forward and probably backwards I'm sure. He loved to talk about God and evangelize whenever and wherever he could. In my life, I heard some people refer to him as a fanatic because of his spiritual disciplines that he practiced daily. Praying the rosary until he couldnt keep his eyes open was common. He would watch religious programming and sing old hymns that some of his favorite vocalists sang. He wasn't shy about his religion or what he believed in.

He wanted me to go big. He often talked to me about starting my own church and how I could get grants to help me in those endeavors.  I wanted to fight back my own ego, stay low, focus on my relationship with God and do the hands and feet work of Jesus. You see, I come from a very proud yet hardworking family. Our accomplishments are worn on our chests like awards. I wanted something different out of this.

As my dad's health deteriorated, he spent more time resting and less time being active. I remember being 'called up' by my parents to take turns with my siblings to drive and escort him to his kidney dialysis sessions. My father was an early riser and of course, opted to take the first appointment of the day. There was no checking against our schedules. It was take a shift and make arrangements as needed. For me, that meant getting up no later than 515am to jump into my car and head south to Mill Creek to pick him up, to barely make it for his 6am check in. I can still envision him pacing back and forth in the driveway or looking distracted in his home office, with the lights on and the blinds drawn as he waited for his tardy daughter to arrive.

It was a labor of love to get up early in the morning, make arrangements to have the kids taken to their schools and have everything they needed to start their days. What was more of a challenge was sitting next to him, keeping him company for 5-6 hours as the machine drained, filtered and redistributed his blood thru a very large, intimidating machine. It was a job his failing kidneys could no longer do alone. Three times a week, he embarked with his escort to this center, which was squished between other stores, in a shopping plaza on the Bothell Everett Highway. I took one day a week and an occasional second shift when one of the siblings had a test or an important business meeting to attend.

I failed to mention my queasy stomach.

In 2000, I had a crazy idea to try and embark on studies to become a nurse. This comes from a woman who can't handle bodily fluids of any kind, whether my own or my child's. I went as far as being accepted into the nursing program when I finally 'came to' & to my parents' disappointment,  withdrew. Imagine me, trying to stomach sitting next to this mondo machine, and being in a room where several other patients endured the same treatments. It literally was hell for me, but the duty and my chance as his daughter to try to pay back a fraction of my gratitude for all of the years I had put him through hell.

So what does any of this have to do with this movie I just saw, you may be asking yourself. Everything.

My dad and I had an ongoing strained but loving relationship. He wanted the moon while I settled for a starlit sky. He wanted wealth and power to be my companions. When I discovered my calling as a minister, there was little convincing my dad could do to sway me away. He began to accept my decision. How did I know this? Because it was revealed one early morning at this dialysis center.

I can't quite remember if it was my first or my second visit there but I was introduced by my father as his daughter, the minister. He said it with pride and complete confidence. I was floored. As I came to fulfill my daughter duty, and with each new tech who helped get my dad hooked up and monitored, I was reintroduced the same way. He spoke of me to the other patients. I was known as his daughter the minister. I had arrived.

I watched scenes of this movie and thought about whether my dad or me would've watched it first. Which one of us would suggested it to the other? I imagined it would've been my dad who would've loaned me the copy, which I most likely wouldn't have returned. Maybe I could've gotten him to watch it with me. I won't ever know. What I do know is, the scene in the boat with the two Roberts brought tears cascading down my cheeks. That scene in the boat took place for me in a sterile medical facility where I was enough.

Man Vs Food

There's a show I used to watch called MAN vs FOOD. Here was this tv host who was paid to overeat and some of the tastiest food I have seen. It was rare that I ever ended an episode not craving something I saw him struggle to finish eating.

I have my own MAN vs FOOD battle. I live it.

I have a menagerie of photos throughout my adult life. I have made it a point to not only take photos of people, places and things but also to include myself in the mix. One day, I will be a memory and my hope is to be able to remind my loved ones of me and provide visuals.

There's a saying about how the camera never lies. Don't I know this to be true! I have seen photos of me, in action, on a jobsite. There I am, usually with my mouth open (talking) or throwing my head back in laughter or with a grin a mile wide. That's fine and dandy until I start picking apart the picture to highlight my flaws. The slight double chin from days of old has been traded in for a very pronounced double. My skin, no longer tan, portrays my overweight body even moreso. (I've always said that tan fat looks much better than white fat. Case in point? Think of a turkey before and after it is cooked.....) I am classified as morbidly obese in medical terms. Obese is no longer reserved for just those who need a wall knocked down to get them out of the house. I too now wear that label with shame.

I have battled my weight since grade school. Around third grade, definitely fourth grade, you could see my battle with the bulge. I vividly recall being teased and taunted because of my weight. And how did I deal with it, you ask? I ate through my emotions. It would be larger portions, then overloading on junk food. Stealing money from my dad's cash to buy the sweet treats I craved. Hell, I even skipped church with my dad's stolen money in my pocket and bought fresh donuts from the donut shop across the street during the Homily. Yes, I know, pretty bad.

The more I tried to deal with a tumultuous childhood, the more I sought solace in food. Food provided me comfort and security. To this day, the thought of having to give up or abstain from certain foods is enough for me to search for something to eat. Please don't take it away, my inner fat girl pleads.

Nowadays, my inner fat girl matches the outer fat girl I parade around town. I have had telltale signs of the effects of my weight in the form of high blood pressure, bone spurs on my heels, body aches and pains, stretch marks, lack of energy and motivation and chunky arms. I have grown to be selective of which photos should be used and struggle with cleansing my photo albums of any pictures I deem looking grotesque in. Deep down inside, I keep them as my future 'before' photos.

It is amazing how it all has taken a toll on me. I feel like I have days when I'm putting lipstick on a pig. I hear about my smile and my laughter and how both light up a room I'm in but that's not good enough. I still think of the size 18/20 woman that I am and can't see past that. I feel gloomy and gray inside.

I know I need to take action and get some help. I think that I will be happier if I was in my target range for a woman my size and height. I haven't been there but I'm betting the farm I would be. I just need to figure out how I can turn it all over and to admit that I can't do it all alone. Surgeries, fasting, cutting calories, excercise, drinking shakes vs eating....... none of it is worth a damn if I don't turn over the emotional struggles and the heart of the probelm and truly seek to become well.

Where Is Your Heart Without A Home?

I guess part of me did see the RV being used to put someone up. Eventually it would greet another wayward soul and provide shelter, albeit temporary.

Saturday night a family of four happened to have car trouble. They were trying to leave for Arizona but took the billowing smoke from their Pontiac to be a sign from God that they needed to stay put. So, a neighboring business pointed them in the direction of my church because they had heard we did things to help people.

(I'm still stuck on the cool fact that my church has made a name for ourselves. Hands and feet of Jesus at work.)

A few guys were asked to lend a hand and diagnose the issues. The children, a 2 yr old girl and 7 yr old boy, were checked into the children's programs and our executive pastor was found talking to the matriarch of the family. I'm not sure if they had dinner that night but we had some there to offer them.

After talking briefly with my friend, I learned they were homeless. The man and woman were married and they were raising their grandchildren,  who referred to them as Mom and Dad.

Homeless. How does this happen?

It is an all too familiar question for me. I have asked it many, many times. The longer I am in compassion ministry the more I come into contact with the working poor and homeless families. Jobs are lost and hours are cut. It is easy to get caught in the paycheck to paycheck lifestyle but what happens when the paychecks aren't enough to cover the cost to live?

There is a program called Financial Peace U. In the beginning there is an excercise about collecting the first $1, 000. Sell things if you have to, the FPU professor instructs, to get there. I wonder if this family, who sleeps in my driveway out in my RV, had done that. Did they have anything significant that added up to $1k? They drive a car. Was it an option to sell that to get a few more months in an apartment or did they make a better choice by keeping it?

I look at my own finances. I currently have no savings to account for. I have a savings account but in name alone. What is stopping me from the same fate?

I was once homeless. As an 18 yr old girl and again at 23. When I was 18, I found myself kicked out of the apartment I shared with my first boyfriend and his family. A physical fight was the result of a verbal fight. I will never forget how broken my heart was when he didn't come to my rescue as his older sister and dad took turns kicking me. I somehow ended up at a neighbor's across the building from where I had been living and took up a few nights there.

She was an older lady, definitely a grandmother and possibly old enough to be a great grandma. She took in this crying, abandoned girl who was several hours away from home, trying to make it on her own, working a dead end job at a Burger King she walked to and from. I remember crying in the dark and too sad and somewhat afraid to go to sleep in this stranger's home.

It had been many years since I had thought about that time in my life. Even now, the details are vague. I tried to recall her name, the lady who came to my aid. I'm not sure if it was in her livingroom that she set up a place for me to sleep or in a spare room.  It was something I had suppressed in my mind. An oddity of sorts, being how I pride myself in remembering the past. This memory though didn't resurface until this family had come, looking for help.

I know today that God never lets anything go to waste. Whether it be pain or victory, He finds a way to use it to bring glory. That night in 1993 came full circle on January 31, 2015. 22 years later, my pain was applied to further grow the kingdom of my loving and merciful God. I knew what that felt like, to have no home to rest my weary heart. I knew what it was like to have no money or resources to save myself. I needed an angel to pick me up off the ground and help me get back home. Maybe it was my turn to be that angel. Maybe, in the crazy scheme of things, the obedience in my heart and my willingness to follow Christ was what He needed me to do. To trust the outcome and not question the process. Afterall, is it not true that 'What you do for the least of my brothers that you do unto Me'?

Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard You calling in the night. I will go, Lord, if You lead me. I will hold Your people in my heart.

I Didn't Win The Mom Lottery

Friends, coworkers, neighbors, spouses, partners. Exhusband, old roommate, acquaintance. One thing that these people all have in common is relationship. 

I used to think that relationship was a verb, describing what we are doing with an individual. Being in a relationship used to mean a romantic or physical connection I had with a man. In my 40s it means much more.

I have lots of relationships. It doesn't limit me to being physically involved with a man.There are different levels of intimacy I experience with each person in my life. My ongoing struggle with intimacy in my relationships continues to be with women. 

I attribute many of my struggles to my nonexistent relationship with my mother. For most of my growing up years my memories include a woman who was highly critical of me, who belittled and put me down for my weight/grades/behavior/choices and used different forms of abuse to rule over me. As I transitioned into adulthood and discovered that I was pregnant, unmarried and scared four and a half months after I turned 18, the level of cruelty my mother portrayed reached a new high. When I needed her the most she was anything but a support. 

The first few days of my oldest son's life were some of the most painful days in my life. At the persuasion of both my parents, I made a life-changing decision to place my newborn baby for adoption. My birthing plan included specific instructions to shield me from seeing my son after he came out of the birth canal in hopes that a glance at him would change my mind. I had promised his adoptive parents that I would make their dreams of becoming parents a reality and couldn't take that back. Another birth mom had gone back on her word and they had to give back an infant who was already in their home, when she changed her mind. 

So what does this have to do with my mom? A lot. 

She was very much aware of all the details. I had been told by the hospital staff that I could change my mind at any time. Even the state social worker gave me a proverbial "get out of jail free" card mentioning what my rights were and my ability to change if I decided to. I can still remember staring blankly at the walls and the clock in my hospital room for hours at a time, with the thought of just wanting the pain in my heart to stop. Knowing all this, my mother had her own agenda (as she often did) & made arrangements to go and see "her grandson" without my permission or knowledge. I wouldn't learn of this until much later, when she informed me of her covert visits to the nursery to spend time with my son. She even went as far as to lie to my face the last day of my hospital stay when she arrived with bloodshot, puffy eyes claiming she had gotten bad news about her grandfather being sick. The truth? She had said her goodbyes and had just come back from the nursery after spending time with my son. 

These scenarios would be just several over the course of my life that my mother caused me tremendous pain and betrayal in my life. Add other instances of gossip, secret meetings, and two faced behavior to the mix and one can see why there is no relationship between me and the woman who birthed me. 

The Pajamas Must Mean Something

With a cold glass of white zin in my hand, I sat around the new pub table in the bar to swap stories and get caught up on the latest buzz.

One of my friends shared about a brief relationship with a gal, which ultimately ended due to her being a little too demanding (and, in my initial observation, slightly crazy). Earlier that evening, text messages were fired off. The casual 'oh, how are you doing' & 'what are your plans' came up...... which he barely could respond back to before another text message was sent. Another slough of them followed. Then, out of the blue, she brings up a pair of pajamas he had left behind and how it must "mean something".  →→→ insert electronic :-) here.

Oh boy, I thought to myself. This isn't sounding good. I would be right. My friend, busy at that moment doing errands, was a bit overwhelmed possibly or just tired from a long day. It ended in him telling her to burn the pajamas. (Hopefully, for this gal, if she took it literally she did so in a well-ventilated area. ....)

We laughed. A commitment in a pair of worn pajamas? Are you kidding me? It was comical. It was crazy. We are talking about a pair of pajamas. Not him asking for his own drawer or to stock her cupboard with his favorite breakfast cereal. It was simply a matter of him leaving without them. After we milked that scenario for what it was worth, we moved on to the next topic of discussion. But it obviously got me thinking, because here I am blogging about it.

How often do we invest in hopes, fantasies and dreams of something more? Surely this gal saw the forgotten pajamas as a status symbol, a Freudian slip of sorts, that she interpreted as him being interested in something more. Something more.

As a woman, I am force fed romance, chivalry, bliss and happily-ever-after-eventually. I see it unfold in the tv shows on primetime, articles and links to the Huffington Post on my newsfeed, magazines poised so carefully as they line the racks along the registers at my grocery store not to mention in the lyrics of songs on the radio, downloaded music on my phone & the archaic cds in the visor of my car. Results of polls taken are reported on weekly tv magazine show. Images of men chasing after women, expensive gifts presented in commercials, and men showing up unexpected at the front door, late at night, in the rain, because he wants to talk. Or can't sleep.

Do you see what I mean?

This is what your average Joe has to compete with. What my buddy had to deal with. What she has to fight against. What I have to tell myself, over and over again, is not the norm.

In 2004, after another failed marriage, I unexpectedly re-entered the dating scene. I say unexpectedly because I definitely wasn't looking. I was a single mom trying to juggle my new relationship status along with attending college full time and working four, ten hour shifts. Not quite 30 years old, I figured my time could be better spent slaving away at my studies, reporting to work half awake, and raising my toddler. Marriage and men equalled mayhem.

Then, a co-worker came to my rescue and went to tend to my sick little boy as a result of my manager threatening to do something to my job if I left. Not exactly ideal, being that I had no idea what his parenting skills were and how he dealt with young, sick children. When you are young and stupid, and maybe a whole lot desperate, you take the offer and pray he isn't some psycho.

I remember being enamored by the gesture. Afterall, he had worked a straight 18-24 hours and was clocking out for the day. He didn't owe me anything and I didn't suspect prior that he was interested in me. But he was kind. And kindness, as The Huff Post reported, is often mistaken by women as flirting.

All these years later, after hearing about this jilted woman and a pair of pajamas, I can't help but ask myself how far off the radar she might have been. My buddy is a friendly, likeable guy. Might she have factored that into her equation and this forgotten article of clothing was clearly another hint? Perhaps. Or maybe it is more than that. Maybe all of the crap us women encounter no thanks to the media, the music, and more has contributed to the distorted vision that we grapple with in our minds. When left to our own devices, we force the mismatched puzzle pieces to somehow "fit". We tell ourselves that the corner piece COULD fit in the center and turn it upside down, to the right or left, but it doesn't allign. It doesn't fit. But we tell ourselves maybe it could.

So with hearts on our sleeves, a dry mouth or lump in our throats we go off the deep end and reveal the theory we have conjured up......only to have a response like "burn the pajamas" to come across the screen of our phones. Not even Bon Jovi's 'Livin On A Prayer' can save us now.

Gods In My Life

I like to think I worship God and have no other gods in my life. There's a commandment that is labeled the first of ten and thanks to my Catholic upbringing I still have it memorized -- 'I am the Lord your God who brought you out of slavery. Worship no gods except me'. I may not be wearing visible shackles and chains but bondage I am in.

A few weeks ago, there was a series that started at my church. It is based upon a Christian author's book called "7". (I haven't yet read it but it is next on my personal book club list.) A group of women friends decided to do this challenge to address the excess in their lives. Week one was on excess things. You know, the stuff we store up that fills our closets, sheds and sometimes offsite in storage units we pay for monthly. I committed to purging 56 items a day, to represent 7 items for each person living under the same roof I do. Unfortunately it was not much of a physical challenge. It was, however, a lesson in spiritual and mental discipline to hold myself to my commitment.

Week two we just wrapped up. It was a food challenge. Crap. The food challenge was set up a few different ways. One challenge was to fast thru a meal and limit my food intake to two meals a day. Another challenge was to only use seven food items, excluding water, spices and limited olive oil. I did both.

I thought carefully as I found my seven food items. I had my kids in mind and thought of staples in our daily menu. Cereal and milk. Two down, five more to go. Veggies & fruits? Salad and dressing. Dang, there's another two. I'm no math major but if my skills serve me well, I have 3 items left.

I thought long and hard about my remainkng three items. Where could I get the most bang for my buck? Meats or pasta, bread, rice, or potatoes. Hmmmm. A poultry item, beef or pork. I had it all in my freezer. After much contemplation,  I settled on turkey, beef and potatoes. I could make it on these and so possibly could the fam.

I'm still gleaning from this experience. The eve before my fast, I felt somewhat melancholy. I wouldn't have the freedom to pull up to my neighborhood coffee stand (appropriately named ADDICTED) that week. Coffee and flavoring weren't on my dirty 7. Forget the quick meal ideas I reverted to of pizza or sandwiches (too many items & none on my dirty 7 list). I created my own reenactment of my final meal as a free woman. I ate whatever munchies and free items.

Gods I serve? Oh, I was just scratching the surface.