How Dirty Are Your Hands?

I believe that a problem now is that we all have to feel special. I don’t mean special as in unique; God made us all different on purpose and for purpose. I mean special as in entitled which can be very dangerous. I prefer the Shaker motto: Hands to work, hearts to God. My husband died in February. There have been days when just a smile from a stranger has made my day. Helping others is so rewarding for everyone involved. I love James in the NT. I believe in jumping in and getting your hands dirty. Walking by a starving human and saying, “God be with you” just isn’t enough anymore- it never was. But, it makes us feel as if we have fulfilled our moral and religious obligations. In the hymn, “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief,” Christ’s lesson of if you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto me is personified by a man we see in different types of need. His “helper” can’t understand why he is so drawn to him until the needy man is revealed as Christ. However, only when the man who is truly in need agrees to die for Christ does he realize that his Savior was testing his heart and faithfulness. When we view the hymn in this light, we find ourselves re-examining the story of the Good Samaritan and realizing that Jesus was the man left for dead alongside the road.

All of this being said, we are all called to help one another which is why I don’t trust people with super clean fingernails.

Sweet Tea with a slice of Thea

Braveheart is one of my favorite films, but, please, let me share a memory.

My sister and I are watching the trailers for Rob Roy and the one for this movie comes on. As the box office plays, they may take our lives, but Thea will never take our freedom. Now, hear what Beth and I heard by replacing lives with wives. Picture me laughing and spitting Coke all over the poor man in front of me.

Join us, as we are discussing Rob Roy during post movie time. I say something like, Ya know, if they took their wives, wouldn’t that…” And, Beth answers, “have given them their freedom?” We both sip our sweet teas and agree as we think and nod, “ Yes.” So, then, “Turn back, lads” would have been a good ending. Yes. Yes.

The Nitty Gritty: Because I love you so

I remember you as a baby, and, when you are truly expressing yourself, I see those same eyes and am bewildered at the young man pleading his case with truth and passion before me. I call it a great injustice that all of the true matriarchs, the ones who taught me, have died before your time, before they could see your eyes asking for truth and answer them.

Dearest Hank,

At your mother’s behest, I have stayed away, have clamped my mouth shut, have shamed those women who went before me by not doing what needs to be done. Damn it all! You will know our side of the family if I write the last sentence of this book with my dying, smoke smelling breath from cigarette slimmed lips. You are a Martin, a Hamilton, a Bell, a Hill, and, unfortunately, a Vest. Everyone deserves to know where they come from, their roots, and you will know yours.

There is a reason you are creative. There is a reason that you play video games in your “bear, and bare, cave.” There is a reason that you used to believe that the devil lived in the bathroom. There is a reason you have anxiety. There is a reason you are so highly intelligent. You should and will know by the end of this book.

You will know the truth; truth is one of the most powerful forces in the world. As Uncle Ben reminded Peter Parker, “With great power comes great responsibility.” Jim Qwik was eager to point out that the opposite is, also, true. So, use the stories, the truths, and the lessons in your book, this book, with wisdom, compassion, and honor- traits that many have fought to have passed down to you.

Read slowly, and digest what you take in. Learn the truth; it will truly set you free. As Marcus J. Borg promised, “Honesty begets candor.” However, prudence goes a long way, too.

This book will give you grit which, when nurtured, will give you courage. Courage will give you strength and strength gives rise to passion. Ignore zeal until you are firm in your foundation or you will flounder. Passion will ignite a thirst for knowledge, and knowledge leads to truth. And, the great Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was correct, “The truth shall set you free.”

Every person deserves to know his roots; these are yours. They are not for boasting or bragging rather for knowing the why of deep longings and of things abhorred. These truths are not to be picked through and tossed to and fro willy nilly but to be taken as a whole and honored in your being.

So, it is that I give you your birthright. Cherish it. Know that I did it in love for you and in respect of your becoming a man. I wrote to those eyes, wide and wild with wonder, begging for truth. I turned a yarn of honesty, because I love you so.

Turf War Strategies

I am taking a Quest for Personal Mastery from Mindvalley University. Today’s assignment is to take a situation that you have labeled as bad and show how you can see the good in it. The following was my answer.

My late husband and I moved to a small, “blink and you’ll miss it” town late last fall/early winter. He had become blind and had been on dialysis for about two years. Right before Valentines Day, he died. I knew of three people here. I felt like I was in Russia in Rocky IV- out in No Man’s Land struggle in every way just to survive. Sometimes, I still feel that way. About six weeks ago, it occurred to me that I have gym equipment, a room that I could use for ballet and piano, a memoir to write, and a new puppy (as well as my Sweet Mila) to play with, and a huge kitchen to learn to cook in. I decided to set up an office, an exercise room, get a piano, set up a doggy play room, fix a cozy bedroom, and more. I am working hard on it. In the recent Wonder Woman movie, Diana crosses No Man’s Land to save people enslaved by Nazis. I will cross this land and be closer to the best version of myself along the way.

This scene gives me chills, because Santa/Mom gave me a Wonder Woman outfit for Christmas when I was four years old and told me that I was a heroine who could conquer anything I put myself into. Thank you for reading, and enjoy the show.

Joy Comes in the Mourning

I really cannot believe what has happened. I knew she had been hurt- harmed in a different way, but still damaged. She remembers my first time being sexually abused, this time by my father, when I was age one. My abuse was physically and spiritually painful as hell. The devils of our family sneaked into her brain, her mind and destroyed her heart. Her beautiful heart turned black, then disappeared into ashes- fumes gone with the wind. Still, she is destroying my peace just as she destroyed my faith in God as she rubbed on me her fat, flushed body when I tried to escape my father’s penetrations every night- and morning.

Morning has taken on a new meaning for me. God promises in the Bible that joy comes in the morning. As for me, joy comes in the Mourning. Mourning all that I inherited as piece by piece it disappeared. My belongings vanishing in the wind, and no one witnessed all of the family photos or my antique grand standing piano magically fly out of almost a dozen storage units. Gone was my wheel of the mill on Granny’s line of the Martin-Hamilton farm-the mill that General John Hunt Morgan held captive during The War Between The States. History vanishes; my memory doesn’t. A flood that never occurred took more of my possessions. Her stealing our dear Mother’s bank card while she was lay dying in a hospital bed and taking thousands out a day and gone was my inheritance. Oh, but, she proclaimed, “I am doing this for you, sweet sister.” I think that she meant doing it to me- again.

Mom was not a DNR. Mom decided that and made us three agree. The doctors hounded us to break our promise. My brother stood firm. On my seven hour break from sitting with Mom, I returned to discover my sister had upped the ante, changed the cards of fate, signed a paper declaring my angelic Mother a Do Not Resuscitate- proving Mom’s life, sacrifices, battles won and lost as nothing, nothing, nothing. In a rage, I flew to the nurses’ station, demanded the death sentence documents and destroyed them with sound and fury.

I have only a picture of my Mother left. All the rest dust in the wind. My writings will be my legacy. I will be pulled into the pit no more. As I stand at the pinnacle of the chasm, I will lift my chin up- as Mom would encourage me where she here. I wait on my God for deliverance. I fall only into the arms of my Lord now. I rest in His comfort and rise through the Spirit. For some, everyday is a clean start, new beginning, blank slate. My heart reopens, breaks free, and begins to shine again. For now, my joy will come in the mourning. So be it.

Joy Comes in the Mourning

I really cannot believe what has happened. I knew she had been hurt- harmed in a different way, but still damaged. She remembers my first time being sexually abused, this time by my father, when I was age one. My abuse was physically and spiritually painful as hell. The devils of our family sneaked into her brain, her mind and destroyed her heart. Her beautiful heart turned black, then disappeared into ashes- fumes gone with the wind. Still, she is destroying my peace just as she destroyed my faith in God as she rubbed on me her fat, flushed body when I tried to escape my father’s penetrations every night- and morning.

Morning has taken on a new meaning for me. God promises in the Bible that joy comes in the morning. As for me, joy comes in the Mourning. Mourning all that I inherited as piece by piece it disappeared. My belongings vanishing in the wind, and no one witnessed all of the family photos or my antique grand standing piano magically fly out of almost a dozen storage units. Gone was my wheel of the mill on Granny’s line of the Martin-Hamilton farm-the mill that General John Hunt Morgan held captive during The War Between The States. History vanishes; my memory doesn’t. A flood that never occurred took more of my possessions. Her stealing our dear Mother’s bank card while she was lay dying in a hospital bed and taking thousands out a day and gone was my inheritance. Oh, but, she proclaimed, “I am doing this for you, sweet sister.” I think that she meant doing it to me- again.

Mom was not a DNR. Mom decided that and made us three agree. The doctors hounded us to break our promise. My brother stood firm. On my seven hour break from sitting with Mom, I returned to discover my sister had upped the ante, changed the cards of fate, signed a paper declaring my angelic Mother a Do Not Resuscitate- proving Mom’s life, sacrifices, battles won and lost as nothing, nothing, nothing. In a rage, I flew to the nurses’ station, demanded the death sentence documents and destroyed them with sound and fury.

I have only a picture of my Mother left. All the rest dust in the wind. My writings will be my legacy. I will be pulled into the pit no more. As I stand at the pinnacle of the chasm, I will lift my chin up- as Mom would encourage me where she here. I wait on my God for deliverance. I fall only into the arms of my Lord now. I rest in His comfort and rise through the Spirit. For some, everyday is a clean start, new beginning, blank slate. My heart reopens, breaks free, and begins to shine again. For now, my joy will come in the mourning. So be it.

Witching Hour Confessions

The things that we think of when the lavender and lemongrass essential oils are wafting through the room, and I am half asleep and struggling to see. The smell permeates my brain and acts as a truth serum. These are moments writers beg for and detest. It is our witching hour.

I am thinking on the fact that I am completely and utterly alone. Most of my family are dead. My children passed long ago. I have no friends. Reverend Billy Graham spoke on loneliness in an archived service that I listened to today. He shared a true story of an old woman, 92 years of age, who died alone. Every day, she wrote in her diary, “No letters. No visitors. No phone calls. No one loves me.” I fear that I am a cross between Auntie Mame and a hermit who lives in a house that everyone believes is haunted. And, it is haunted by her memories of past loved ones, past lives, the past everywhere which she keeps alive to comfort her.

So, while under this magic trance and devil dance, I will make the confession that begs me to stay awake. I don’t believe that God ever wanted me to be a Mother. Otherwise, He wouldn’t have taken my children. Taken. And, I have no set of special skills to get them back. Now, I am a barren widow. I am not playing the pity card. These are just the facts, Ma’am. Just the facts.

Alice and the Real White Rabbit

For everyone wanting to follow a White Rabbit, here’s the real one. I swear that this song is my theme song. If you have to vomit to get to your dreams, do it. I love to write. I love to act. I forget what I am supposed to say or write or think or do before I perform, but, when the light hits me, my inner light turns on. I sweat, get nauseous, hit the bathroom, but I’m really just sick of being afraid. The love of my life called me bunny or rabbit because of the way my nose twitches when I get in my groove and I am on fire. I am tired of just being an encourager. I am ready to shine.