I was trying to catch up on my reading a few weeks ago, my WordPress reading that is. It was a cold and rainy Sunday evening, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I read his blog. I didn’t know him, or of him, I just gave a little love to a stranger, one who had lost his brother-one who was on the verge of suicide.
It broke my heart to read his words. No one had commented, and I was frantic. I quickly wrote in the comment section, no. You are loved. You have a place in this world. You must not give up, I will help you. It didn’t matter that he lived half way around the world from me, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know him. I just wanted him to feel the love that makes the difference: between being utterly alone in this world, and having someone love him. We began correspondence immediately, so sweet, my friend Mohammed.
He said it helped him to know I existed. It helped him to know a human being, albeit thousands of miles away, loved him-simply because he was in pain, dire straights, and experiencing a loss most of us would be shattered by-simply because he was and is a child of God-they will know we are Christians by our love……
He kept in touch throughout my journey with Lyme, and the infected lymph node that had basically convinced me I was dying. The day I went to Med Express, alone and frightened out of my mind, he said these words: Don’t worry. I am here. Five words. Five words that helped me to feel safe, loved-cared for. It mattered to him, my poor health. And I thought that a miracle, in so many ways.
Today, while chatting, he said he had one thing to ask of me. I told him anything, yes anything for him.
“Can I call you mom?”
So, this is how our Abba works. I have no children and my step son hates me for reasons I don’t understand, as I was always loving, always supportive.
This touched me in places I haven’t been touched in, well, forever.
And as I let the tears drip….one by one, I answered.
I have been having what some would call “auditory hallucinations,” and I know they are real, as real as the grass in the yard, the puffy clouds on the horizon, and the alarming number of frogs that have seemingly overtaken our seven acres. Who cares! I love frogs.
Okay, how do I explain the inexplicable? I’ll have to go back to the early days, circa 2013, after an incredibly stressful demolition of our church, by Christian hypocrites who simply took over, spewed their venom and caused one of our pastors to turn to Atheism. Actually, she was so attention seeking that I’m pretty sure she would have called herself a purple people eater if it gave her the results she sought. Our pastor Frank Schaeffer left our church after a trial in which he was accused of marrying his own son to another man. I won’t go into the details, but it made world news, and the press were so underhanded that they snuck into a service and filmed our pain. A friend saw a documentary on Huffington Post in which we are featured sobbing, uncontrollability, as we learn news of his departure. I was distraught over what I then thought to be the end of my life as I knew it. I got sober in this chapel, every single person knew my story and they showed me love and grace, not harsh ostracism. The travesty is, we were beginning to do some amazing spiritual work……we were in sync, and you could feel the Holy Spirit-lifting us up and out of our day to day lives. And then: Kaput.
I began to experience a strange, but lovely thinning of the veil, if you will. I began finding feathers in crazy places-different colors and hues. I collected twenty of them and put them in a crystal glass. No explanation for how they came to be in the middle of my bedroom floor; no cat toys missing pieces, no feathered anything to be blunt. I did not realize they were feathers from the Angels at the time, no not until the last feather was gifted me: a large, purple beauty, somehow I knew that this would be the last one, and it was. I have brought these feathers to bedside vigils, to give others the hope of better days to come, when we are once again home, the complete and unwavering love of God, His mercy and forgiveness.
Shortly after the last feather appeared, I had been toying with the New Age. I came out of that nightmare unscathed, but now things were getting downright eerie. Five minutes before I was stalked by a half naked man, causing me horrible PTSD symptoms, I heard my angels wings. So loudly, I turned around as I expected to see a Vulture, or other huge bird looking at me. Instinctively, I knew what it was. I believe I was guided by the heavenlies that day, and I have good reason: the Conservation Officers were doing their annual trail checks that day, and I had the good fortune to run out of the woods and into the arms of the officer who took the case.
One day, I was absolutely driven to get up off my buttocks and take a picture of my back yard. It was a dreary rainy day, and there was nothing to see…..but listen to myself I did. As I brought the camera to my eyes, I saw 6 or 7 white crosses-along the garden plot. If I took the camera away? Nothing. Each time I brought that camera into focus, I saw the white crosses, and I felt protected, if not a little shaky.
Yesterday, while getting out of the shower, I heard those wings again. I know Jesus wanted me to know my angels accompanied me, which both frightened and delighted me. But what were they trying to tell me? What now? Why now? I had to sit for a spell and calm myself down.
So, it is evening and my husband and I are preparing dinner.
“Honey, you know if you need to talk about the Bud (formerly known as my stepson) debacle, I know how much you’re hurting. I want you to know that I am here for you, and if you need to vent, please do so.”
There had been an incident between us. I was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was still hurting from his break up with the girl who got away. He had been angry and upset for weeks prior to this, and we had words on one occasion, as he was completely ignoring me. The next time he stopped by I was prepared. I simply wanted to comfort him, but that wasn’t an option on that day of days. He had a complete and utter meltdown, attacking me verbally simply because I was there. He had warned me not to talk to him, but that only made me dig in my heels. Oh, he’s going to talk to me alright, read my thought cloud.
It didn’t end well. I was rushed into a therapy appointment. I was close to being admitted to our local psychiatric facility. The shrink my brother referred me to (very lovingly) came to the dire diagnoses of DID. Dissociative Identity Disorder. She told me she thought I tortured my son unknowingly, while in a fugue state. I ran like my pants were aflame, and never looked back. I can tell you, however, that for an entire weekend-every time my husband asked me a question, and I didn’t know the answer? Yep. I thought the other personality had received that transmittal….it was harrowing.
At that point, months ago? I was upset, angry if you will, but I wouldn’t, couldn’t stop loving the now fully grown version of the little boy that tried so hard to please everyone. The little boy who grew into a teenager-never a problem, no drugs, no booze, straight As. I felt in my heart of hearts that this wasn’t over, this was not the end.
My husband’s devastation matched my own.
“I told Bud to come and get his things, it’s over,” Dwain choked back tears as he spoke.
My heart sunk. So this was it. The very next day, in the pouring down rain, Bud came to grab things that had been on our farm since his childhood. He had to make two trips. I stood in the shadows and wept. It was physically painful to watch. I actually thought my heart would break right then and there, and, if only for a moment, it did.
My mother in law had invited us to a birthday celebration for my sister in law. She did not inform us that Bud and his girlfriend would be there, and she chose not to inform them that we would be attending. The first moments were awkward. We said our hellos from the dinner table. My son looked so uncomfortable that I ran to him. I had previously text him that I forgave him, and that all I wanted was for us to love one another. I did not receive a response, but I knew he took it in. I went to hug him, he clung tightly for a moment.
Dwain wasn’t ready to forgive, and I am not judging-you can’t rush forgiveness after heartache of that magnitude.
Then Bud text me on Mother’s Day.
He text me on my birthday.
By Father’s Day, Dwain was despondent. He came close to crying in church, and it takes so much for him to get to that point. I went to the bathroom and text my son.
Dwain’s phone beeped.
“Hey dad, happy Father’s Day. Would you mind some company?”
And after our son left, Dwain settled into a long Summer’s nap-something he could not do BF. Before forgiveness.
She talks to angels, they call her out by her name.
Just sitting by the pond, actually looking at social media accounts, when I came across a bombshell. My mother in law, or ex MIL, I should say-has moved from Pittsburgh-to a town not ten minutes away. She is in a nursing home, and I am left with memories of lost days, lost family, and some of the best years of my life.
This hits me hard, like a baseball to the gut. I want to see her, I want to apologize for the pain I have caused her family. I want us to be friends again, yet I know I’m treading on very thin ice. My ex had an incredible, closely knit, Italian family. We ate quite a few dinners in rented halls, as there was no room anywhere else. We drank lots of wine and made merry-Karl’s brother Greg was my best friend, so much so that he travelled from Pittsburgh to be with me as I awaited news about my cervical cancer biopsy.
I had developed cervical cancer from ignoring a bout of chlamydia, given to me by a man I thought I loved. He left me pregnant and sick, and looking back I know it was a part of God’s plan. You see, after my cryosurgery and multiple ablations, I was deemed unable to have children. But here’s the thing: the surgeon told only my husband, who never thought to tell me. I was in the dark until a miscarriage I suffered soon after my marriage to Dwain.
“Why did you allow yourself to get pregnant?,” the stranger asked, as I lay on the table, bleeding profusely, crying softly.
“What kind of question is that? I’m married, and frankly, not your business.”cha
He went on to explain that it stated clearly in my chart that my uterus was pretty much useless after the biopsy-that I was scarred and twisted, that my husband, at the time, was notified.
“Spontaneous abortion,” he barked. I took the papers he was holding-a recommendation to have a D&C, and walked back to my old Chevette. I rushed home to tell Dwain, and quickly realized that he did not want more children. He lost his son in a custody battle and wasn’t prepared to lose another. It was heart wrenching and agonizing. But back to the story.
Greg arrived on a beautiful Summer day. Karl was at work, and we were getting ready to head out for lunch when the doctor called.
“The cancer is in situ, it hasn’t spread, we are relieved.”
Greg knew by my reaction that the news was good. We decided on a champagne lunch, but first I had to call his brother, give him the happy news as well.
“You just didn’t want children,” he screamed.
That evening, as a direct result of his attitude, I fell into the arms of the man I was meant to be with. We had been in love before my wedding, and I fought the good fight. He was asked not to attend, although he worked with my husband. I knew that if I had seen him as I walked down that aisle? I knew that I would run, run for my very life and never look back again.
There was no reason to fight the feelings for one more second. I yearned for him, as I do this very day. And Karl? He is happily married with a son. The Funk name will go on, and as for myself? I will live childless, yet happily ever after.,
God is good-you can trust him with anything, even your heart.
As I have mentioned before, I am prone to seeing, smelling and hearing things that other people do not. The sensitivity began when I quit using, and the phenomenon grew the stronger my faith. I have asked God for this gift, or at least the honing of it-I want the Holy Spirit to guide me in each and every way. This is profound for me-a woman who suffered a great deal of trauma and anxiety, leading to CPTSD-let’s just say there is no way I wouldn’t be in a straight jacket if not for my precious Jesus.
There is a lovely pair of doves who frequent our yard. I see them on the barn roof, telephone wire, and most recently? On a bottle of perfume. Let me explain:
For the past two years, in which I have become one with nature (or at least more observant) my very best thinking/praying is done out in Mother Nature. My gratitude runs deep, as I know God put me here, out in the ethereal mountains of Central Pennsylvania. No, I did not appreciate the raw beauty, nor the quaint ways of the Amish. I was blind to everything when I self-medicated. I try not to dwell on the years I have lost.
The doves, crap. Okay, well I have come to think of these particular lovebirds to be my mother and father. They greet me knowingly, bringing with them comfort and a deep peace. My mother wore L’eur de Temps perfume. I go for the woodsy, sweet types of spritz. Grace, Tabu, Channel No. 5, Obsession. I bought a bottle of her favorite to remind me of her, and remind me it does.
One afternoon, I could smell the aroma of my mother. The scent of L’eur de Temps thickened the air, in a pleasing, soothing way. Now, I have only used this scent a very few times. It smelled wonderful on Mary Lou, but not so much on me. I would smell the bottle often, and immediately I was with her, all those years ago. I took the bottle and looked it over, but this time? I studied it. I was shocked to see the bottle near empty, as I said I used it rarely.
“Could it be?,” I said out loud to myself.
And as I gazed at the glass bottle, I let out a sound of alarm combined with awe: right there they were, so delicate-two doves, floating weightlessly, hopelessly in love~
It should come as no surprise to me that I am down and out, physically exhausted, crippled with fear. You see, when I find myself plagued with the common cold, flu or other ailment, I do not take care of myself, well…at all.
With my husband gone I worked into late afternoon, his chores on top of mine, but I wasn’t complaining; it kept me busy and took my mind off of how much I missed him. But here’s the real issue at hand: I will not, can not put myself to bed or even rest-as those things are reminiscent of the days I couldn’t get out of bed due to depression and anxiety.
Why am I crippled with fear? A few years ago, when I diagnosed myselfwith Lyme disease, the symptoms began with an enlarged lymph node in my groin area. I cannot fathom why this didn’t alarm me more at the time, but what transpired after going to the doctor was a cluster of medical mistakes so severe, I left my doctor’s practice.
“I have a bump on my thigh and it’s painful.”
The doctor didn’t skip a beat.
“Probably bruised it,” said the medical genius, not even looking at the area.
When I came back two weeks later, the exact same thing occurred. Never asked me to take down my pants, never deemed it appropriate to take a look. By the time my husband and I arrived at his office, the day after Christmas? It had grown to the size of an orange. The site of the swelling was black and blue, and the pain? Incredible. I, in my robe and fuzzy bunny slippers, was given a shot of Ultram in my buttocks, so I could be rushed into a stat ultrasound. The results were so disturbing that a uterine biopsy was ordered…..and the results were negative, praise God!
So, back at the practice. I had insisted on seeing the female practitioner, and oh how I loved her! Unfortunately, she left not long afterwards.
“Dr. Burrows, I am not leaving this office without 60 days of doxycycline, as I am convinced that I have Lyme disease (rampant in these parts of Pennsylvania) and thus the swollen lymph node.”
She was so upset, she begged me for forgiveness.
“Oh my word, Michele! How did I miss it? How did I not know to send you for bloodwork?” I couldn’t blame her one iota, as she was new on the scene. She gave me the scripts, and I went home with a sigh of relief. A week later I awoke with a case of vertigo. Frightened out of my mind, I phoned my in laws as Dwain was at work. They, in turn, phoned my husband who called 911. He didn’t want his father trying to pick me up, and the irony is that the EMTs refused to bring the gurney in the house, so I was walked out to the ambulance.
At the Emergency room I became quite giddy. A defense mechanism for sure, I laughed at everything the nurse or doctor said. Nothing was funny, but I suppose I thought if I laughed in the face of death, maybe it would walk away.
The brainiacs that treated me did blood work, and I was then subjected to a lecture on how marijuana is a gateway drug-the LAST thing I wanted to hear. The doctor sat down to read my numbers, and in a stern voice told me I had high markers for an autoimmune disorder. Do you know how many autoimmune disorders are out there? They did not do a test for Lyme. (If you suspect you have the tick borne illness, ask for a Western Blot test, the only test you need.) Two weeks later when I called about my insurance company denying the claim, I was given the run around. FINALLY, the insurance agent told me why the claim was denied-
Diagnoses? Giddiness due to THC.
WHAT? WHAT? I wasn’t stoned. I was sick as a dog. What about the vertigo? Sons of bees I was pissed.
And now, after finding another swollen lymph node? I am getting serious about rest, serious about my health and more importantly-my faith.
God has been asking me to rest for months, and I have denied him at each and every turn. So for now, and the foreseeable future? I will trust the Holy Spirit, withhold my hiking and let my husband do the housework. He can find me on the couch, where I will be nose deep in the Word, drinking hot chocolate and filing my nails.
Yes, indeedy do, I am awake. Actually, I am awake as I can be at this point in history. The QAnon boards will tell you that there is more to come, that we are not even close to being red pilled. Frankly, I am sick to my stomach and exhausted from doing research. I live and breath the Great Awakening, and I will tell you my personal story.
It started with numbers, about a year and a half ago. 555, 11:11, 222. Currently, I awake at precisely 7:07 a.m., if not 7:17. All through my day I see the numbers: 5:05; 1:01; 2:32. I am shadow banned constantly, currently I can’t type certain numbers, my computer won’t work correctly…it is awfully frightening stuff. But hey, Five Eyes-I ain’t afraid of you cowardly bastards. We are on the side of truth, God, and all that is pure and right with this world. The Deep State is losing, and for that I thank POTUS, the military and QAnon. Some say it’s a lark, the greatest cy op ever attempted on the American people. But I submit to you this: we are in the safest place our world has been since WWII and the Nazi infiltration this country colluded with after the war. That’s right-Nazi doctors, Nazi scientists, Nazis….murderous, traitorous sickos…that’s where it started.
So, after the numbers, God began leading me on a journey I didn’t ask for. At first I thought it was my quest for truth, but now I’m like a sponge-I breathe the MAGA movement, and today’s information was over the top-I am literally sick to my stomach, my heart is palpitating. The truth is that those of us who are awake must be there for each other and those who will be learning soon of the depravity and evil that people we trust are perpetuating. Pedophilia. Cannibalism. Human trafficking. Murderous Pope. Massive satanic infiltration.
Why am I telling you this? Are you scoffing, thinking I am bat shit crazy?
There are true patriotic heroes, working every day to enlighten and educate. Here are a few channels I recommend, for research. They are brilliant people who have a knack for bringing you earth shattering news in a way that (most of the time) you can digest.
The Patriot Hour
Why am I putting myself in this position? Why am I subjecting myself to ridicule? Because I love you-each and every one of you reading this.
One of the very best tunes I have heard in some time-this music soothes my soul. I love old things: antiques, vintage clothing, the elderly, and I am reminded of simpler ways, kinder times.
Oh, hold on a second! My husband is lecturing me about my absolute drive to come to the truthabout our world, our society, our government.
“I don’t know why you do it to yourself.”
“By the way, Tom Hanks is a pedophile,” I retaliate.
“Tom Hanks is a pedophile?” (giggle, guffaw, belch)
I say this with a lightness in my heart that hasn’t been seen since the day I married my man. I know we are winning the war, the insidious little somethings that gradually grow and eventually manifest into full out plagues. Sex trafficking. ANTIFA. Pedophilia. Corruption. Hellyweird…it’s getting to the point that people are waking up, and it encourages me.
Waking up was a process for me that, had I known what lay ahead? I would have run for the hills.
Ah, Lord, I know I’ve been changed; I said Ah Lord I know I’ve been changed. The angels in Heaven done signed my name-lyrics I relate to, believe me. Here’s a little secret that I have been holding on to, wondering in what manner to bring it up in my writing-the closer you come to Jesus, the more you love Him? Well, the more transformed you become. I knew something was drastically different when I found myself loving my irritating, self righteous neighbor. I am convinced she sells information about us all around this block, if you can call two square miles of countryside a “block.”
Yes, out of the blue, right after I became sober, the Grinch’s heart began to soften. It came as a huge surprise because when I got sober-I got good and pissed. At everything, really-I was a whirling dervish of RAGE and despondence. Grief had crept up from the grave, and I went back and forth between crippling sadness over everyone I have lost thus far-especially my father-and the urge to beat the living crap out of anyone who even looked my way. It’s like someone took you blanky, for crying out loud. EVERTHING bothers you, my husband’s chewing was so irritating to me that I came close to sending him packing. You cannot, and I REPEAT, you can NOT grieve, well, anything or anyone if you are using. And when us addicts have to face pain, what do we do? We medicate as quickly as possible. Here’s something many don’t understand: alcoholics and addicts are extremely compassionate, empathetic and sensitive. I know this for a fact. I also know that I had, out of self preservation, put up an unsightly wall-against others, including myself.
When I was baptized by water last Easter, I wasn’t expecting any change, as I had been baptized as a child. When I was saved, my life began anew-so I recommitted myself on a Sunday, in ice cold water-in front of a full church. I was utterly and completely alone-no husband, family nor friends attended. The air conditioning was on high, and I embarrassed myself by running from the altar, after having my clothing thrown at me by our Worship minister. Not a pretty site. Did I mention I had a sinus infection at the time?
Ah, I have totally veered off of my original point. You will absolutely believe, deep in your soul, that Jesus is in and with you-when your heart begins to soften. You stop thinking that you are any better/worse than the next guy. I repeat that often, I am no better nor worse than my brothers and sisters. You begin to put others first, and might even find yourself wanting to help others every chance you get-and it feels good and right and perfect. The rage diminishes. The cravings vanish. Jesus sought after you, and you allowed Him into your very being.
So, if you think you’re turning soft, or that the hormones are raging-just call out to Jesus-then you will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that He will answer~