What is love, really? And how do you know if you’re on the right track, if you are loving someone enough, or …in a way that tells them they are loved?
Love is patient.
Love is kind.
Love does not anger,
nor does it boast.
This is what we find in our bibles, and make no mistake-God meant what he said, but how many of us can rise to that place? For me? Love is compassion. Love is validation. Love may take it up a notch or two-as lovers are passionate, and the frenzy can make us crazy. My husband and I still rant and rave, but at the end of the day? Love, somehow prevails. I remember not so long ago the days of begging him to love me, and now the tables have turned-love doesn’t hold anything over your head, and if you wax and wane poetic, but have no understanding or compassion, what does it amount to? Dust. Dust in the wind.
True love allows the other person breathing space. It listens, nods its’ head in sorrow, puts you in the shoes of the lovee.
Don’t you speak over my words. My reality is hard won, and I won’t trade my newfound jewels for stones-not today, not ever~
I thought you would enjoy this blog, as there are so many new avenues we will be able to take in order to help make America Great Again. I have taken notice that GOOGLE has now taken me out of their search engine-I will see you in court. You can bookmark and by the grace of God, I am still in the Duck Duck Go Engine.
I volunteer in a local Emergency Room. I was scheduled for yesterday afternoon, 12 to 4, and no matter how hard I tried? I could not muster the enthusiasm to take a shower, let alone go to work. I picked up the phone several times to call off, but something made me put down that phone, and I am here to say, Praise God I did.
Used to working the morning shift, I had no idea what to expect. As I approached the double doors a sense of purpose filled my veins, and what I was about to walk into was the most horrific day of my entire nursing career. Every room full, I immediately went to Room 14, as I heard wails of agony and pain. The man in the bed was in his nineties, and he was hysterical.I introduced myself, but he couldn’t hear me, he was too far gone.
I asked his son and wife what was going on. His son shook his head, wiped away a tear and told me that this was NOT his father. He was a good Christian man who was beloved in his community and family. His dad was strong and stoic; I could tell the family was terrified.
“Oh Jesus, take me now. I am so sorry. I am dying. My legs are on fire. Please, take care of my wife and children….my grandchildren, OH MY GOD, WHY? I AM DYING, PLEASE GOD, I DON’T NEED GOLD WALKWAYS, JUST TAKE ME NOW………”
This went on for another twenty minutes. I spoke to him, loudly and clearly. What have you seen? Why are you so frightened? You aren’t dying, your stats are perfect…..he was white as snow, tormented…..and then I knew. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what was wrong.
“The Diablo. He is making me curse Jesus, think terrible things about my Lord. I deserve to die, TAKE ME OH TAKE ME JESUS,”
I closed the curtain. The nurse administered a sedative. I asked the family to shush.
“You have no authority here, Satan. No authority. Drink the blood of Jesus demon and be gone. Jesus is here, God is holding you. Drink the blood of Jesus……”
I was convinced the doctor and nurses would think me insane and fire me as soon as I walked from beyond the curtain. I waited and continued to pray out loud. Within moments he calmed down. Enough to listen to me.
“Who is the father of all lies? Satan is toying with you, but once God has you no one can ever take you away. Do you understand me? God loves you, and so does your family. Listen to me…….”
I retreated for another warm blanket. As I walked passed the gawking nurses, (and I mean every single one of them had their jaws open) I didn’t make eye contact. I couldn’t. I walked back into the room. He was given another sedative.
There are things that I cannot divulge, but may I say this?
Praise, Glory and Honor to the Most High, and thank you Jesus, for your love and strength.
I walked Bob out to his car with his oh so thankful family. He was dapper and strong, laughing at our jokes, and he kissed me on the cheek…….
“I don’t know how to thank you,” his son and wife said. It wasn’t me they owed any gratitude, it was our heavenly father and Yeshua. But they knew that.
And as I walked into the ER, prepared to be told to leave, the doctor said this:
“You are worth your weight in gold. You couldn’t pay someone to do what you just did.”
I kept walking, straight to the nearest empty room. And I got down on my knees and wept.
I wrote this blog last Spring, while in the heat of the horrible moment. Devastated by an argument with my step son, I simply could not see the forest through the trees. There was never an apology rendered, but I have forgiven Bud and he knows this. I like to call this phenomena Grace-but really I just did it for myself and my husband.
Dwain, interestingly enough, has not forgiven him. Yet there have been great strides towards healing, and rather than trying to be his son’s best friend? He has risen to the challenge of being a father, i.e. no more tolerating arrogance or disrespect. I believe we are all closer as a result of his temporary insanity.
When God puts you to the test, and you pass with a combination of trusting His wisdom? Oh my dear friends, this is when the miracle happens: a peace that surpasses any understanding-inner joy and self love come out of hiding. Often, the hard part is recognizing the blessing. With practice and determination, you can take the gifts from above and pay it forward. Grace abounds, indeed.
I have been having what some would call “hearing hallucinations,” and I know they are real, as real as the grass in the yard, the puffy clouds on the horizon, and the Spring peepers who cry out their mating call at this time of year.
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. 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 knew the angels wanted me to know they were with me, which scared the bejeepers out of 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.”
What he said next was so crazy making, so vile and putrid and everything that goes along with the loss of a child.
“I text him, last week. I jacked him up and he said there will be no apology forthcoming.
No apology? That man-child stood in my garage and screamed cruel and untrue things, called me a freak, told me the whole family thought I was a freak. And, as it turned out, he was plenty pissed that I am on SSI, as “it’s not fair I have to pay for her income with my taxes.”` He was this close to hitting me and when I went to go inside, he came after me and I just waited. If he hit me, then I could go to court, get a Protection From Abuse-hey, I’ve suffered worse things, believe me.
I have made the decision that he is dead, dead to me for all intents and purposes.
You see, what seemed to irritate him most? That I had suffered CPTSD, and depression. Apparently he thinks I made it all up; that after owning my own businesses and working (often two jobs at a time) for 40 years, I just decided, as if upon whim, to close shop, be lazy and ruin my husband’s life. How could he be that cold?
And then the inevitable kick in my aching groin: “Bud will be at mom’s for Easter, with his gal pal extraordinaire, the woman who was the icing on the cupcake of his disaster, the woman who so eagerly took what was not hers, her best friend’s boyfriend. Don’t get me wrong, Bud is responsible for his own actions, but being the raging narcissist that he is? He will never take accountability. He ruined his own life and he should have thought about that before he let his penis do his thinking. Sorry, I’m a bit rough around the edges today.
Father, forgive him, he knows not what he does.
She talks to angels, they call her out by her name.
When I was younger, I was appalled at how many pills my mother took. She was extremely ill, emphysema, cancer, osteoporosis. She died at 59, after the doctors mistook an ovarian cyst to be scar tissue. I wish I had known then what I now know. Mary Lou had every symptom of Ovarian cancer, the extreme bloating, constipation, pain and upset stomach. When the doctor came in to the waiting room, I had to be held back by my siblings-the jerk never listened to her, I was there when he did an exam after her complaining: he felt her stomach and abdomen-she was fully clothed, why bother right? I was there when he told her she was “fine, absolutely fine.”
What shocked me, after her death, was the bottles and bottles of Ativan-she took 4 a day, and I thought that to be too much, too addicting, too sedating. Now? I take Ativan daily. As a prn. Ironically, the first time I ever took one was the day of her funeral. Surrounded by friends, I fell asleep on the couch-and didn’t wake up until the following morning. What addict is going to turn that away? It was easier to let the melodic pull of oblivion take me away, to dreamless sleep and few cares, if any.
Today I take 200 mg. of Zoloft, 2 mg. Suboxyne for opiate addiction (down from 8 mg. and let me tell you, it was rough, really rough to taper) and one Trazadone for sleep. My husband thinks this appalling, but I have fought hard to maintain an appearance of normality-in an increasingly abnormal world.
I can tell you that as a nurse, EMT and hospice worker, I could not get into the Suboxyne program soon enough. I was in a dirty city, walking the streets of dilapidated houses, children in various stages of undress, and very scary men, who gathered on street corners to deal their goods, help a friend in “need.” I asked a few of them, but as white on rice as I look? They didn’t touch me with a ten foot pole. Looking back, I think they thought me a cop.
I was working as a private duty nurse, and volunteering at a local hospice. I was starting to face withdrawal from OxyContin, and I didn’t want to be the girl who steals patient’s pills. My cousin by marriage (not a normal person in that family) ran a methadone clinic, and rehab. I had attended that rehab until our fearless leader Tony called me out on missing a class, in front of the entire room. When you quit drinking you are wired out of your mind, so many emotions coming from one heart-it’s maddening and exciting at the same time. I told him off, asked why he allowed drinkers and cokeheads to use in our meetings (was this even remotely fair to the others who were serious about recovery?) and slammed out the door. He wasn’t going to use me as an example when people were slumped in their chairs, or re-dusting the entire room, like the energizer bunny on crack.
Anyway, back to Scott. I called him from my locked car that very day. I told him where I was, and I asked if I could come to the methadone clinic to talk to him. He shut me down, but two minutes later? I heard a commercial about Suboxyne: it has served me well, saved my career and, most likely, my life. My advice to anyone starting the program? Start at a really low milligram, that way you won’t have to detox every time you take a step down. I ended up calling my girlfriend one morning, I literally couldn’t move, I was that weak.
“I can’t take it. Would you please take me to the doctor?”
The good doctor had taken me off, cold turkey. We had argued about my use of cannabis, and I stormed out-only to return a week later, begging for mercy. And, thankfully, that is exactly what I was given.
What I would like to say is, don’t let anyone convince you to go off of any medication you may be taking for your mental health, especially if the plan is working. Do I like having to take meds on a daily basis? NO. But one day, perhaps, the stigma will stop. No matter, because I have come to the point where I just don’t care what others think.
It’s not their body. It’s not their mind. It’s none of their business.
I LOVE Grace Jones. I listened to her every chance I got in the eighties. I was painting in the kitchen when WXPN played this tune, and I was shocked at how the lyrics still punch me in the gut-but for different reasons now.
I once dressed up as Miss Grace for Halloween, back in the day. I bought a beach hat and attached Christmas balls to it, then painted my face brown. I actually won the best costume that year, but coming home to my girlfriend’s house, wearing said costume, proved to be a bad idea, as Sally’s dog wanted me, wanted me bad for a midnight snack. I had to go out to the back yard and strip, and my bestie got me a wash cloth…….brand new me, no rabid dog attacks.
This tune falls into the “narcissistic abuse” category, and if you listen closely there is a line about someone’s marriage being a “tragedy,” but I can offer no further details at this time as I am about 150% positive that my blog is now being hoovered: not just my sister, but other family members as well. One of the things you learn, being the scapegoat of the family is this-if you open your mouth, for any reason, to defend or uphold your integrity, you will look ape shit crazy. The narc has poisoned others’ minds with their vitriolic script, and if you do choose to stand up for yourself (believe me, the hardest thing that God has yet to ask of me is to turn the other cheek, realize my beloveds have been brainwashed, and-well, shut my mouth) you will only feed into their psychopathic, narcissistic rage. You can’t play the victim card, they own victimhood.
I am no expert on matters of the karma kind; but one thing is certain: her day will come, and though I have began praying for her once again, the spirit of the Jezebel is not of this world. We are the peacemakers, the empaths, the lovers and sympathizers. And one day, we know not when, we shall be redeemed.
I live out in the country, way out: but that doesn’t mean I have no neighbors. I think Jesus made it perfectly clear, but I am not the one to judge. I have issues, too. Just recently? I was doing a bit of ruminating about my sin, and I came to the horrifying conclusion that all of my friends are “beautiful” people. I am actually a bit surprised at my prejudice, as I assumed that I had a big heart, for all people. I do, however it seems to me it’s a whole lot easier to love attractive people. I am deeply shamed by this, and will work on it ASAP.
About five years ago, I found myself embedded in a screaming match with my neighbor, Jeanne. I stopped walking my dog around our neighborhood after this incident, and I have her to thank. Jeanne and her family had recently moved to our tiny burb, and I never would have known if not for her dog, Cujo; who promptly scared the life force out of my golden retriever. After calling for immediate restraint, I heard this:
“Oh, for crying out loud, it’s just a German Shepherd,” came her response, loud and clear. You don’t know me, or how I get when people get in my face. I am a Gemini, through and through. I am simultaneously the nicest and meanest person you will ever meet-just depends on what you’re dishing out on that particular day.
Years later, I am standing with Jeanne. Who, indeed, proved to be a horse’s ass. But this particular day, back in February, she caught me while hunting sheds, in the field below her farm. We took up talking and I told her I was going through a bout of Lyme. She, in turn, told me to come up to the house, to hear about Essential Oils!!! I must have been gravely ill, because I actually went, thinking that she was trying to help me. What. On. Earth. Was I thinking?
Anyway, the neighbor who lives in between myself and Jeanne, is a 90 year old, Pennsylvania Dutch, busy body extraordinaire. She knows all of the gossip in the neighborhood. We don’t get involved, ever. So, I haven’t been close to Ruth in years, as I knew she wasn’t fond of me. How did I know this? I have it on good authority, it came from the horse’s mouth. Apparently, Ruth said this to my in laws:
“You can say a lot of things about Michele, but she sure does take good care of her animals.”
So, there’s that. And a whole bunch of other stuff I have already flushed down the commode.
Here’s the thang: we cannot wrap ourselves up in others’ perceptions of us. Ninety percent of the time? They are going on gossip, unearned reputations-not the Holy Spirit or the love of Jesus in their hearts.
So, I would like to wrap this up by saying this to anyone and everyone who delights in being in my bizness:
You people are the human version of menstrual cramps.
Scrolling through videos this morning, waiting for inspiration. This video caught my attention, and it is just perfect for the topic. What is your weapon of choice when the haters are getting you down? How do you escape the bullets shot in your direction? What do you do when cruelty and evil darken your door?
Of course, my weapon is the full armor of God. At least that is the first place I go…….for strength, love and compassion-wisdom, grace and peace. I
submerge myself in the scriptures, and there I find truth, a rare commodity in this day and age: but always on pointe, never changing-it comforts me to know that Jesus knows my heart, inside and out. I have faced challenges this past year that would break Hercules, yet I am stronger by the minute, so much so that I am not the same person I was mere weeks, months or years ago.
He keeps me strong. On the straight and narrow. Do I slip up? Often. Does He forgive me? Indubitably.
And after I come out of my bible-induced trance? Why, I dance…..of course!