For Those Who Find Holidays Hell

I wasn’t sure if this was the version of the song that I wanted, but man am I glad I thought it through.  Miss K.D. Lang hits ever note, and then some.  I love her range, her twang-she’s chicken soup for the soul music.

Speaking of souls.

Mother of God this was a rough one-and I didn’t see it coming, to be frank.  Giving God alone the glory, I have managed to raise my head above the raging river that is my life.  Mercy me, shook me right out of my loafers.

I want this blog to offer hope to those who are suffering this season; I want to pick and choose each word, so I know that the love of Jesus that flows into me will then trickle on to you, beloved.


I lay in bed, for five straight days.  Not so sure, but pretty sure it was the flu: I haven’t felt like this since, well since last year’s flu season.  I won’t even whisper about getting a flu shot, and would advise all mothers to educate themselves on the horror of what they are injecting into our children.  I pray with each passing day that Donald J. Trump will make headway in the battle against evil, transhumanism and genocidal ideations-you get my drift?

Sorry, I get worked up about it.  Anyway, my husband and I did not attend my mother in law’s Thanksgiving.  In an effort to end the abuse, I have gone no contact and have felt much better ever since.  My husband appeared to be supportive, but the day came and he was forlorn.  Still angry about a miscommunication between us, he let me have it the other day.  Twisted every word I said, and slew nomenclatures I would prefer not to share-making turkey day the winner of the most God awful holiday ever award.


My husband doesn’t do sick.  He says that seeing me sick makes him think of my mother in the final days of her life.  I mean, I was dehydrated and depressed, wrapped up in a ball of wet sheets-nothing to eat for three days, nightmare.

And then I felt well enough to open my King James bible.  I sought solace, comfort and wisdom.  Yet because of the trauma inflicted?  I felt as if God were angry with me, that Jesus didn’t love me anymore.  I am just now shaking that notion out of my head, as satan  is the father of all lies-and this was persecution in the form of spiritual warfare I have not experienced thus far.  It was if there was a struggle for my soul.  I fought back like the tigress God taught me to be.  I asked for prayer, I actually told my loved ones that I was struggling-and I never do that.  I don’t trust people, but let’s just say that Jesus showed me that the beloveds in my life are real and true and precious.


One evening, I stared at the ceiling and thought about what Jesus went through on that cross, even hours before.  Jesus was persecuted for the very same reasons that His believers are persecuted.  Immediately, I thought of the martyrs-the people all around this world who are suffering in the name of Jesus Christ.

In the year 1948, on a Sunday while I went to church I was kidnapped by the Communists.  I knew that even in the van of the secret police, I am in the hands of the Almighty God, and this gave quiet to  my heart.                                                                                                                        – Richard Wurmbrand, Voice of the Martyrs

For three years, Richard Wurmbrand sat alone in his prison cell set 30 feet below the ground.  Aside from short interactions with his guards, he saw and heard no one.  Yet in that dank and dark cell, he cried out to God and dreamt of beginning a new ministry that would serve Christians in Communist countries.  Within days of his release, he wrote his best selling memoir, Tortured For Christ.  Not long after he founded a mission called Jesus to the Communist World, which eventually turned into the organization Voice of the Martyrs.

I needed to pick up my cross, no matter the shape I was in.

I am reaching my arms out to father Abba, and He will catch me, this I know.




Get Off of My Face…

I have had it up to my eyeballs with narcissists. I have had it up to my boobs with the perpetual drama entailed in anything regarding my mother in law; the 83 old energizer bunny, who needs to be coddled, admired and ass kissed. Twenty eight years of cold, hard intolerance of anything not “righteous” while also being the world’s most humongous hypocrite. In all of my days I have not seen a woman this spoiled and self serving. On a good year, we don’t have too much interaction-or as little interaction as one could have, while maintaining eye contact.

I spoke to Jesus about how I have forgiven her seventy times seven, at the very least. I asked him to please give me the grace to get through this freaking anniversary party-that they are giving themselves, two weeks after the exact same party was held at their home. This time they are renting a church hall, and I was asked two months ago if I would do the flowers.


I used vintage glass dug up from a century old dump at the back of our property. I still have years of excavating ahead, this was a Godsend. What I thought to be a rubbish pile and eye sore, turned out to be the beginning of a dream come true. I used wildflowers and tiny rosebuds, lavender, brown eyed susans and herbs of color. Alas, it was not meant to be-even my so called friends at the time paid me no mind. (My closest friends were there for the grand opening) God had other plans, and that is why I am writing to you at this moment in time. I went to the eye doctor today, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed putting “Writer,” in the avocation box. My whole point? I was obviously qualified for the job.

The first slap in the face was her desire to “go to the dollar store and get uniform vases, and then we can go pick out some paper flowers,” completely ignoring my acres of gardens which are full to this day.

The second SLAP was this afternoon, when I told her that rather than walk down to her house in the pouring down rain-hurricane Mike-with a dilation procedure optical migraine, I would be down the next morning. May I remind you that last week, she blew my top off by telling me she would have to “get someone else to do the flowers” if we didn’t go shopping for tacky crap, and soon. I received an apology, after my best friend phoned her and set her straight. I didn’t ask her to call her, but after that my MIL was all about me using real flowers and whatever containers I wanted, even USING A DIFFERENT VASE AT EACH TABLE!!!!

She understands that I will not be doing the flowers until the day of the party, Sunday morning. But she says this anyway:

“You know, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Judas Priest, Marilyn Manson and the B52s!!!

No concern for my headache. No I understand, there is a monsoon outside. No, that will be fine, END OF FUCKING STORY.

I reassure her that I will be down in the morning. Two full days before anything needs to be done. I promise just wanting to end the mother loving conversation.

“(fake laughter) Because if you don’t want to do this….”

And right at that moment, after my cranium spontaneously combusted?

I hung up on the bitch.