He is~

Ladies and gents, may I introduce the man God used to restore my sanity-Mr. Richard Gannon.  Although we’ve never met, I feel a solid closeness to this man as I’ve watched him go from traumatized and triggered to victorious and free.  I love him, adore even, and I find his videos a panacea to those of us who have been around the block a time or two with a toxic, dehumanizing relationship.

I deleted my last writing as, turns out?  That happened to be the one he did read, and three times at that.  His Reader’s Digest version?

You told the world I was a satan worshipper.

No, I am not the only half of this couple who has a vivid imagination, and he does have a knack for missing entire points of conversation.

Post argument I spent my days busy, looking for apartments, and praying/sleeping.  Jesus always combines tragedies for me in a way I can’t quite describe, as if he is killing two birds with one stone.  I discovered a swollen lymph node last evening, which means I either have Lyme or I am down with the ship sick.  Almost every argument we have had?  It coincides with the absolute necessity that I slow down and heal, emotionally and physically-something my nervous energy does not allow, ever.  I also think there is a self-attached stigma to my boudoir, as through depression and illness I’ve done my time there.

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If I feel as if my inner child is being attacked? It’s not going to be pretty, for anyone.

So, today I feel so punk I call it a day, and head right back up to bed after skimming the headline news.  I am drained, dehydrated and dangerously depressed.  I phone my husband, there is a small breakthrough.  Misunderstandings are corrected, words taken back for prosperity.  BUT, there is the reason I was triggered (the full moon, my period and being under the weather only added to my veracity) and that reason had years and years of build up.

I would have thought my temper would have been calmed by now, but interestingly enough?  I find that I am more ferocious, fiery that ever before.  It’s as if the Holy Spirit is fighting with me, or for me, I can’t say.  I can literally feel the Lion’s head rearing, and a force much stronger than me takes over from within.  The result is animalistic, intense and frightening.  Here’s the rub-I don’t get angry like I used to, I’ve been there and find it does nothing for one’s tendency towards migraines.  I know a thing or two, and I consider myself to be a calm and loving force of nature.

Alas, then it happens, I am T R I G G E R E D, a wound from childhood or even years ago will surface, along with a trauma memory-and Sara doesn’t live here anymore.  I have prayed about this phenomena, and it turns out it is healthy for those of us who have been abused, to feel the emotion of anger.  In other words, rage is good.  It means you respect yourself and in my case it also means I am defending the little girl who had no way of defense.

My war is not with my husband.  Nor my monster in law.  My war was with powers and principalities unseen, yes, in the spiritual realms.  However, I will not dine in the presence of mine enemies.

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Jesse and Maybelline pile on the bed. I slowly succumb to the nurturing only Jesus can orchestrate.

Cried out, I did a bible dip for relief.  I say a prayer, and flip to a page to find His wisdom.

The comfort I received was read from Isaiah, a book I read from often.  My kitten snuggled close, kissing every centimeter of my face, tickling, delighting. Isaiah speaks to the reality that as Christians, we will be persecuted.  God will use these trials and heartbreaks to refine us, to strengthen us.  No, we will not be spared sorrow in this life.  Yet we can live this truth with certainty-Jesus will see us through safely, each and every step of the way.

He alone has the victory, and if you are His you will feel this in your very bones.

No one ever said that picking up your cross would be easy.  God assures us that it will be well worth the tears, and that He is carrying us-each and every step of the way.

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Calmed and Broken

Every once in awhile, I think Jesus likes to remind me of something:  I am not of this world, meaning I don’t fit in and have no intention of changing one thing about myself.  I have never fit in, but today the point was driven home in a cruel and devastating way.  It may be the enemy in attack mode, but I am a work in progress, and I am God’s work in progress.

I don’t want anyone to think I pity myself, as I find that a very undesirable character trait.  Spend enough time with the narcissist population and trust me, you’ll feel the same way.   However, I will say that I was pushed to my very limit this afternoon, resulting in a public display of rage and a headache at volume eleventy.  The following story may sound shocking to you, but I have learned to expect the ludicrous, as apparently that is my cross to bear in this dimension.

I came here from the Philadelphia area, to Lancaster County-by all appearances the quaintest of the quaint.  Loads of history, horse and buggies everywhere (I never tire of it) and a few of the finest restaurants around.  Beautiful countryside, small town charm, the whole shebang.

There is something disturbing about these people.  Not all, I have met some very lovely people and you know what?  They are almost always from somewhere else.  Living on the Main Line was different for me-I had many close friendships.  I didn’t realize how very accepting these fine people were, until I entered the Twilight Zone that is this one horse town.

I don’t keep up with the Joneses.  I keep to myself, unawares of what other folks are thinking.  I go to the grocery store without  makeup, usually with my stained hiking clothes.  Not a touch of makeup.  My long hair tied in a knot, lucky if my socks match to be frank.  This isn’t to say that I don’t clean up pretty, but when I do?  Vintage clothing, the more unique, the better.  My mother was a fashion plate, but when it came to me?  Let’s just say she liked to experiment.

I remember the first day of seventh grade, because mom made me wear velvet purple knickers, matching shirt and white lace up boots.  The kids were vicious, the taunting and pointing went on all day.  It didn’t bother me as I had become accustomed to children taunting me, as they did in elementary school-simply because I did not conform.  I was my own person, never a follower of anyone else.

I am helping out a close friend, he is dying of cancer.  For the second time in a week I was a hot mess in mucks.  I entered the house to a very angry man.  He told me he had just told his wife and son that he didn’t care what they thought, he wanted me to help him.  The narrative goes back and forth between everything’s groovy to his wife hates my guts.

“Now what?,” I asked.

The other day while in the grocery store, making conversation, I told the cashier I was helping out with Scott.  Apparently, she ran with this information (wow, scandalous I know) to Scott’s mother in law, who immediately phoned her daughter.

“She’s mad because her mother told her that you were in Dutch Way, bragging about how you’re taking care of me.  I just screamed at her and told her I didn’t care that she thought you were crazy, I wanted you around, period.”

“Can you please go back to the ‘crazy’ part?,” I stammered.

“You know, your hair isn’t perfect, everyone thinks you’re crazy.  Not many people in this town like you, who cares?”

I left the house enraged.  Truly enraged.  I drove to Dutch Way at eighty miles an hour, peeled into the parking lot, barely stopped the car before getting out.  I stormed in and asked for Cindy, the cashier, who had left earlier.  I then asked for the manager, and was directed toward the office.  My friend Lu Anne stood there, looking at me with anticipation.  I told her what happened.   I was shaking and livid.

“I want her job.  I want her job.  She is FUCKED!!!,” I screamed.

I felt their eyes burning holes through my backside.

I drove home, hugged my pooch, cried in the shower.

Children of God need to realize that they will be persecuted, rejected and even shunned because the “worldly” don’t understand us, they despise us because we frighten them.  They are broken people who’ve never truly known Christ in their heart.

I pity them.

 

 

 

Meeting Mathias

I’ve been meaning to write this blog for three days now, and now I’ve forgotten what seemed so pressing at the time.  I know I wanted to talk you y’all about God’s grace, and how often, after a struggle or mountain to climb?  He rewards us in wondrous ways-but you have to be aware of what is going on around you.  A good way to tune in is to pray for the Holy Spirit to guide you in all of His ways.  I just plain say,

Abba, I know I’m a little slow on the uptake, so please make things clear to me.”

Actually, I used to be an incredibly oblivious person.  And I must tell you that I am becoming more observant by the day.  You know why?  Because of QAnon.  The military boards on 8 and 4 chan, Trump’s tweets and videos decoding the maestro’s genius 3D chess game is intricate.  I have learned to look at the entire picture, not just what is in front of my face.  It knocks me off of my feet to think of all that I have been missing all these years.

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After Tom Hanks threatened me for I blog I wrote about my late friend Isaac Kappy’s death?  I began all out war on the enemy.  I carry, have mace and a dog.  God blessed me with bionic hearing, and I am eerily aware of my surroundings.  I always pray before a hike or any other outdoorsy activity.  I pray the blood of Jesus wash over us and protect us.  As a matter of fact, if you are ever in a situation where you feel threatened?  Call out His name!  He will help you, this I know for certain.

See something, say something.

I mean, after everything I have learned in the last three years?

I am just coming out of a deep depression, brought on by too much research, too much isolating and a few extenuating circumstances.  One being the terminal illness my best friend is battling.  He is okay with going, even eager, or so he says.  A few weeks ago I thought we had said our goodbyes.  He had told me that his wife, a good friend for years-was not exactly my biggest fan.  In fact, he told me she wasn’t too keen on our friendship-and Scott, being a man, said this:

I don’t know what it is, but Sara and I share a special bond.

After a gut wrenching goodbye, (See Farewell My Friend, Farewell) I wept for three days straight.  My heart was so grieved!  Another best friend, Barb, had died from cancer 15 years ago-she wouldn’t let us near her-I am a nurturing person and I wear my heart on my sleeve.  I understand why Barbie did what she did, but it left a gaping, grievous wound that resurfaces now and ag”ain.  Now I wouldn’t be able to be of help to Scott, and so selfishly-I ached.

Long story short, much to my surprise, Scott phoned me yesterday.  He told me he had died, but that his son and wife had brought him back.  And then?

“Hey, can you pick me up three chicken thighs and a pound of butter?  I’m making Fettucine Alfredo tonight…”

My heart skipped a beat!  I was torn between elation and the realization that I would have to say goodbye, eventually, again.  As Dwain and I pulled into the driveway, I took notice that his wife was at home.

Honey, I don’t know if I’m going to get out of the truck.

You have to know my husband, and you had to be there-but the look on his face said:

What you talkin’ about Willis?  Where are your sensibilities?  Have you gone mad?

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And so it was that his wife and I sat and talked, outside, privately.

We worked it out, and in a loving and authentic way-no cat claws whatsoever.

I offered to help in the kennel they own.  She shook her head, but offered this up:

“I could use your help with Scott in the mornings and evenings, if you could, I don’t know about your schedule, I…”

She couldn’t say anything else, I had my arms so tightly wound around her neck, by head burrowed in her long black hair, choking the life force out of her, I’m sure.

 

I was torn up, I can tell you that.  So thankful that God had changed things around, my attitude being one of immense gratitude.  We pulled into a car wash, waved down by kids with signs.  As Dwain moved up to the proper spot, my eyes were drawn to a small child in a wheelchair.

I approached the family with caution, bending down to touch the little boy’s hair.

“This is Mathias, and the car wash is to raise money for his sixteenth operation,” a young man informed me.

I sat down in front of him, in utter awe of his spunk.  We made quick friends, sharing blueberries and laughing out loud.  Matt was four years old, and his single mother was struggling to survive after a series of complications he suffered.

“Down Syndrome,” she nodded.  “I couldn’t help but notice how fond of you he is, thank you.”

And this is how God works-just when you’re thinking there’s no point in living?  He will blow you away by answered prayer and abundant love~

 

Dark to a Light so Bright

I’m running rather late today, I do apologize.  There comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs to wake up and smell the dirty laundry laying in her mud room.  Today was about that and flea control.  Look, I don’t want to complain-I have so much gratitude for the blessings, and their are many, that God has bestowed upon my family.

From here on out family=Dwain and myself, Jesse our golden retriever, and my 14 outdoor cats.  Please don’t judge me-I live out in the country where random imbeciles think it proper to dump their unwanted (often abused) felines in my front yard.  Over the years we have cared for over 200 cats, and even back in the day when we had no stove, no food and no cable.  I have succumbed to the lull of life’s luxuries, and frankly?  A roof over our heads, gardens full of vegetables and insanely beautiful flowers and herbs.  We have an overabundance of food these days-I used to horde food whenever possible, now I realize that God will meet our needs.  What extra we do have will be given to Christian ministries around our community.

I was listening to Field McConnel yesterday.  If you have never heard of him, put down what you’re doing and subscribe to Abel Danger.  Field and his wife Deniseare two of the bravest, sassiest, and patriotic God fearing people I have had the pleasure of watching.  And to think I almost abandoned him completely when he spoke about Zim appointments and 800 numbers.  Turns out he was feeding the Zim scam information to the trolls on his station.  If you don’t know what the Zim scam is, I highly suggest you remain ignorant and avoid it like the plague; most people with a modicum of discernment have no problem doing so.

I can only listen to thirty minutes at a time, but believe me, I hang on every word he utters-I don’t want to miss some of the best military intel available.

So, they were talking about taking resumes for a program that will help normies (the sleeping) as they awaken.  He was asking for medical personnel.  Let that sink in for a moment.  Those of us who have diligently followed Q, even when we wanted to pull every hair out of our heads, know everything.  We have known for years, give or take a few facts that are just now coming to the surface.  This is about the very time I started to realize the enormity of the problem.  Q told us that if the public were made aware of these horiffic and satanic acts, that 99% of them would have to be hospitalized.

They say you don’t know how strong you truly are until your courage is put to the test.  Every single anon in the community has, at one time, suffered the stages of a grief so astronomical it’s right off the charts.  That being said, most of us are in the “acceptance” stage.  Any Q detractor will tell you this was a Psy-op, yada, yada, yada.  NO.  This was the pure genius of Donald John Trump-the most transparent administration of our time.  We were given the “sauce” through the 4 and 8 chans communications:  detailed info graphs in which we were schooled in reality-the good, the bad, and the downright putrid.

In the days and weeks ahead, please remain calm and in prayer.  Remember:  this has been going on for centuries, and that we are now fighting evil in every dimension-and it turns out that we, or God, is winning.  There will be help available in the form of support teams; medical professionals and good men and women who want to ensure that you go through this transition with  much love and kindness afforded to you.

I pray that an army of angels fly before and behind you.  Be strong, know that God is in control.  Believe that the hard part is over, thanks to our beloved president, the military, and team Storm.  We owe God and these heroes our very lives-anyone who tries to tell you differently?  They don’t know jack shit.

 

 

 

 

Tightrope

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.

Let The River Run Like Wild

Starting off with a little bitch fest-when I began my blog two years ago, I wanted it to be unique, to help others and to set myself free from the chains that bind.  I have always loved music-and I had a song for so many events in my life, so the next step was easy.  I began using music videos to start off each writing.  Now everyone is doing it and it yanks my chain.

There.  I feel better.

I thought we had found a church, the little chapel in the strip mall, where my in-laws worship.  We live along the Bible belt in Amish country-there are no lack of churches.  Yet my man and me have a dilemma:  every church we attend falls apart after three or four years.  Is it us?  No, not at all.  After putting things in perspective, I realized that when you are growing in your faith?  Well, the more you know the more critically you think about what you do and do not want in your worship haven.  That’s right:  church and fellowship is so intimate, so important-it matters who you surround yourselves with.

We left Hosanna, our last church, because I began to see the forest through the trees.  Lovely people, truly lovely men and women-it’s just that I lost the Holy Spirit connection somewhere along the way, and for me-well, that is everything.  Our pastor was a very kind man, but hesitant to step on any toes whilst preaching.  The worship became more about keeping congregants than preaching the Word.  Personal opinion, of course.  I miss my friends, my beloveds-and that point was driven home yesterday:  after testing the waters that are the congregants themselves.

I bought a gorgeous, Tiffany blue, vintage hat on Saturday.  I collect them, adore them, and wear them on occasion to church-as is my wont.  A few weeks in to attending a new place of worship, I wear a hat-to see how it goes over.  I insist on being accepted for who I am, not what others want me to be.  As we walked in the door, Dwain’s parents were greeting.  Dressed in matching pink outfits (I kid you not, they do it all the time) they handed us the bulleting and we took a seat.  My favorite, favorite Christian rock band of all time is Damascus Road-the very same praise team who sang at our first church.  That band ruined me for life-there is simply no comparison to Miles’ voice and inherent joy that is evident when he praises God.  

This band was visiting the Bridge of Hope church, and I almost peed myself when I saw my friend, the leader of the band, smiling at me from the back corner of the building.

“This is going to be awesome!!!,” I said to my husband.  He smiled and kissed my cheek, clearly thrilled to see me smiling once again-it had been awhile.

Have you ever seen the commercial about the movie in which a family is torn apart because of the way their father praises Jesus in church?  He runs around the church, hands up in the air, thrilling to the beat of his own drum.

“Mommy, why can’t we have a normal daddy?,” the son asks.  I fall into fits of hysterical laughter each and every time I see it-because that is me.  I don’t run around, but I dance and flail my arms, not caring a hoot about anything but worshipping my Lord and Savior.

“Dad, you best move over a seat-when the band starts Sara is going to need room to move.”

So we danced and sang and hooted and hollered.  It was even better than I had imagined-so amazing to see people actually happy while performing and worshipping-not like they swallowed a rather unpleasant surprise, not like they want to end it all immediately after said service.  For crying out loud that disappoints and irritates me to no end.  If you aren’t excited, and on fire for God?  It will show in your performance.

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My weapon of choice.

Simply stated:  many people gawked, a few gave me the hairy eyeball.  It was as if I were carrying a poster that said, MURDER FOR HIRE, I kid you not.

And so it was this morning, when I had to stop at the Monster In Law’s house to pick up some shoes, that I was shot out of the proverbial cannon in response to the MIL’s comment:

“I like the outfit you were wearing yesterday, but I have to say I don’t fancy the hats.”

Well smack my ass and call me Judy.

Thus ended the going-to-church-with-the-MIL experiment.

People, my dear friends, suck the big one.

 

 

I’ll Not Be a Gentleman

Yesterday was Mother’s Day, and I pray you all had a great one-mine started out precariously, and it proved that no good deed goes unpunished.  Indeed.

In a moment of weakness, compassion and dumbassery-I asked my MIL if she would like us to join her on Mother’s Day-at her church.  Actually, my husband brought the notion up last Sunday-and I told him I’d pray on it-only to find that he had been joking.  JOKING.  Unfortunately, it was too late.  My heart got the better of me, and I set plans for 9:30 a.m.  We would be meeting in the strip mall that held her place of worship (Dwain and I called it The Cult) thirty minutes prior to the service.

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Anyhooser, Dwain was none too pleased with the news, but I held my ground.

“What could POSSIBLY go wrong?  We’ll be in church, sort of,” I stammered.

You have to understand a few things before I go on.  My MIL is a narcissist with possible Sociopathic tendencies.  She can scream at volume eleventy hundred with the best of them, and at one point in fact-she locked herself in the bathroom on my husband’s 35th birthday because his WIFE was taking him out to eat.  The histrionics were impressive, but I’m no longer intimidated.  Things have become manageable between us, as I take no shit and she knows this-she knows better than to mess with the likes of this girl.   Everything turned around the day I stood up to her-any attempts to bring me under her control have failed-and with my new strength I laugh in the face of danger, daily.

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So the cult, I mean church fills up to maximum capacity.  I have to admit, between the praise music and the guest (a Christian comedian who had us in hysterics) my husband and I were truly enjoying ourselves.  We sat there for two hours, no major faux pas-I did spill my Kombucha on a stranger, but nothing major-patiently awaiting the blessing.

From the corner of my eye, I see the veneer on her face.  It has cracked, and the pieces are falling all over the place.  She was even drinking her water in an angry fashion, which made me pee myself a little, but thankfully I was wearing a carefree panty liner.

What’s wrong with my mother?

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask her?,” I reply.

Dwain, still mildly petrified of his mother, shook his head in definitive protest.

Before I could even ask, the tirade began.

Well, I’m not even going to clap for him.  (The comedian)  I wanted my pastor to be here (he was on vacation) and the real praise team (he was on vacation) to be here. And…”

I quit listening.  A seething rage began from the depths of my being:  I held it in, but I could feel the monster within, pushing and prodding at my insides-he wanted out, and in the worst way.

I stand outside in the semi-hurricane and wait for my husband to pick me up-which he does every Sunday.  The wind is blowing people’s umbrellas inside out, I think I hear a woman scream, where the HARRY is my husband?  I re-entered the church four times before I finally stormed out and to the truck.  I open the door…

“What the FUCK?????????????????????”

I scream these words at volume coxswain, and sit my ass in the seat.

“I was on the phone with your son.  Sorry.  And by the way, there may be people in upstate New York who didn’t hear you.”

“DRIVE,” the monster says.

“Just fucking DRIVE.”

ByeByeHillaryBlood