We are back from the beach, and safe. I thank and praise God as I feed my cat community (sixteen fixed and beautiful babies, three are crippled but please don’t tell them that) and comfort my newest adoptee-Miss Maybelline.
I did not ask for these kittens, they asked for me. Some drop offs, some rescues, and all loved beyond comprehension. I rush to the kitten, make her purr soft and thick. The deal was that Dwain would leave the garage door up a foot, and we would place the cat food in said space.
When my husband is going on vacation? He is in such a mad rush, all besides himself. Poor guy literally trips over himself in excitement. I’ll never forget my grandmother’s funeral, and one of the reasons I won’t is because of Dwain’s utter joy at arriving in his first ever hotel room.
“Look, honey! We have a sitting room! Wow, look how big that bed is?.” he yelped. It touched a place in my heart, you know?
So, as it turned out? Dwain left the garage door open alright, but about 4 inches at best. Meaning that the skinny ones may have had a chance, but our big old farmhouse cats?
I didn’t see this until I jumped out of the truck upon arrival, and noticed my entire cat population was giving me the hairy eyeball. I mean, I never felt so bad for an animal in my entire life, and I’m the idiot who always feels sorry for animals. See: crazy cat lady. Actually, my brother gave me the greatest gift before he moved to LA and broke our collective hearts.
The Crazy Cat Lady action figurine, complete with cats, a litter box and a zuit suit that cracks me up every time I see her. Wild blond hair, I mean, it’s me, what can I say?
I always learn something new about myself, my faith, when I’m away relaxing. Problems are solved, a new awareness of my humanness, my weaknesses and strengths. As we drove home, I was saddened for more than one reason. As much as I adore my man for booking my first ever house on the beach? I can’t just do three days. I have had a love affair with the sea since early childhood-I bloom at the beach. I need at least a week, before I feel compelled to even think about leaving.
And I did so love the house, the people we met along the way.
God has a way of showing his immense love for me in ways I could never had noticed when I was using. As I strolled through the woods with my pup this morning, I thought about how much I prayed that people will turn to Jesus if they haven’t already-and know that peace and joy that surpasses all understanding. I almost wept, thinking of the lonely, the homeless, the ostracized. If you would just give your life over to Abba, there are no words in the English vocabulary I could use to describe the peace that a life with Christ provides.
The house was jaw drop beautiful. On the bay, with our own private “beach.” I thought we were on the ocean for the first two days, until a neighbor said to my husband-
“This isn’t the ocean?” The look on his face so comical I had to change my panty liner.
But Jesus was there in a multitude of ways, blessing the crud out of us.
The rainbow the first night, confirming our faith and our love for one another on our twenty seventh wedding anniversary.
My childhood furniture in one of the bedrooms, a painting of a golden retriever above the fireplace mantel. The perfect cloudy weather that makes me come alive. The opportunity to help a sister awaken, and the beautiful child Aria-the granddaughter of our new friends-who absolutely flit like a butterfly, alighting on each new discovery with child like abandon.
She and her eyelashes? Restored a part of my heart I never, ever thought would heal.
On the drive home I felt troubled. What did I learn about myself? What new revelation about my walk with Jesus? Was three days insufficient? Maybe I wouldn’t have that aha moment this time. It didn’t matter really, but it was there in the back of my mind.
When we left on Thursday I was a triggered nub of nothingness. Between the drama involved in trying to help a friend who was dying of cancer. His wife was not happy about me being there, and the situation was toxic for me. One day into it he offered me a morphine pill, and I took it.
He was putting me in between he and his wife, complaining about her and manipulating my emotions. I was enabling him, buying cigarettes and feeding in to his story that his family ignored his presence, wouldn’t buy him groceries, showed him no sympathy whatsoever. I didn’t just take a drug, I had relapsed into my old codependent ways of thinking. I was a human punching bag, it seemed. He was constantly telling me that his wife didn’t like it that I was there.
Hold on, his wife asked me to be there.
I dreaded coming home to this, as if I had no choice.
Last evening I contacted him, and explained the reasons why I simply could not be his hospice “nurse.” I told him that I didn’t want to come between he and his wife, nor could my CPTSD handle the constant high drama.
As I finished the text, my Maybelline screamed outside. She had food and water, and I shushed her mouth, with a firm I. will. see. you. tomorrow.
It wasn’t until this morning that I realized what had happened.
God grew me a backbone.
Turns out, there was only one set of footprints on that beach-and that was because He was carrying me.