If Then And Now

Being near tears at times during the day because all those experts in all those books I've spent hours reading prove true. That these little minds do want to learn and do teach themselves when left to it. They invent games. They ask for help when teaching themselves to sew. They make art. They teach themselves computer programming. They create worlds in pixels. They learn to cook. They learn to help. They mirror compassion. They mirror frustration. They seek out companionship. They plan ahead. They pool their resources together and set goals. They ask hard questions. They teach me to not feel guilty to ask questions. They absorb my every ounce of energy to think and hinder housework. They are excellent chore doers. They are worth it. They are gifts. They remind me to be kind. They remind me to practice mercy. They remind me to smile. They make messes. They make big messes. But so do I. They have freedom to play at the sewing machine for hours. It's not nonsense time wasting. They have freedom to play with water guns and soak themselves. It's not foolishness. They have freedom to spend hours on Scratch creating a computer game. They have freedom to run outside to play in the minute long end of the summer showers. To collect their drops in cans and bottles and canisters. To absorb the change of temperature as the big sun sets into night. To watch the bats fly out at dusk. To visit with family and to greatly appreciate all that is beautiful and unique about each member. They have freedom to write letters to friends, to cousins, to whomever however many letters however long. They have freedom to paint. To value what they paint. To value what others paint. They can make messes with vinegar and food coloring and baking soda and glitter and cornstarch and make big messes. They are learning to not ever feel like the creative and the fun and the silly are luxuries reserved for some other time. Reserved for some other people. They are learning to be cooperative. To be considerate. To be creative. They are learning the mechanics of the sewing machine. The workings of game programming. The value of plenty of good books on hand to read. To not feel guilty for being curious about what doesn't fit in the classroom.

And once upon a time I sat in a living room and pulled out second hand encyclopedias and read for the fun of it, and I sat in the shade of decades old pecan trees and observed the ant lions for hours, and I swang on a sun bleached yellow plastic swing and sang my heart out, and I walked around Granny's yard as she pointed out all of the different herbs she grew. Smelled them. Pinched them. Tasted them. Observed her ingenuity. The reused scraps of fabric she tied the stalks of the plants back with. Memorized the shape of her disfigured pinky nail and the story of how it got that way. The plastic milk jugs she reused to collect rain water. Observed the mosquito larvae wriggling in their pools. I memorized the cracks in the sidewalk as I explored to the end of the thousandth Kayton Ave. block. Memorized the coo of the turtle doves. Made potions with the pollen of the pecan trees. Laid on my back on the still hot summer sidewalks to observe the stars. Observed mollies give birth to live young. Memorized what my aquarium fish book taught me about bettas. Spent hours watching my betta flare his gills at my finger poking the glass of his bowl. Watched him jump out of the bowl to grab his ball-pellet of food stuck to the tip of my finger. Spent hours watching wild life documentaries. Watching educational videos from the library. Sign language. Reading lips. How to draw. How to belly dance. Knowing what shelf in the library had my favorite books on how to draw animals. Books about fish. Goosebumps. Science experiments at home. Pulling apart the flowers of the crepe myrtle trees. Squeezing their soft petals out of their buds. Dissecting the seed pods of the mesquite tree and remembering that it leaves hands sticky. Those racing ants that speed over its' often horizontal trunks. Races in class to see who could write the most in a minute. Reading and reading and reading. And staying up all night to finish my newest Goosebumps book. Catching tadpoles in the Frio. Catching minnows in plastic cups. Scooping up algae from the nasty bottom and sides of a circular plastic pool with aquarium nets. Picking up pecans to eat fresh; the only way they should be eaten - cracked open against another. The acidic nastiness of accidentally eating a piece of the not-soft wall of the inside. Melting ice cubes with table salt. Often being the last one to get the joke, but the first to understand why.

These days with these littles brings my little days up to the surface. But I was an alien in my tardy after the bell school attending. Forced to push out of mind the trauma of mean words in alcohol drenched late nights. That little me was never safe it seemed. The learning institutions said education was a way out. They said I had a ticket out of the pain because of above average test scores. That didn't solve the dependent maternal child. Didn't solve the loss of fraternal lucid guidance. And the cool security of these little four smiles sits in stark contrast always to that lost little me one. That frizzy haired too skinny one. That one who sat in adults' presence at times for only their criticism for not eating enough. For not focusing enough on school. For not being able to shake off the weight of the trauma of the beer binging induced fear. Insecurity. King David said, 'My sin is always before me.' So it was with the lack of coordination of the little me. The continued insecurity. The broken loss of fraternal lucidity. That saintly fraternal hole. Always it sits before me. Then just as weakly now. And I grieve for what was lost. And I am lost for what could have been. If only the joy I found in getting lost in long walks was nourished. Valued. If only that curiosity for all things biological had been encouraged. Not by mere words. Words of encouragement by adults older and wiser couldn't touch the surface of the daily sadness, the daily weight of everything not being okay. They were empty words of encouragement then and they continue to be empty shells of encouragement still. And teachers' eyes would light up at little me's immediate understanding of ideals and equations and themes and formulas and theories and mechanics and definitions. And teachers and counselors would hold little me up on a pedestal with stars in their eyes with all powerful hope of my home life not being triumphant over my above average test scores. They said, I think, that those tests would be a way out of the broken home. Of the pain of the broken home. And little me wanted desperately to believe them. Desperately to have hope. But even little me knew better. The hope of the future with the above average test scores was a false hope. Saint Paul's description of a hope that doesn't disappoint was absent in those test scores. How could a high test score erase the pressure of the maternal child in need of care? Still in need of care. Her glory and mantle of pain never failing to eclipse the achievements of that smaller than average little me.

More sensitive than most. For the slight and small nuances of life and facial expressions and tones in speech and choice of words do not go unnoticed by my hyper-sensitive eyes. So I say that had another person gone through that slightly-rougher-than-what-most-go-through childhood, they would have fared far better. All of the offensive glares at me. The look on supposed to be mother's face as she shot me the finger when I whined about not being in bed late on a school night. When she looked at me with dislike, hate even, in her eyes, I could never shake the pain of that rejection because for me the pain was far greater. I felt it deeper. Longer than most others. And drunk adults would tell me how I was an old soul. They would tell me their secrets because they considered me an equal. I was intelligent and observant and slow to speak. So they took advantage of my innate wisdom by confiding in me the pain of those secrets. And I was left in charge of the groceries. And I was trusted to take little sister to school. To discipline her even. And I was just a broken little girl. And I was just a broken sensitive intelligent little girl. And I hurt more than most. And I understood more than most. And I thought more than most. So I was more vicious in my pain than most. I was more free with my venomous tongue than most. Deep hurt and lack of nurturing led to justification for disrespecting the hearts of others, even myself, more than most.

And with hot tears welling up in the soft pockets of my not-quite-hazel-mom-eyes I say never. Never to allow the needs of little me to eclipse the glory of these four littles. Never to allow the shine and hope in their eyes at the wonder of the ant lion to fade. To never put out the joy they have when they seek to create a cape for puppy stuffed animal. I say never to be a child in need of them ever. I say never to be unwilling to treat my mental illness. To always be lucid and present in their lives. To be present and to answer the phone when they call. To never leave them waiting long after the dismissal bell has rung. To never pass out drunk and leave them to fend for themselves. To never sear images in their minds of me being lost in an illusionary reality. To never quench their dreams. To allow them the freedom to dream. Not wanting them to remain children dependent on me for life. My mom heart asks, "Why?" and "How?" How could a maternal heart allow it's needs to selfishly swallow whatever light of potential found in their sweet sensitive child's eye? How?

But not 'how' and 'why.' No. Just the determination that it will end here. That it won't continue and spread it's filth past me. No matter my awkwardness and insensitivity to the nuances for the deeper understanding of the whole. No matter the pain of the past their present joy conjures. No matter the dependance on heavenly grace to treat the pain. My pain will be treated that their light and life of curiosity will thrive and not be quenched. And I will not put the weight of my pain on their shoulders ever. And I will defend their right to innocence as long as I'm able. And I will be open and honest with myself and my God that I will never prove to be too big a hypocrite to bear any clout. And my heart will break alongside theirs. Not to shame them.

And the pain of the lost potential of the past is a reminder always for the need of empathy. For never being able to understand the situation of another in its' entirety. Never having the audacity to say to another person to, "Get over it." To never think that. To never say to another, "You shouldn't let that bother you." To never assume to have all of the answers to another's questions. No never. The pain behind eyes forged in the complexity of the broken home is a mystery to those aliens eating three square meals a day. Foreign to those, even my littles, who say, 'Good-night Mom and Dad," every night. Never, no never, assume quaint platitudes will ease the pain of the untreated mental illness. Ask the children of those ill. They suffer for the ignorance. Never assume as a sitter-in-central-air-conditioned-home to have the answer to rampant poverty evident in overgrown lawns and broken down cars in lawns and second hand ill-fitting clothes. I don't know. I could never know. I will never assume that my ignorance of the struggle of the lesser is great enough. I can't know. The weight behind the eyes of the child awed by the luxury of buying name brand food. That's untouchable by my privilege. So the pain of my past, may it never cloud my ability to empathise. I can not know. I can not ever assume to know the situation of the other. Of the struggling. Of the less than. Of those who could now benefit from my charity. No above average test score or extravagant gift will heal the pain of the little one lost in their broken home. No legislation will solve the injustice of little being in need of home.

And my past is a foundation for the now comfortable present. And my past is a scar fire branded into my flesh. And my past and my pain are untouchable by your words. But I will not have that past mire littles' present. That their hearts will never bear the weight of mine. But where does said perfect love deity fit into these seared scars? For all of the pain that He endured it seems illogical to assume that my pasts' present pain is above His understanding. Yet so I feel. I push away His comfort in the guise of being too hurt to heal. Give these pains to Him, He asks. And so I attempt to do. To give to Him all the remnants of the hurt, but as I attempt to do this, the pain surges up to the surface again, and I have to halt the surrender. Can it hurt too much to have it heal? Can said clouded deity bring awkward hypersensitive then-little into the healing comfort of His said perfect love's heart? Questionable, says the learned cynic. I doubt it. Said master engineer of all things natural and physical. Master builder. Master Maker. Master creative heart behind the colors in the feathers of the birds of paradise. You, You say, to come to You all who labor and are heavy laden and You will give rest for our souls. You say You hear me. You say You are near me. I look into the eyes of my miracles of littles and I think I touch a tiny piece of what it must be to be Father Creator You, only slightly. But this small taste of the pride You must feel at the sight of Your miraculous creation is fleeting and I wonder if, at all, it is possible for You to ever wonder at me. That the tiny mind, broken in youth, mastering skill after skill of said assessment test of youth, that that is a miracle and a marvel You made that You have the right to be proud of. That you are proud of what You made when You made me. Them, my littles, it's true, I can not question the miracle of them, but me? Mighty Deity, how could broken and pained me be the apple of Your eye? Could You possibly sit above me and receive joy at my keen observation? At my ability to turn things, thoughts, observations over and over in my mind until at last maybe a glimmer of greater understanding of the whole is eeked out? Is that something You love?

It is easy to accept these four for being fearfully and wonderfully made. But me? No, I'm just little. I'm just alien tardy after the school bell.

And I never feel that the time for complete comprehension occurs ever. I never find that I have had time to think everything that I wish to think out to it's completion. Never enough because it's never compete. And does it matter that those journal pages are full? And does it matter that my littles are free to discover and be safe? And does it matter that righteous me has...

What I'm reading changes me sometimes

"...that a budget is a moral document, and when you look at a church budget, you know what that church is about and what it values. In most cases, you will find that church budgets show that churches are self-centered. The reality is, many churches spend little on anybody or anything outside the church. If you look over almost any church budget, you will probably find that the church is paying its bills and taking care of its own needs. It has been said that the church should be the only club in the world that should exist for the benefit of its nonmembers. Few church budgets give evidence of that...Across the board, more than 90 percent of the church offerings we give on Sunday mornings stay inside the building (some denominations have as little as 2 percent going toward external, missional needs.) This is the antithesis of what the early church was doing. In the book of Acts, it says that the offerings were put at the feet of the apostles and were distributed to folks as there was need (4:35.)"  --Shane Claiborne//Tony Campolo, Red Letter Revolution

"We can sum up very quickly what people need to teach their own children. First of all, they have to like them, enjoy their company, their physical presence, their energy, foolishness, and passion. They have to enjoy all their talk and questions, and enjoy equally trying to answer those questions. They have to think of their children as friends, indeed very close friends, have to feel happier when they are near and miss them when they are away. They have to trust them as people, respect their fragile dignity, treat them with courtesy, take them seriously. They have to feel in their own hearts some of their children's wonder, curiosity, and excitement about the world. And they have to have enough confidence in themselves, skepticism about experts, and willingness to be different from most people, to take on the responsibility for their children's learning. But that is about all that parents need. Perhaps only a minority of parents have these qualities. Certainly some have more than others. Many will gain more as they know their children better; most of the people who have been teaching their children at home say that it has made them like them more, not less. In any case, these are not qualities that can be taught or learned in a school, or measured with a test, or certified with a piece of paper." --John Holt, Teach Your Own: the John Holt book of home schooling

"We Cannot Remove Pain-the Felt Reality of Evil-from This World
    I want to state an important truth from within the Christian worldview at this point. By removing pain from the human experience, Sam Harris is, in effect, trying to remove the felt reality of evil. There is one fundamental difference between God allowing a death to take place and me taking another life: God has the power to restore life, I don't. The story of evil is one part of a greater narrative. To ignore the greater narrative is to continue to raise particulars without accepting the general. In fact, there is no option left but to say there is no such thing as evil and there should be no such thing as pain....If it is possible in our finite world with our limited knowledge to be able to appreciate just one benefit of pain, is it not possible that God has designed this awareness within us to remind us of what is good for us and what is destructive? As horrendous as the illustrations may sometimes be, can we not see the moral framework that detects atrocities and resists tragedies? Could there be a greater, deeper answer than simply saying there is no God?....Wickedness is always excused as anything but the moral degeneracy that has resulted from each one of us becoming the god of God."  Ravi Zacharias, The End of Reason: A response to the new atheists 

Highest hill calling

now what do you look like, perfect faith?
now what do you sound like?
Do You know what we're walking into?
Could you please let me know, give me a hint
that every little thing is gonna be okay.

and I was embraced and made a part of
A creator of
A partaker of
A new thing that hadn't existed before the effect of poor planning
That thing that collectively has twelve stepping feet
Sixty fingers to discover
And it's mine
And I'm accepted in this one thing that before me ne'er existed
And the tall one
The musical one
The quiet one
The he was mister right one
And magic was wrought when to him I clung
And I made him mature
And he made me calm
And all that is wrapped up in these things before unthinkable
Unimaginable
Small minds wonderful
And now searching for belonging stops because it's filled
That dull ache to be parented and rest in being taken care of
    Is eclipsed by deep belly laughs and walking around in bare feet
Passing out hydrocortisone cream
Taking orders for ice cream
How a one could abandon their tinies?
Curse their babies?
Blame their babies?
Created small hearts place me at home
Make me at home
Make my home a home
Tiny big voices make the unparented parent satisfied in home

And faith wraps it shut

thump say speak. I speak, says the one. mini-mex muse revealing tex-mex itty bitty one.

making the change
breaking away
friend, my fear
so near
push away all hope of smiles
all the promise of the not yet known
and what we don't know
don't know what the repercussions will be
just we'll wait and see
and the yelling and they get so mad
wonder where they get that from
and the love that's so deep they weep and weep
their joy overflows into crinkled eyes
the joy of the ice cream man's jingle
the mad rush for the money hard earned
just a vacation
just a vacation
for the rest of their childhood


dear friend eclipsed by sweet smiling eyes



never going back to the semi-cultish house of worship contained in the sacrifice of the few for themselves
-careful not to offend the little
but their thing is offensive to me
offensive to that thick book I still thickly read
and all of those platitudes
those commandments we all sometimes dread
and read
and read
and read
magic thick book spoke life once upon a time
spoke direction in the truth it yelled at me
the message it taught to me
then the shifting of the meaning and the shadow of the one man's vision and his calling
and breaking away
though years have past
is still thickly stuck to the small hairs
is still twisted captor seeking to please that one man's vision
vision
singing be thou my vision
and raising ebenezer
and the last of the last and the fallen in the past
and then there is all of the sentimentality of the teenage youth group hanging on to me and pulling me deeper into the man's vision and the truth wrapped up in the warped and the managing of all of the hurt and the pain and the hurt and the fighting with the mom-child and the wanting to be better
to be better at the thick book reading
the thick book studying
and the long simple prayers admired-er
off to the oasis in the desert to sit and reflect and dig deeper and deeper
and there was refuge there
and there was calm there
and there was camaraderie there
and mission there
and understanding there

but past the busted hopes of being a part of magical all-is-virtuous-of-this-vision-most-magical
flat topper wasn't key to living out thick book
thick book
and churchy organism took
and took
and took

and readjusted sad smiles fell swiftly through the cracks
and meetings turned to meaning
and holding onto sacred life
when talking and listening was of the utmost importance
and though it always felt like the faith was out of reach, same struggled smiles held my smallness close in
and it grew
and it grew
and the laughter healed the misunderstood mismanaged healing mexi-mini me
and they held me up and I helped them up
then I left
I left
to alone and aloof and the pretty blooming trees
to box house living and just the one red friend

and I thrived
and thrived
and guiltily thrived
what of when questions breed more questions
and searching into that mini-mex proves unending
and the secular bad'man institution was a refuge to breathe
sanity in smiling faces
normalcy to pour into semi-cultish slash wounds
and of the three little ones who are thriving
and smiling
and smiling
and smiling
and of the tiny one born in the away place
the alone place
the lone red hand to hold in forceful agony
that victorious calm
to see tiny face held in swollen arms
mexi-tiny strength displayed
that questions unanswered and pains inexplicable
could maybe
not be the keeping to be tiny
the odd fitting could possibly be that perfect fitting smallish one to smile crinkle eyes alight
and tapping keys on cheap keyboard could be key to tapping small tex-mex perspective
that perplexive
long time in coming
tapped out voice
in conclusion of
those years in mom-child's care
those years in semi-cultish incompatibility
those years with the lone red sounding board
confusing one sided long thought out perspective
voiced perspective

old friend fear of rejection
push the publish
push the publish

quiet palpitating beat of the heart

quiet

for to listen to the rejection and the criticism of those thoughts and the things that they will question when to me they seem so plain and the talk of the past and the pressure that it breeds
that the satisfaction of this fallen one will be clean
and clean
and clean
and clean

because you were always mean
because you were always different
you were always just a little bit off
but that little one
that quiet face
you don't have a quiet voice, now do you

share the thing
share the thing

still your self
settle in
and the open
and the vulnerable
begets being heard
that in fear

that those impressions that wrecked small frame could soothe those stinging
in a smallish way

share and no

scared for the sympathy
sad empathy

In a van down by the river

Just like that petty wonder

Singularly soaring feathered fleeting flight

Captivated curiosity to hope 

To rest

Snatched too soon 

From too tight grip

Was it tiny guitar broken beyond repair

Was it waking in night's middle to trauma alone

To wake to insecurity

Security gone

Malicious mechanisms biologically imbedded in process

Process disappointment to hope

Hope

Dream

Optimistic optimist open anew

Quench quick pulse 

Soothe sickening sinking 

Calm calamity's creeping

Toward hope in purity 

Realistically 

Hope's reliability 

Step one

Step two

Now foot in front of other 

Now right arm sways to balance another

Now walk 

Now run

In quiet fun

Adventageous adventurer venture to there

Venture to where

Still pace to care

Carefully hope blind

Hope bind

Once more this time

This time to walk 

Step beat

Step beat

Faith rest inside hope box sealed 

Sealed 

It is done

Done 

Done

Just for me

If I just wanted to write
And I wrote what I wanted
Would the readers want what I wrote?

If the pen penned the verse
And the screen mirrored terse
Would it free us indebted serfs?

Would words stir the fallout
And the hearts voice curt curses
If voice was given to mind?

If sweaty palms and palpitating
Beat not fingers to retreat
But fought to shape taboo to display
And give voice to shaky beliefs
Would conscience sigh relief
However brief
If writing were just for me?

and the na...cy and the ch....ea and the me....an and the me and the then and the now

And married at twenty.
And baby at twenty one.
And another in twenty one months.
And another two years later.
Maybe that's when her oneness was completed.
Six, maybe seven years after vows.



After hours.
In the irrelevant darkness spread between bedroom walls
Cockeyed passers by disregarding voiced pain
voiced agony
voiced loneliness
Meddlesome naysayers and bandage quips
overachieving in laws and unattainable standards
whose standards?
Mediocre marriage between mediocre bedsheets
sagging now unrecognizable milk producing nurturer

spread open wide, dear submissive
open to act and do and be and act until quality feeling fills the sheets
Fills the void
the lie of the better
the lie of the soapbox

irrelevant naysayer held reverently above impractical practicality
now gray
now white
now gray
now white

boxed in
in boxed house
manufactured to house life and smiles and cooking and eating and love making

seclusion breeds opportunity

opportunity to question
opportunity to run
run far
run far
to the backwards had been
revolting not now been
dear submissive tempted now to run
run from the faith
run from the gray now white now gray now white

now disqualified with quips of knowing better than thou
better than the brokenness
better than the now
why ask how
dear submissive
dear seclusive
elusive reclusive diabolical questioner of the faith
questioner of the emphatic

realistically seeing the reality of the being in the madness never seeing

but the brow and the beating
and the meeting of the quipping and whipping mental furor into mad fury
fury at self
fury at self
at elusive submissive
elusive submissive at high cost of life

snatched away laughter
hope of respectability
hope of in-loving kindness
in love-ability
ability
utility

utilitarian though you seem to not be the backhanded equalizer suppressing madness temper

Tempted to cope
tempted to flee backwards to inexplicable ridiculous radical

hold me down longer
loving sad view
hold me down harder

run from the now white now gray
make fun with the freedom of the boxed in box maker
laughter taker
for small money maker

eunuch drone worker
enabling free for frees sake
for sayings sake
for others knowing sake

high calling to poverty ignoring true need unfulfilling unequally maker
marriage breaker
oneness breaker
promise breaker
fail
fail
fail

New Girl

Don't strive for the attention, reconciliation with or approval of someone who has rejected and insulted you.
Why for the stress?
Why for the striving?
Why for the approval?
The madness of the seeking?
What you avoiding?
What you not seeing?
Commence deep thought thinking in the labrynth of mind seeking.
You put away deep soul searching; for approval of deity's path leading.
Put away empty promises.
Saying yes to what should be said no to.
Stopped it. Stopped it all.
Now go.
Go to the place that keeps heart palpitating.
Soul gravitating toward the easy.
Toward the palatable.
The palpable.
The good enough of the quiet sharp inhalation of not saying what's on mind.
Unthinking of the effects.
Of the consequences of the now.
Of the process to become my person.
Growing up when already an adult.
Already an entity; an independant full blown adult.
Now mature.
Now do the thing that makes so afraid.
Ties you to rumpled sheets in stale bed.
Ties you, binds you, behind unthinking screens.
Others' dreams.
Helping all but the me.
Catering to all but the me.
Driving all but the me.
Dare to risk egg on facing.
No thank you.
Just perfect tiny craft to win a bit of the green.
Who says the tiny craft can't open to the tangible?
The talent.
The gifted.
The little bit of shine that the little one was denied.

question the wonder

the balance between believing and doing
between words read and things practiced
sacrifice need be shown through actions
actions unable to take flight for fear
for fear of the backlash
for fear of the not having
not having the needs met as the overdue bills file in
come in
traipse in
have no idea how the unrest and uneasiness will play out
how the questions will be answered
dismissed to the core in light of the anger
in light of the pain
the embarrassment
the harassment
the no-good-thing-can-come-of-you attitude
should thoughts and questions be squashed for the presence of the anger?
do these questions base themselves in anger? in embarrassment?

smiling gentle coos smile the heart
lift the eyebrows furled in deep thought
deep thought of abstract
of doing and thinking
wonder where the wonder will wander to

that book and heroin

I'm never gonna read that boring boring book.

Is it called successful ministry when your heart breaks a thousand times over? When a depth you forgot existed cries out for miracles?
Would that there would be a miracle!

With the what.

With the what in the who.
Where?
Inevitable crept up and into the now.
And we sit in the now.
Sit in the inevitable.
Inevitably here where the who said to inevitably be.
Present in the two states away place.
In that space.
In that place where the talk is to self and the who answers never when.
Why, says the her.
We wait, says the we.
And they why and they wait in the two states away.



And You say You are the becoming One. The One whom is what I need when there is a thing that I need. And You say that all things You are working together for the good of those who love You. And You say that it is good to continue to do the good works. And You say that it was You who called out into the darkness and created the light. And You say it was You who brought life to the dry bones.
Will these dry bones cry out for that life?



Irritating itch. Snapping tilt of the head when that too sharp note of a too harsh word spoken perfectly inappropriately. My head snaps. My heart snaps.
Stand straight and brought instantly to attention. That whack of wrong chord sung. Hung. Hanging in the air and given life and legs and muscle and light. Raised up from innocent dependent infancy into towering above terrorizing traitor.
Stop the bad notes from ringing annoyingly in unison abruptly interrupting insignificant moments of smallness on small mind.
Stop.
Repeatedly blowing foul stench into pleasantries. Repeating rapidly despite me; to spite me.
Say again tempting jumble of mistaken misspeaks?
Soothe that itchy itch in that dark smile of a place. That place where words grow mean and dreams dream mean and I'm free to be mean.
Mean like the rest. Mean like the best. Mean like that foul mouthed one is free to be mean. Mean like the best. Like the dry bones laid to rest. Foul like the image of words spoken before thinking.
Pause before saying it.
Just pause before you do it.
Sound a siren. Make a face. Raise a flag. A heads up would be nice. A warning that you're gonna sing that not note.



Where you at strong desire to please not men but God? Where you at holy roller rolling quickly with the holy? Where your calls at that stop the masses from their masses? Where you at that lay down to frown on the calling on the none? Where you at little loud one?
Sit quietly this ride.
Where you at broken hearted at sin one? Always saved one? Up and coming one?
Grown up too big little loud one.
Fall out of grace little hanging dove one?
Read too many words out of preselected representative collected ones?
Yeah, you're the lost one. The once that was one. The oh, she used to be one.
Say you're the free one? The always wanted to be one? The thinking for yourself kinda rebel wanna be one?
Matter of factly churchy disregarding cynical grown up not brat one.
Lover of words, free thinking, liberating, shut your face, you privileged smug faced talking and talking one. Artsy fartsy creative crafty this or that kinda trash hoarder makey make one.
 And Jesus.


For shame, what she said, who she said it to, what she did and why she did the things she did when she did with who. In religion's name sacrificing valuable hearts to be heard. To be right. To be right with the small minded right. In the small space of isolated sacrifice. An upside down world of working never paid ness.

Worry, Apprehension, Anxiety, and Faith

 How much is actually under our control? Job had life happen to him. He couldn't control the tragedies that took his family, fortune and health away.

		"Now there was a day when his sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their oldest brother's house; and a messenger came to Job and said, "The oxen were plowing and the donkeys feeding beside them,
		"when the Sabeans raided them and took them away—indeed they have killed the servants with the edge of the sword; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"
		While he was still speaking, another also came and said, "The fire of God fell from heaven and burned up the sheep and the servants, and consumed them; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"
		While he was still speaking, another also came and said, "The Chaldeans formed three bands, raided the camels and took them away, yes, and killed the servants with the edge of the sword; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"
		While he was still speaking, another also came and said, "Your sons and daughters were eating and drinking wine in their oldest brother's house,
		"and suddenly a great wind came from across the wilderness and struck the four corners of the house, and it fell on the young people, and they are dead; and I alone have escaped to tell you!"" Job 1:13-19 (NKJV)

As Job sat at home messengers ran to him bringing bad news times three. I imagine Job's heart growing faint, beads of sweat covering his brow, his palms clammy and sweaty as the second messenger opened his mouth to share even more bad news. By the time the third messenger came with his story to report, Job would've wanted to wake up from a horrible nightmare. Last year was a nightmare. (It has now been years since this post was started. Not sure how many years, but at least two.)
It began with me in a dark, thick, debilitating depression. A cloud over my mind and heart that held me under. I fought with my emotions, or lack thereof, to somewhat function. I became a machine. I produced dinners, swept floors, wiped runny noses and played house with my husband. But my mind was lost and cloudy. I couldn't hold back tears at all hours of the day. I couldn't laugh or smile at the irony of everyday life as I love to do. I didn't feel trapped, I was trapped. And the cage, the hole, the cloud draped over me grew thicker, heavier and darker. I couldn't see any hope. No hope. Without hope I took matters in my own hands. 
At the crisis center they called it a trial run. The crisis center where the first small pink pills were administered under watchful eye. The morning that day began as any other. I was left alone with my younger children. In my bedroom I did it, the children busy in another part of our shabby mobile home playing with who knows what. They missed it. They didn't see anything, but me walking around the house later sobbing as I went on with my chores. I had called my husband and told him he needed to be home with me and he came. I still babysat as I did every Thursday at the time. Then I called for help. Help came and escorted me to the crisis center. I got help.
My trial run led to a regimen of medication everyday ad infinitim. Incremental increases of sweet relief  More and more it took to balance out the bad bad imbalance of chemicals, emotions, feelings, loss, hopelessness. And consume willingly and hungrily I did. Hungry for my cure. Hungry for my humanity in the sea of dying to self I was surrounded in. I had bought into it. Those lies shouted so loudly by the sheep. Those lies told to me and others of the weak faith; of those with mental illness. Weak faith of those on antidepressants. That was me. Vocal about my 'healing.' Vocal about my liberation from the weak pills that enslaved. What use is salvation? The baptism of the Holy Spirit? The life lived in holiness, refraining from sin? What good is the witness to those lost souls? Will the salvation preached liberate the enslaved mind? Will the prayer moving away from dependence on men move to depend on faith to heal? Faith to feel? Faith to motivate? Validate? All that it should. All that it should to make a broken soul whole. 
But those lies mixed in with the truth. Those lies mixed in with the love. Saying o how we love you. O how we are so proud of you. But they lie. They disapprove. They grow much faster. They love much purer. They are the better. They push the small to their place of smallness. 
Go get a band aid if you must, but a band aid you'll have until you truly give ALL of your little self to The Lord. Push to make little of my smallness. Not enough, dear one. Not enough, little sheep. Not enough prayer time. Not enough submission to husband. Not enough holiness. Not enough smiles. Not enough worship music. Not enough cleaning. Not enough doing of good for the church. The church. The self sustaining organism. Sustained on the sacrifices of the few. The sacrifices of the few to feed, nourish, protect, teach, isolate, cater to, the holier than the rest. The holier than the most. The holier because of the poverty. The holier because of the dependence on the food stamps. The medicaid. The generosity of others. Never say no to your children when they ask of you. But how to do such a thing when there is no means? No means to save. No means to give more than the sacrifice of the all. All the life. The sacrifice of all the life for the catering to the few. Say yes to your kids and push away the outside world of the many. Say to the outside world that this sacrificial life of poverty is the one they should envy. Desire. You wanna live this life? Run away. Run away fast. Hard. Push away from the circles of unreason.  The justifying of the feeding of the ever consuming organism. It can't help the many. It can't reach the physically hurting. Can't do the true work of the church for the feeding of itself. But the depression.
The depression that starved. The depression that wore down to suicide. Suicide when there is no other option to the life un lived around me. That life that was full of life and creating life and nourishing life without life being breathed into the small me. Imagine the lonliness of there being no escape. No escape from the confines of what should be called life. When life is the elusive one. When life is your enemy. When life is a lonely place where the should be whispers of reassurance are demands for holiness. Demands for more sacrifice. Times in prayer. In the Word. Stopping living to escape the not getting better non living. 
O naive Christian. Misunderstood. No amount of prayer, servitude, submission, faith could pull one so ill as me from the depths of sticky depression fingers. Your cure found not in a stronger belief, but in a greater  a greater faith in the knowledge and wisdom of men. Contradictory? No, wise. Wise to succumb to the wisdom of medicine. Of thousands of years or study. Of medication that is a miracle healing. Though a healing brought on patiently through months of inactivity. Months of it not working. Months of strange adjustments and fatigue and thirst and who knows what else. Sacrifice. I sacrificed my save face for free thinking  for free feeling and emotion and happiness. The ability to feel these things and not just act them out. Act them out like I had learned to do. 
My remedy, sweet remedy, remorse over the years I denied myself my healing in those tiny pills. That exhaustion. That work. That exclusion. Oh, the strange things I said and did in the name of a faith that betrayed me. Trade in the tainted for the pure. That religiosity for the depth of truth He brings. 
As I said loved my Savior, it was the acceptance of the people I longed to love. If I loved them by living the life they said was best for me then surely I'd get better, right? Surely the more I pleased them the more my life would reflect the love being poured into me. The life that they said would happen.
It was a cage. It was a chain. It was a prison.
Resolved. Resolved, but unsettling tale to tell. Unsettling. Upsetting. Scary. Sad. Not years wasted, but years in refinement to think as a thinker free of trained thoughts thinks. In thinking as a thinker thus free to worship as a freeman. A free woman. A loosed from bonds thinker. A truth worshiper in truth. Dictated holiness never for the better than to judge. 
O, but the self incriminating self ever ready to pull down and pull apart the accomplishments of the self.
yes, the me .
The built on years of mental battles with mental self. Would you be so free? Would you be so free to tell of the loss and the sacrifice? Stand on the ground that is solid and solid your feet and stable you'll be in the eyes of the Important. Disregarding the all important eyes.

Brain function gets muddled at times. Making light of this muddling is difficult. How do I simply keep keeping on in spite of the muddled brain? Could I take a break from the noise of the people I love? Could their voices be tuned out no matter how loud they become? Does my muddled self's need for quiet translate into unlove? Balance. Perhaps some day I will stumble upon something that looks like balance.