Here’s That Rainy Day

Maybe
I should have saved
Those leftover dreams
Funny
But here’s that rainy day

Here’s that rainy day
They told me about
And I laughed at the thought
That it might turn out this way

Where is that worn out wish
That I threw aside
After it brought my love so near

Funny how love becomes
A cold rainy day
Funny
That rainy day is here

It’s funny
How love becomes
A cold rainy day

Funny
That rainy day is here

Written by Jimmy Van Heusen

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Real Prayer

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This prayer to God was written by a beautiful survivor of the most hideous of abuse.  It’s a real prayer to God.  I’m posting this with her permission as I think we all need to challenge preconceived ideas about what a proper prayer looks like, and assumptions about people unable to imagine a loving God.  The God I worship wept.  He welcomes honesty. Even of the rawest form.  Thank you Trinity for allowing me to share your letter.

 

I so long for a Father figure,

someone to gently love me without abuse,

without conditions, without fear of judgment.

You, God are suppose to be my ultimate Father,

on one side, I still so desperately long for your affections, your love,

and at times I see glimpses of that in the children you’ve place in my life,

through other people,

through the promises in your Word.

But lately there is this other side,

this darkness within me that rages at you

and doesn’t understand how you have a plan for my life,

or that you care about the broken hearted.

A part of me that see you no differently than I view my abuser,

as a monster,

because only a monster would allow children to be abused,

would allow my own parents to crave drugs so bad that selling me,

their youngest child,

was like selling a used shirt at a yard sale,

something you don’t think twice about.

And then you create me to need love and attention,

the very things that got me hurt in the first place!

Why would I come running to you?!!

You didn’t protect me,

you sure as hell didn’t stop the bastards that used me like trash for years.

If you want me to truly trust you God,

you’ve got to break the wall down,

because it’s high and thick and not coming down without some serious work on your part.

I’m tired of praying to what seems like thin air,

only to battle the demons within me so much more.

You say you’re a healer and you heal the broken hearted.

Where’s the healing???

When does it come?

When do I get release from the monsters of mental illness?

The hell and torture of PTSD?

The little Trinity needs her Abba Father,

but the adult me wants to never let you close to her.

I need some answers, God

if we are going to work together to heal little Trinity.

Written by Trinity

Cancer is Not Cancer; The Agony of being Dependent.

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This was written when I was still quite sick a number of months ago.  I was too low at the time it was written to post it.  I’ve decided to post it now.  I  share it to truth-speak about how painful cancer can be. Sharing what it was for me, as a way of being a voice for those who have not words to share.  This rant of sorts is not an attack on any one person, but a broad-brushed painting of the reality of what it is to be sick and dependant on others.

Cancer is not cancer. It’s not breast cancer or thyroid cancer. It’s strokes, heart attack activity that isn’t, doctors treating you like a hypochondriac while functioning slips away.  It’s skin that peels, clothes that don’t fit anymore, potassium levels so low that legs throb through the night.  It’s not recognizing yourself in the mirror.  Foggy mind half the time not remembering what I’ve said, what you’ve said, what we were talking about.  It’s family sweet as can be, and condescending sometimes too.  It’s having to listen to people “Oh you look like you’re feeling better” while the entire left side of body is numbed out, can’t hear from the left ear, do laundry for five minutes before having chest pain and doctor saying “you’re heart is in great shape”.  It’s your little six year old daughter telling you that you get first place for being the meanest one in the family.  The mean mom that gets tired of the denigrating remarks when trying to get kids to do their chores, one by one the entire family decides they are going to be sicker than Mom today – until their pals come over and off they race across the yard, Nerf and laser guns a-blazing, and once again, when they return to the house, asked to pick up coat, or feed the dog, the sudden illness takes over and death is at the door. 

It’s the doctors passing their job off to another doctor.  Oh it’s the endocrinologists job, no the oncologists job, no the primary care, … .on it goes, while the mystery symptoms that take away my ability to take walks, swim, drive, to care for my kids get worse.  The computerized diagnosis is last word, with physical problems all hovering in the “rare” category, no one bothering to dig deeper while symptoms hold me in place, so much piling up around me, and I must be still. 

Cancer is having all the kind persons who have pitched in to help become judgmental of the way my life looks, judgmental of what happens in this house, condescending of who I am.  It’s having to receive help from others who don’t respect me because they are incapable of helping and empathizing at the same time.  The most empathetic person is the world can flip a switch when doing another a good turn.  It’s watching them lose respect by the day – each and every act of kindness they provide decreases the peer to peer relationship – me having no alternative but to receive it. 

Cancer is not a surgery and missing body part.  It’s the loss, week by weakening week of clients, and eventually a career.  The destruction of a business.  The death of a dream.  It’s not rosy and romantic.  It’s ugly – creepy … the stopper of life.  And I’m stuck between.  Alive and not at all.  Stuck receiving support, care, favors, errands, driving kids to school, with bitterness in the doer, irritation of the helper, and shame at being the taker. 

The part of cancer I can do quite well is walk into the hell hole of the chopping block.  I can tolerate physical pain.  I can usually manage being mangled.  I can’t handle the shame I feel receiving assistance – the baring all – the inside scoop on our junk, irritably of the one doing all the favors due to their superiority and my shame. 

Cancer could be the most ideal way to go if it weren’t for all that.  Known outcomes, time frames, managed symptoms until death.  What makes it awful is loss of dignity (relationship) with people I care about most due to my neediness at the end, and their inability to give and maintain respect for the person they are giving to.  A few of us can give without shaming – most of the time, a few can receive without feeling the shame, but most can not.  We call it being “stewards” of our time and money by nosing into others lives when a need arises.  ‘If she hadn’t let herself go, he’d have never looked elsewhere.”  “There are consequences to slacking on the job”.  “Live and learn”.  We have all said things like this – or thought them.  It’s obvious it’s wrong to give cash to a meth addict.  We take this reasoning further and do harm – judge – while extending a helping hand.  I tell you from the receiving end, it helps more to not help but maintain a relationship of respect then to help with judgment.

Most of us have ZERO BUSINESS being involved in another’s crisis, because crisis is a HOLY PLACE.  It’s where God hovers.  It is SACRED.  Anytime we have all the answers, we do harm.  Anytime we can’t give without judgment, we harm.  Anytime we get inside the disaster of each other’s life and can’t set judgment aside, we hurt each other.  I’m getting to feel it, first hand.  No one means to harm.  They just want the system to work better.  Just want routines in place that make things better, but that’s not how it feels to the one is on the receiving end.  If I ever get beyond this cancer mess, I vow to God and to others that I will NEVER HELP SOMEONE UNLESS I CAN HAVE A SOLID CHECK ON MY ATTITUDE. 

Do I resent helping my kids with things they need help with? 

How does that make them feel? 

Do I resent making supper. 

Giving a gift and resenting the giving DOES HARM. 

Do I resent helping a friend, I HAVE ZERO BUSINESS HELPING UNLESS I CAN HELP FROM A PLACE OF EMPATHY. 

Cancer is not cancer. 

Cancer is everything else – but one thing. 

Cancer is not Boss, God is. 

God is the only one out there I know what manages disasters and love all at the same time. 

If i’m well enough to work again, I’m working for Him.

You’re Gone

DSC_0153Breast Cancer killed you.  It took and done way with you, my friend.  Tore your life away.  Now you’re gone.  We were both getting well to run a ridge together on some grand mountaintop.  Now we can’t. I can’t even believe it.  You’re gone.  You died this morning “quietly in her sleep”.  Quietly.  Right. That’s what happens when your very breath is choked out, your brain is eaten, you just die and I HATE IT.  I’m so so so sorry Wendy, that they couldn’t heal you.  Wonder why God said no.  So sick and angry that your life is gone.  I want you back.  Want to fb you once again.  Call you on the phone.  Want to get off my lazy ass and get an airplane ticket and fly out to your Ohio farm and hold your hand and command you “Get Up in Jesus Name” but I had my fears, was too lazy and I didn’t and you are nowhere to be found as you have died, and have been taken away, and are no more and I ache with Leif who is alone now, and for your beautiful daughters who had to watch cancer show its menacing teeth, ripping tearing at you until you disappeared but for ash and earth and a stone overhead.  I HATE CANCER.  You were alive, an active God fearing beautiful woman.  Another beautiful woman fighting thyroid cancer also young died few weeks ago.  I’ve been holding on by strands, and feel I’m slipping away with the rest of you have who have been taken.  You had breast cancer, she had thyroid cancer.  I’ve had both.  How am I to fare?  I needed you both to make it, and you didn’t.  Your families, they have their reasons to need you to live.  I have my own.  I want to live.  Why will I live when you don’t?  I can’t breathe.  Something on my chest.  And I gasp, while you stopped gasping.  And the fear overtakes.  A non-pretty blog for the ripping, tearing torment of a thing called cancer death.

Blank Paper

To write is to live. To write is to sketch the heart of me in words. And today I tried. Like a horse stuck behind a starting gate, it’s been months I’ve felt trapped, wanting to break free for the words needing a paper, a form. Today, after getting a fevered child to sleep, the other child occupied elsewhere – herself just over a week long flu, the husband with bad cold comfortable and our college girl busy too, I quick slip out with blank paper and pen clutched to chest. A quiet place found. A chair soft. Criss cross, apples sauce, my back against perfect fit. Energy flowing, moving inside the soul of me at the treasured moment I’ve waited for, and no words. Where are the words I’d been aching to jot down? The book I’d charted an outline for? I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’d intended to say, what needs addressing – what the flow might be, and frozen stiff, gate wide open for charging ahead, I haven’t a clue how to ease ahead for beginning.

Some say solitude revives the movement. It has for me before. Yet, hunt as I might, no extended stillness can be found. Weeks on end of crisis and survival. I might go into details on all the ways life has been upside down, but they’d be no different than any other mom on a given day in a given life.  I’ve heard it said that motherhood is a season. The idea is to wait out the season, like waiting for a storm to pass. And as children grow up and move on, the chance comes for a mother to experience being human again. This idea is not reality for those of us who have spread our child bearing years out. Our last child we had when I was 42. I will be 60 when she is on her own. And so self actualization has to be intentional. But how? How does one not loose the drive, the tug, the rhythm of the ground underfoot? I need to know as I’m loosing it. Looking out from starting gate, I see nothing but one impossible task after another… no writing, or the solitude it takes. Hope and I part ways. I concede to something possible, like getting a good night kiss placed on cheek, prayers said, door closed, head for bathroom, cool water over tired face, cream applied thick to hold disappointment lines at bay, I have a secret wish that in the quiet of evening time, words and me will move together once again. The knocking door.… “Momma, I need a drink of water”. And once again, paper waits.

Amelia

 

Hollow

Darling,

This house feels empty though there are three of us here. Hollow, although I know you will be home soon. Ridiculously too large, yet knowing College Girl will return in a whirlwind a month before summer, and College Son too, and someday with that special one, and later bringing fat babies, mouthy, active children, baggage, far too many shoes, bikes, pillows, cell phone chargers, cars, diapers, personal devises everywhere, making the misery of crowding divine.

But in the mean time, come home and use up some space with your giant you, feet tromping on the stair up to the door, shrieks of little scurrying hiders, hinges noisily do their job as here you are, parking size 13 shoes along the wall, a voice with only two volumes -off and on – belting out “Hummm, I wonder where my burritos are?  I’m hungry for a bean burrito!” More hidden squeals.. one from under the entry bench, across the room tiny legs hardly seen beneath hanging heavy coats.

When you are here, giant house doesn’t feel so empty. Hurry home then, will you, until once again I’m use to two beds, two chairs, two kids and all their giant collection of clothes and things and rare wonderful selves gone.  Gone to work hard at the job of filling the lonely, hollow, empty earth with good.

Yours in empty and in maximum occupancy,

                                                                                              Amelia

How Not To Be

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain

                                          Solitude- by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. Galatians 6:2

Davis Family Reunion 013

Amelia

Goodbye

Early Christmas together, four days few.  Full and wonderful, and now, Goodbye son. Goodbye to hearing you from across the room out-playing your sisters Spotify tunes – respective lap tops. Goodbye to thoughts deep and random and passionate. To shirts and shoes, earphones, books all stacked up and gum wrappings. Goodbye, adventures with your little brother out the door and into ice air to golf on frosty green.  Back home, the telling of impossible strokes the 10 year old has managed.  To shoulder rides packing Butterfly through the lights of downtown, the rest of us trudging behind as you take us to to experience the wonders of Seattle Coffee. Goodbye to you and Sis working on the latest software for drawing on laptop.  Goodbye whirlwind of togetherness.

When you go, there’s a hollow space – a deadness in the place. Sis stays another couple weeks, then she too will be gone and far. No piano echoing through house, no one to shop with, her bedroom floor even vacated and alone. No Sis and Butterfly dancing and reading and painting. No Sis to help 10 year old Mr. All Business work a project for school.  I’ll have to say Goodbye all over again.  I swear I loose years off my life each time I say goodbye, tear washed face, pounding chest… and hurting.

I prayed – whole life through – each of you would grow to be independent and strong, give more then take, and serve the Lord with all you are.  So now your’re flying away, back to home sweet school, back to your job at the local Alzheimer’s Unit, working as a nurses aid.  “Good night” you say to confused resident you tuck into bed. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite. And if they do, kick ’em black and blue.”  A chuckle and the light grows dim. Back to Chemistry, midnight mud hot springs, hikes in 0′ below snow.  Back to all we ever dreamed for you.

I HATE goodbyes – those grand aches of goodness. Goodbye.

The Christmas Spirit

With malice toward none;

With charity for all;

With firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right,

Let us strive on to finish the work we are in; 

To bind up the nation’s wounds;

To care for him who shall have borne the battle;

And for his widow,

And his orphan –

To do all which may achieve and cherish

a just and lasting peace among ourselves 

And with all nations.

                                                                       Abraham Lincoln

Holy Underthings

The drive to Nordstroms to meet with the plastic part fitter, I’m a mess.  Want to go alone, but find no way of doing so.  Butterfly is along, chatting happily from back seat, asking me random questions.  “What are we doing after we go to the mall, Mom?  Are we going back home?  Is Sis going to be home by then?”  Our college beauty-girl is coming home for Christmas break.  I meet her at the airport tonight.  She hasn’t been home in months, and the house is all a buzz. The kids and I put everything together just right, but day before college beauty-girl arrives I fall apart and cry the entire day.  I have put off getting a prosthetic four months now.  I want more than anything to have a Merry Christmas with our kids.  I’m so lousy at faking.

Grey drizzle, wipers going, butterfly and I make our way down the interstate corridor.  We play Christmas Music.  It’s hard singing with a throat lump.  She is still chattering as we make our way out of car, Butterfly and I.  We are in the store, weaving through the bustle of the season, the escalator up, up toward sparkling Christmas trees.

Another bit of a walk and we are in the lingerie department.  There’s a line.  I wait behind one beautiful lady after another.  I think I’m the only one here today not buying lace and satin because I’m lovely enough to show off for my man.  I hate the gouge in my chest, numb and not belonging.  No matter how much Adored Husband tells me every day he finds me beautiful, I feel like trash. Butterfly’s warm hand swings mine.

“May I help you” says another gorgeous lady.  “I have an appointment” I say.  She rushes to the back room and in time Kind Eyes greet me.  “Hi” She takes my hand, tells me her name.  She smiles and talks to Butterfly.  We walk past the panties and satin gowns, down a narrow hall of mirrored doors, walls papered in flowers, soft carpet.  Christmas tunes playing as key unlocks room at end to the right.  We pass through the door. In the fitting room there are the preliminaries.  The measures.  The questions.  Cat rarely gets my tongue.  I can’t find much to say.  Slow at answering Kind Eyes questions.

I sit there in a fluffy overly turquoise robe and wait a while longer as she rushes away only to return with the loveliest girlie things I’ve seen in a long time.  Beautiful things.  Things I had thought would never be part of my life again.  The prosthetic is completely hidden.  I can’t stop looking.  I look like me.  I feel the shock.  It warms me.  I turn to look at her.  She’s busy loosening each, one by one, from their hangers.  Even the hangers are pretty.  Somehow industrial undergarments are all I can imagine will hold a prosthetic.  These are nothing of the kind.  No-one can ever tell from sight I’m missing a breast, that I’m wearing an engineered pillow that fits in a pocket.

This lady probably doesn’t know it, but she works for God.  Her calling is holy.  I think of the designers of these bras.  They must be God’s agents, too.  The engineers who make the best prosthetic they can, thinking of everything from comfort to heat transfer – ministers, all of them.

The song playing overhead  “… till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.”  I leave the holy place of lingerie, Butterfly and I.  We weave past the sparkling Christmas trees, down the escalator and out into the grey.  “…a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, la, la, de, daah….”