Blessed! “I do not think it means what you think it means!”


Sitting among a group of peers, in true “round-table” fashion, each had a story of hollow wombs and vacant arms coupled with the slightly unconventional way of filling the desire, deep-seated need, for children.  Some early in their journey, others veterans of the system, we each divulged details of the miraculous way God had built our families.  Conversation was deep, enjoyable and even beneficial until one comment stopped my heart, to which I mentally had to force myself to breathe.  Three words were uttered that crushed my spirit, heart and soul and provoked me to evaluate my faith.
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Joy Comes in the Mourning!


Deeply grieved today, I am forced to choose. Stay fixated on the circumstances that plague our family and the sorrow of my journey or find a different angle.

No story this time, that would be fixating, but I trust you have your own. Loss, wounds, frustrations; impossible situations as parents, coworkers, friends, or children weigh us all. Insert your heavy-hearted situation here.

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Laughter Through Tears is my Favorite Emotion!


Secret struggles plant hidden seeds of anguish and distress that, when never faced with the light, remain grounded in a darkness and spread and infect the rest of our soul.  Laughter is to this bruising, as light is to dark; the latter always succumbs to the presence of the former.

Lights flash, people stare, their imagination fills in the story from their 10 second exposure as they drive by the 911 scene.  Being in the middle of this reoccurring scenario has made me numb to the onlookers.

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Battling Alone is Never His Plan


The house was quiet and Dave and I drifted off to sleep with a plan to take the next morning slow and easy. A rare treat as our middle child had been on suicide watch for some time, causing shifts in our sleep habits. All three kids were at a church camp retreat. REM sleep had settled in when a sudden surge penetrated my body and shot me to a straight up position in bed while the words “in Jesus name” left my mouth loud enough to wake Dave.

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Sometimes the Lines Fade!



Death wasn’t the goal, escaping pain was. Sometimes the line between fades.

Alone, she sits on the wall mounted desk that lines the concrete wall of the cramped dorm room. Harrowing memories have seized control of her mind. Replaying like a horror film are past abuse, pain, accusations and haunting whispers of peers. Attempting to break free, vigorously, she shakes her head to erase the graphic visuals, but unlike an etch a sketch, nothing dissolves.

Her feet carry her to the vanity where a reflection of undue shame grips her. Empty, prolonged stare. “You fail, you quit, you strive with no victory,” whispers the image. No need to shout since she already believes them true.

“Now, you only burden others.” She winces at the new weight placed on her. A brutal reality of darkness circles more than her eyes. It hovers. Consumes her soul.

She dissolves the trance, and drifts around the room, only to return to the twin bed, knees caressed tightly to her chest, imagining God, anyone, cradling her. Sleep, her escape, peace; that is the hope as she rocks to and fro.

Hope descends as voices of ridicule and condemnation heighten and multiply. Deep echoes of disdain cause her awakened state to remain. Both ears now hidden under polyester fiber, she presses the pillow tightly. Her attempt to hush the tongue lashing against her spirit fails.

Upright she returns, panning the room.

The tinted, transparent bottle that sits by the bed appears to animate. It says, “take two more, then you can rest.”

A twist of the cap, a slight pause, then she complies. Before the lid can be replaced, it alleges more relief is to be had. “Two more will ensure deep sleep, enough to silence the anguish. After all, they are ‘pain’ killers.” She repeats, again and again, two by two, until the bottle that, moments ago held a month supply, mirrors the depleted existence of her being.

She lies back. “Finally, I can rest,” she says. (I said.)

A miraculous turn of events that follow enable me to pen this story some 25 years later, yet recent events in celebrity news have once again revived the emotional tightrope someone “like me” frequently can find them self teetering on.

A choice, an illness, selfish at best, damning at worst, a monster, an attention tactic, a demon, a spiritual issue, a physical infirmity, an emotional disease? So many recent blogs, accusations and defenses, about suicide and all it’s ramifications. Advice and opinions, some soothing, but some dreadfully offensive.

I’ve been the one to believe my life to be more of a burden than a gift AND I have crossed the river to the other side where I’ve devoted years battling for another’s life whose perception is tainted with deception and disease.  At some moments, I fight for both life and death simultaneously, but I will save that story for my book.

All lead me to one truth…

God alone can judge the tormented heart of one who struggles with despair and whose lines between truth and fragments of have faded.

Dare I say we show ignorance if we attempt omnipotent understanding through our regret or anger?

Insensitive are our words when we confine the act of suicide into a contrived formula of right or wrong or try to extend assumptions that will define once and for all, the intricacy of the human mind entangled by an emotional disease and a depleted soul.

Absurdity is amplified when one broken human being dares to call another selfish. (Tea kettle…black?)  Fighting to stay in it is a choice some will have to make every day for their remaining existence on earth…who is willing to forfeit the rest of their life, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, to support a depleted spirit or hear the anguished cry for the thousandth time and be able to bite their tongue instead of expressing their own weariness of another’s inability to “suck it up”?

I neither condone, nor condemn, that which I empathetically can relate to so deeply from each side. To say that a successful suicide is either selfish or damning or that it was more a choice than the result of a monster illness is not ours to judge.

It’s only our call to love and forgive. 

I whole heartedly believe in the hope found in Jesus Christ.  I am working on a book that chronicles just that.  Intentions of this writing is only to free some of the need to know why so that love, forgiveness and healing can begin.  Maybe Robin Williams’ lines faded in ways we can not possibly know. It’s not ours to say.


The Challenge of Being Challenged!


Challenge Completed! (Read Day 1 “OK, Honey. Challenge Accepted!”)

Yesterday marked the final round of a throw down challenge with my husband.  His was a physical cleanse, mine was an emotional purge, figuratively speaking, as I blogged each of those days. He lost 27.5 lbs. and I gained awareness to 27.5 (at least) character defects I must now work on. Seriously!

I’m obsessive, insecure, prideful, anxious, overbearing, timid, empty, doubtful, complacent yet never satisfied over every single syllable.  More than daily, I threatened to withdraw, press into lies and excuses rather than press into growth.  Grateful for the accountability stamina of my cohort, I pushed forward and learned some valuable lessons.

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The benefit of depression!



I turn my back from the sun, and slap the snooze…again. Thoughts form, “just get up and move.”  Limbs proceed to upright position; feet dangle a few inches from the floor.  “So close, but yet…forget it.” My head drops back against the pillow, down feathers envelope and cradle me.  I am incapable to motivate myself for another day. Instead my blanket of dull and dreary, I find safe and most content.

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The Art of Vulnerablility!



“How are you doing?”  my dear friend asked while passing by after church ended.  “Good,” I quickly replied assuming it was a polite hello rather than a genuine request.  But, as my feet continued on, our eyes locked and caused both of us to pivot around face to face.  “No, really, HOW are you doing?”

Startled by the sincerity of the moment, I quickly became aware of my increasing heart beat that moments ago was pumping blood at an inconspicuous rate.  In that brief moment, that innocent question turned intrusive and frightening for I knew the answer but doubted whether it would be received well.

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Alone in a crowded room.



Hesitantly, he walks into the room full of youthful activity; balls bouncing, teen girls giggling, and the stench of sweaty boys fills the air.  Loud music competes for the attention of all.

Glancing to the left he sees a huddle of teens.  Panning the room, he sees established groups of kids going back and forth between their chosen activity and staring at their phone and intensely replying to a text, Facebook post, Instagram picture or whatever has drawn their attention away from the flesh and blood that stands before them.

Unnoticed by all, he bravely makes his way around the room, looking for an opportunity to “break into” the conversation or action.  But his shyness and awkwardness hold him back.  Courage fades and a sudden urge appears to find an excuse, any excuse to get out.  The battle within himself rages and consumes his focus.

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