Mother's day

     No matter the depth of each story I post, I believe there are other's who relate in some form or fashion to my story.  My hope is each reader will not miss the foundational point as you take your precious time to read about my story.

     While most people know how much I love Christmas, no one knows how I wish Mother's day would fall off the calendar.  Many may spend the day reflecting and praising their moms for her love and care, I however, tend to spend the day at war in my mind for how I failed my own mother..........

     Within months of my return to Nebraska, I had fallen in with the wrong crowd and had made some bad decisions by skipping school.  The state stepped in, taking me from my dad, and sent me to live in a foster home.  The thought of living with a "real family" was somewhat of a welcomed one.  A father AND a mother, along with two younger foster siblings was all I had hoped for regardless of the biological attachment I didn't have.    Therefore, to give this family a fair shot and desiring to feel loved and wanted for once in my life, I called Sharon and Charles "mom and dad."  The word "mom" had never been uttered from my lips that I recalled, yet I so longed to fit in with this family.
     Anyone who knew this family knew they were as "country bumpkin" as they come.  Charles was very tall and somewhat heavy with an enormous over bite, with a 'Ronald McDonald' hair and face.  Sharon, while short and extremely heavy, had long brown hair and a beautiful talent of playing the piano and singing.  She was probably as close comparison to my birth mother as I have understood my mom played the piano and sang as well.  Addressing her as "mom" seemed to be the perfect title for Sharon.  Charles was a pastor at a small country church, and they both seemed to carry spiritual convictions that were solid.  I respected them immediately and was happy to be living with them.  My happiness would experience a curve ball within months.   Charles and Sharon surprised me and my boyfriend one night with wine coolers.   The understanding was acceptable since I was fifteen years old yet under their care and their supervision made it acceptable.   Of course, I thought this "very cool" of them too and I drank them all up.  .
     Soon after, confusing flags flew my way when Sharon began speaking to me on rare occasions, or when she did, she communicated with sharp tones and a hostile attitude.  During my brief stay, Charles would confess he had inappropriate feelings toward me.  Sharon must have sensed something was wrong as she exerted hate towards me.  I was confused, heartbroken, and trapped yet again with no way out.
       My heart didn't break over Charles perverted thoughts or his sick attraction to me. Heck, that seemed to come with every pervert I crossed paths with.  Whether at age five by a stranger, age seven by an alcoholic uncle, even age thirteen by a Decon at a Baptist church I attended, or even in the care of what was suppose to be a safe and Religious foster home, there simply was no place sacred or safe.
     My heart broke from Sharon's reaction to this truthful exposure of her husband once all was disclosed it in a counseling session.  She had quite a defense for their behavior when buying me wine coolers, for Charles exposing me to pornography for the first time in my life, and for all his warped and inappropriate attractions as well as behaviors he had towards me.  This woman, whom I called "mom" managed to shift blame towards me as though I assumed some sort of responsibility for all this.

Life would moved on, and I wouldn't face this again until I was mid way through my 20's, married, and had daughters of my own.   The truth of this matter is no one believed me, nor believed a pastor could 'fall from grace' and no one believed he would cause so much pain to so many.  No one came to my defense, nor did anyone "stand up" in my honor.  I was deemed a juvenile delinquent, and all was swept "under the rug" so to speak.
     I lived my early adult life believing I must have played some role in Charles struggles;  I've lived my life making excuses for Charles, for his human perverted flaws;  I've lived my life keeping this story quiet as I bore shame for another man's sin.  Then, eventually I'd come to realize "it's okay", "I'm okay", "I did nothing wrong."   While peace filled up the empty void from this one scar, the ugliest scar yet was about to surface.  How I missed this scar was uncertain to me at the time.  This scar spelled "MOM".   One simple word, a word so difficult for me to ever speak, and the only person I've spoken this name to was Sharon. (despite the fact I called my birth mother mom, I have no memory of that)   My safe escape of sexual abuse was in the arms of my mother's memory and the safety she would have provided.  Now, I have trampled on that memory because I offered up HER title to another woman.  How stupid could I have been?  I knew better than to trust any woman as if any could ever hold a torch to my mother, and here I jumped right into this brutal trap.  A trap so big, so deep, I'm living out it's healing to this day.  "Mother's day" is a poke at my chest as I let my mother down and I don't get a day to make it up to her.

Even though this is a heavy story, I spend so much thought time shoveling positive pie down my throat to make up for the negative truths I've shared.  My greatest scar is one I believe God has kept safe for a time where I would see it, and a time in my life where God would be visible enough to me for me to surrender it to Him.  I am accountable to God alone, not to any man who chooses to pick apart how they think I should be or what they think I should or shouldn't say.  I believe I've dealt with the scars of my childhood pretty well.  What I struggle to deal with to this day are fresh wounds caused by criticisms from others.  You don't have to walk a block, or a mile in my shoes, but for goodness sake, stop criticizing me.  I carry enough burdens to weigh down a village.  And, while I work at surrendering every emotional scar I bear to the Great Healer, my life would be a more pleasant one with a lot more support, and a lot less criticism.  Having experienced a sad childhood is not unique to any other persons pain.  We're all broken in one form or another.  My life is not for you to judge the process of my healing, how I heal, or if I heal.  Your life is equally not for me to do the same.  The difference may be, I'm willing to put my life out there and the pains I've lived.  Our pain is still the same, and, we don't have to pour gasoline on anyone's wounds with criticism.

My wish for this Mother's day isn't a nice meal made by another, or a pretty card in celebration, or even a beautiful present that cost someone hard earned money.  My wish is for another person to experience freedom from pains we've all felt, whatever that may mean to you.
For my mom on this mother's day, I am truly sorry I gave another woman your name. 
John 15:12-19

Sneaky like a mouse

Today I put my thoughts where our country and our world lie in the grand scheme of life.  While we tend to feel victory here in America, the reality of evil still looms our nation's as a whole.  He still walks the earth, an evil so great he will not take a form or a shape for our eyes to focus on.  Night vision goggles cannot detect his movement, nor is there a human sniper trained to wipe out his existence.  We carry on our day to day life oblivious to his presence but he's there, his dark smoldering breath hiding in the shadows....waiting....quietly....to suck you in.

Like a mouse, he comes inside creating damage ever so quietly, so difficult to hear, so difficult to see.  And, as seasons change we may take a moment to shift furniture and discover the damage created by this tiny little creature who has simply multiplied while wreaking havoc on our home.  Evidence of droppings lie scattered beneath furniture, shreds of insulation present the destruction with which they created.  Whose to say how long they've been thriving within our walls?  Whose to say we may ever find their entrance into our home?  We know they're there and we call the exterminator to rid our home of these creatures who have chewed at our walls meant to protect it's residents.

When we become numb to the evil one's schemes, he begins to chew away the insulation of our walls called Character.  When we ignore his presence, he multiplies and his damage is even greater.  His sneaky mouse like self is ever so quiet as he chomps away at our convictions.  He starts with whispers to our mind, with justifications of "simple things, simple thoughts" such as, a particular conversation we had with another individual and may not wish to share with our spouse as it would "only cause unwanted questions";  we curse a crazy driver who cuts us off in traffic, "no one else heard";   we harbor anger within us and justify it's presence;   we proudly take the extra money from the cashier who unknowingly added wrong;   we witness hazard lights flashing on a 'clunker' car along the freeway and zip past the homely person standing at it's hood.  To justify is like a lie that will eat away the lining of our souls.

When we fail to share that conversation with our spouse the effect can create a pattern of secrets, denying a wonderful bond that could potentially occur had we taken the risk by facing that rift;  when we curse the crazy driver, our defenses will grow and grow until one day someone may have pushed us too far;   when we take money that does not belong to us regardless of the error, we're stealing something we have not earned for ourself;   when we drive by a beat up broken down car on the freeway and we know we're capable of helping that person, we elevate who we are in comparison to "who they must be", this effect can create a sense of selfishness by not reaching out to help another;   whenever we find ourselves justifying our actions or our behavior is a perfect time to sit back and softly observe the "mouse" that has snuck into our home.
I personally have been guilty of one or more of these at some point and time in my life.  

The evil one still prowls around seeking to devour our souls by whittling away at our character.  As one man falls, the real evil one snickers while we gloat.  He knows we've ended an 'obvious' target, he also knows he has worked magic in peoples hearts as they've grown cold and calloused while they justify their hate.

May there not be another day we unknowingly become enslaved by the greatest terrorist to roam this earth.  

No place like home

Growing up in the 70's is quite an eyeopener to the "blind trust" people had with one another.  Parents left their children alone in a car all the time, and you were sure to be sent to the car if you misbehaved.  Whose to say if this way was right or wrong, as it's equally obvious we've replaced "blind trust" with "blind fear".  Today, you're a horrible parent for leaving your child alone in a car, and a better parent for not disciplining your child.  

     

     I have the utmost respect for my father as he struggled to finish the job my mother started.  He was newly retired, and he didn't have a clue what he was doing when it came to parenting.  In my humble opinion, he did a horrible job providing emotional care for me, and an even worse job by trusting random people's help with me.  All the same, he did the best he could with the parenting skills he had and didn't have.
     Since I was becoming a young woman, my dad deemed it best I move to California with a woman who offered help with me.  Looking back, my dad didn't have any depth of insight in to who this woman really was, he simply trusted her as she too had served in the Navy.  There wasn't a "google search" back then and I'm sure he didn't required any sort of "references" before he agreed this move would be best for me.   I was on board with this decision as well.  What twelve year old girl wouldn't want to replace Nebraska wheat fields with California beaches?  What was meant to be a one year visit turned into three and half years.

     Soon after my move to California, dad was in a serious car accident that nearly ended his life with a broken neck.  I rarely spoke to him or heard from him during those years.  To my understanding, he spent eight months in a rehabilitation facility where he would learn to walk again.  

     Bev's story was a sad one as well.  She had lost her husband and a son in a car accident, and her two children who survived were grown and out on their own.  Her daughter had disowned her for reasons unknown to me, and her son lived in Idaho.  My heart sure felt sympathy for her and her hard life. 

     Youth camps, pottery classes, tennis lessons, and California touring was her way of offering me a life unlike one I had known.  While the adventures were fun filled, I would soon see how these activities posed as great distractions to her sad story.  Bev's daughter suddenly appeared out of no where to make amends with her mom.  This short lived reunion allowed me an opportunity to learn more of Bev.  Sitting in a room full of people, I overheard Jerry (Bev's daughter) speak about her father. As Jerry talked of the contact she had with her dad, I was left feeling dazed and confused.  What a strange thing to say as her dad was dead, so how was it she was in contact with him? The truth was finally understood when Jerry explained how her dad had divorced her mom and the son in which had supposedly died was in fact Jerry's first husband who had divorced Jerry.  He too, was alive and well.  My mind was spinning to know Bev had lied to me throughout my first year of living with her.  Another year would pass before Bev would confess this horrible lie to me.  I sure didn't spill I had known, I just walked in caution knowing the woman I lived with had serious issues. 

     I felt trapped in many ways.  While Bev was nice enough for the most part, she had a way of manipulating stories to ensure her own safety.  She feared losing me to my dad and convinced me of his poor care and abandonment to me on a regular basis.  Since I rarely spoke to my dad during this time, there was no point in telling him of this fearful revelation as dad was healing from his car accident.

     Then, one day out of the blue, Bev came to me encouraging me to make a visit home.  I believe she was testing my love and loyalty to her as she booked a round trip ticket home with the understanding I'd return in a week.  Once I was back with my dad, I would not return to live with Bev again.  While Bev was devastated and angry, I spent my week long visit discovering more deceptive behavior by her.

     My dad did in fact write me many times while I lived with Bev, sadly I had never received his letters.  She opened and rewrote mail I sent others while preventing my receiving mail from others.  Thus, leaving me with the sense of abandonment she had so convinced me of.  Although Bev's lies became a pinnacle point to my conviction of honesty, I've lived with scars of guilt for abandoning her by not returning to live with her.

As I've processed her warped and twisted behavior over and over in my mind, my heart resolves feeling compassion towards her lonely self.  She undoubtedly loved me and worked hard to care for me, but her lies and deceit scared me more than I've admitted until now. While a heartfelt truth may in fact hurt 'one', Lies will always hurt many more.  In the end, TRUTH will always prevail!  
Regardless of dads parenting skills, whether right or wrong, good or bad, care or neglect....there simply was "no place like home", and I was glad to be back where I belonged.

An Untold Dream

     My baby girl will graduate high school in just seventeen days.  While I couldn't be more proud of her and her two older sisters, the reality surrounding this next celebration is bitter sweet and sobering to say the least.

       If you would have asked me what I wanted to be when I was little, my answer would not have been  a fashion designer, a teacher, or even a  nurse.    My answer would simply have been "a mommy".  Living out my one and only childhood dream, has been my greatest accomplishment.  For twenty three years, I have served this career with all my heart and soul just as my dad served 20 years as Chief gunners mate in the United States Navy.   While I recognize the label "mother" will never be taken from me, this long and hard working path will reshape itself regardless if I'm ready.

     Sure I'm tired, as the work a mother faces is more than cleaning a house (which I've  never mastered anyway), or making a meal.  A mothers work starts when you answer their cry for feeding or a diaper change.  When you bath and clothe them.  Say prayers of thanksgiving each night for the priceless gift you've been  blessed to receive.  Sleepless nights in the emergency room when your toddlers fever reaches 104, and camping out in a hospital for three weeks when your baby weighs a mere 3lbs is just the beginning.  You hold them through out the night when chicken pox boils coat their bodies and you cry when they cry in agony.  When they grow out of the early childhood illness', you're promoted to the defender of their innocence, the provider of proper fitted clothes, the shopper for school supplies, the chauffeur to school and church events.  The host of fabulous birthday parties, the elf to Santa Clause and other holidays celebrated.  You become the hairdresser for school photo's, the photographer to host the memories, and the craftsman creating the books in which the reflection of memories are saved. You are their lifeguard in the pool, and their dietitian for their health.  You are the blockbuster that holds the Disney movies they grow up to love, and the storage for their favorite toys to cherish for generations to come.  Then, you're promoted to the ear in which they lean when your precious child has been bullied in school.  The defender of their safety, the encourager of their beauty, their secure confidant when troubles ail them.  You're the message therapist when their legs ache with growing pains, the doctor who over sees a cough, a fever, a sniffly nose, and any other medical concerns.
Promotion to the teen years is a more strenuous challenge as you're now a policeman who sets the boundaries for the safety of your teenager and other teenagers.  You're a judge who decides the good from the bad influences.  You're the beauty consultant for hair, makeup, and clothes.  A fashion expert for formal dance wear, the color specialist for hair, a taxi cab driver for all their activities.  A guidance counselor for their high school trials and tribulations.  You become a kleenex when they face their first heart break, you're the ice cream truck for those needed ice cream runs that calm ones every nerve.  You become the target for all their emotional darts they throw, the ironing board who irons out the wrinkles, or the board for them to blow their steam.  You become a party planner to host safe teenage parties all while continuing on with previous duties.  You're their biggest cheerleader, and their greatest fan.
You're a foundation for their dreams, their beliefs, their convictions.  These listings are mild in comparison to the reality in which they've unfolded through out the years.

     I couldn't have had a greater and more fulfilling career than motherhood.  In honor of this upcoming and new chapter of my life, I'd like to thank my mother, you unknowingly gave me a dream. One which has been far greater than the one I imagined as a child.
For my husband,  you made these dreams possible by your hard work and support.  Both of our roles were necessary for this untold dream to come true.
To God, I thank you for your trust in me with these three beautiful girls and the blessings you've poured over our family.

From Disaster to Designer

Whose to say really when I decided to become a hair stylist?  I remember being drawn to scissors from a very early age.  My love for creativity came naturally as I took great care cutting paper dolls out of JC Penny magazines, or turning my baby and Barbie doll hair into trendy fauxhawks.  All the same, the urge to experiment was a challenge I loved to meet with my every fiber.  If boredom set in, I'd trim on my own hair, then cringe over the disastrous mess I inflicted upon myself.   Time after time, someone was left to 'fix' my mistake until finally I surrendered to a more "professional" trend of beauty.

With sweet and sincere thoughts, women tried reaching out and help my single father with his little girl.  Thankfully I cannot recall who this gal was, but she offered to give my very thick yet shapeless golden hair a home perm.   Knowing what I know now about perms, I am dumbfounded they were sold in every corner store market, and available to every '1970's' liberated woman.  For the life of me, I wonder why any woman deemed them self worthy enough to create such unfashionable fopauxs.  All the same, I was excited for the curls that would soon be bouncing off my shoulders and become the envy of every second grade girl.  Hahaha, NOT!

I'm sure if poodles could talk, we would hear their laughter as they muffled "wanna be" comparisons one to another.  

Then one day, dad handed me twenty bucks for a perm and sent me to "real professionals", the local Beauty school.  After explaining how I wanted my day to day hair to look, the 'perm' I received was just what I wanted and had explained. This perm sure didn't take as long as my last one had, and this perm didn't stink like the last one did either.  Either way, I loved my  new look, and was sure excited to get so much money back when all was said and done. "More money to buy candy", was my brilliant thought.  Sporting my new 'perm' to dad however, did not bring a smile upon his face, as he understood it was not in fact a perm.   Honestly, I didn't understand the difference until my pretty style I had received at the salon looked totally different the next day.  This is a picture of that perm per my explanation, per styling it myself for my school picture.  HAHA!

My teenage years brought greater hair drama and resulted in a story I haven't confessed until now.  Now, I lived in California under the care of a single woman.  If she told me I couldn't do this, or I had to wear that, you can bet your bottom dollar I was going to do the opposite.  So, when I was told I could not wear my hair in a 'bun',  my smart and "oh so wise" teenage self concocted a strategy to achieve the look I wanted in spite of her restrictions.  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I began pulling my hair back into a bun like style that looked pretty from the reflection upon which I saw.  With fabric sheers in my hand, I molded the bun look with a few 'snip snips' and a few more 'snip snip snip snip snips'.  Yep, I just chopped all my hair off and the pile upon the bathroom floor was evidence of my rebellion.   After marching me to a beauty salon to fix yet another mess I had created, my embarrassing mishap caused the words "she ruined my hair" to regurgitate out of my mouth while pointing across the salon to my guardian.

Sporting Christina Aguilera blonde, to Dolly Parton fluff, I have self sabotaged my hair styles time and time again.

Therefore, I guess it really is no surprise I  have chosen a career in hair designing.  Although I haven't cut my own hair since the day in which I've shared, my oldest daughter Amanda would willingly offer up her 'hair trauma' when I chopped all of her hair off.  But that, is saved for her own blog..  LOL

A Pause for Praise

    Today, my youngest daughter Alicia will be announced as a Spring Court nominee in her high school.  Her Senior class consists of approximately four hundred students or more and is quite an honor to be recognized along with nineteen other girls.  This is her second nomination for her Senior year as she was nominated for Homecoming queen as well, finishing in the top ten.

What parent doesn't boast and brag about their children and all their accomplishments?  A humble sense of pride fills my heart as I witness my girls overcome their own obstacles and shine like stars.

Alicia is heading to Florida this Saturday to attend a leadership program for DECA.  Although I've sort of understood what Deca was, I honestly didn't have a clear definition.  Thanks to google, here is it's definition:
DECA prepares emerging leaders and entrepreneurs in marketing, finance, hospitality and management in high schools and colleges around the globe.


Way to go Alicia!!

A Powerful Prayer

     My Aunt Bea played a huge role in my life as a child.  She had me come visit during the summer months, and I always looked forward them.  She lived in western Wyoming, where the deer and the antelope play.  (couldn't help myself..lol)   This part of Wyoming was better than a breath of fresh air as sage brush posed to be the ground cover in most area's.  Aunt Bea worked at teaching me things a young lady should know.  How to say simple words such as "please" and "thank-you" were always my first lesson.  In summer's past, I'd feel frustrated when she'd call me to higher standard, but this summer seemed different.   This summer seemed I had adjusted to her expectations of me; maybe I was more grown up and aware of the simple things I needed in my life.  All the same, my adjustment to being with my Aunt didn't appear as difficult as it did in years past.
     Now that I was Twelve, Aunt Bea lined up more responsible activities for me.  One of the weeks I served as a gofer girl for Vacation Bible School.  What a wonderful time I had helping the younger children with crafts and games.  The Baptist church had an entire crew of young adults come from abroad and serve in the community.  This particular group of people would be the very ones God used to reach out to me.  One young gal shared a testimony of her life.  Her story was so moving and relateable,  tears began to well up and take over my composure.  Her testimony, along with many others, followed me home that afternoon.

  

      As I sat on the grass outside my Aunts home, I looked up into the sky I was so familiar with.  My heart was heavy, my thoughts were racing as visions of my sorrow and pain came rushing to the forefront of my mind.  A river of tears poured down my face as I realized how angry I had become.  Trying to regain composure, I wiped my face; when suddenly I noticed the cotton ball clouds similar to the ones I'd seen as a tiny child.  My heart heard a consoling whisper and in that moment I surrendered my heart to my Lord Jesus Christ.  He shed His blood for my sins, for my hardened heart I had grown accustomed to in such a short time.  A warm gentle wind blew through my hair as I prayed about my hurts and pains I had experienced.  God determined that moment for me when I would hear His voice so clearly in my heart.  He made my painful paths lead me right to this moment and into His arms of Love.
     Whose to say where my heart would have been without my previous experiences?  I don't believe those who hurt me gave much thought of the effects their influence would have on me.  Do any of us really set out to purposefully hurt others?  My heart holds onto hope that is not the case.
     God has given us all free will to choose and make decisions for ourselves.  I can't say I grasped the meaning of forgiveness from my simple yet sincere prayer.  Life unfolds and I face forgiveness constantly.  His word isn't one that promises us a life without hurt and pain.  His word promises He lived and felt the very pains our sin caused Him and He loves us all the same.
     This summer was not long after Tipsey had died, it was my last summer I would spend with Aunt Bea.  This particular summer was the summer my life would change forever and a new journey would begin.