Notes From A Broken Heart

I’m not paralyzed, stuck maybe, but not without the use of my limbs, mind, emotions, or feelings.  It’s true that I move more slowly than before, more cautiously, but that's because I fear a catastrophe may swoop down and I'll be caught off guard or unaware.  Dare I admit that I’m scared of just   about anything or probably the majority of things?    I’m not paralyzed; I just don’t know who or what I'm dealing with. Real or imagined? It's like I'm caught up in a long playing version of  Marvin Gaye's, "What's going on?"  Maybe the fault lies with the expectations others have of me.  Am I expected to have "snapped back" or gotten myself together by now? How long is too long? Am I to be consumed by the impatience of people who can't handle the discomfort of grief?  Who want me to be like that clown, known  for laughing on the outside but wailing on the inside? Because others   wear the mask, should I put a  "rush" o

My Doubting Thomas Spirit Of all the disciples Jesus called to service, “Doubting Thomas” would have been my least favorite, perhaps because I wouldn’t want to identify with a skeptic.  Or maybe I saw more of me in him than I would have liked.  For different yet very similar reasons I might not have wanted to be closely associated with "Whatever-Comes-Up-Comes-Out- Peter, either."  A global term that eclipses the essence of a person, "Doubt" leaves a hard-to-remove stain on character.  It's almost like an unholy questioning of everything that should go unquestioned.  Even after Thomas, whose given name was Didymus, examined the hands, feet, and sides of Jesus and accepted the evidence He offered, the question lingered, " Now,  does Doubting Thomas really  believe?" While it should not matter because my precious Daughter is dead, why does my miind keep circling back like a one-wagon wagon train to disbelief? It just could not have happened as

Kindergarten Blues She was definitely frustrated, perhaps even perplexed by my behavior.  I was certainly nothing that her student teaching experience had prepared her for, so after a full morning of listening to me cry, she threatened, " If you don't stop crying, I'm going to put you in that pencil sharpener and I bet you'll stop crying then!"  (Decades later,  I wonder if she would have been reported for child abuse?) I don't know how or if I truly processed what she said as a threat or promise, but it was enough to reduce the torrent of tears to sad sniffles that dried in salty streaks down my face.  I never cried that much again, ever.  In fact, I stopped crying, period.  I never told my mother, dad, or siblings.  Somehow, crying had become a shameful act, a disgraceful, distasteful and disagreeable evocation of weakness.  Enough of that. The rest of my elementary school years passed by in a blur.  I remained in kindergarten for the remainder

Here I am, a woman many would describe as reasonable and reasonably successful, thoughtful, caring, poised---even gracious---feeling like I'm about to lose it.  Lose what? Control, not just in the moment.  Control over my life which, at this juncture could be described as one well lived. Yet, all I can think of right now is an "Old School" song that warned, "Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge.  II'm abut to loose my head.  Don't push me!" If my anguish is this raw, how much more poignant, impotent, and confused might it get? What to do? I can turn to my knowledge (however limited or expansive) of God.  I can assert " God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble," whether I believe it a little or a lot.  I can recall those Sunday School picture cards of a man kneeling at the base of a mountain, his head haloed in luminous light, and feel a smidgen of comfort.  Or I can find solace in a best-selling

Wonderment How far away is the horizon?      Can I get there by dusk? Why would I need to rush      Would it take as long to get back? Does it matter?      How huge is my heart? As great as my fears?      Does it pulsate? Or simply wait?

I sit and     watch the waves And wait,       watching as Predictably      They crash and Burst forth.      Never retreating Always seeking      Respite from Unseen forces;      Valiantly      Searching Seeking Reaching:      I sit and watch And      Wait

The reason I believe (Wo)mankind suffers from God-envy is because We try to make everybody, Including relatives, friends, and even Enemies, Over Into our own image, castigating them Because they don't or won't Do ir, "My Way," Conveniently Forgetting there is only One He: One Master Creator The Way, the Truth, the Life

One morning, in the midst of one of those "fervent prayers of the righteous that availeth much," my dear friend Allie paused and implored, "Don't let us limit you, God!" It was, indeed, a "pause" moment, one I've never forgotten.  An inimitable Prayer Warrior, Allie whom I had met the first Sunday in January 2000 after relocating to Central Florida, met me with  open arms and a  wide open heart.  She trusted God unconditionally and took Him seriously.  Her hallmark greeting, in the prayer circle or on a telephone call was "Wanna pray?"And could she pray? Yes, Lord,  she could pray! She worked tirelessly to increase the power of the ministry, individually and corporately, and she succeeded.  But she was never satisfied..  Every time I feel the Spirit moving in my heart, I will pray. Every time I feel the Spirit moving in my heart, I will pray." By the time of the prayer that day, half a dozen years later, I had come back to Denv

My Lord, Rae! I'm struggling with grief as I mourn and attempt to reconcile the ineffable loss so many of us are experiencing. Typically when someone crosses the threshold from earth to heaven, friends, acquaintances, and miscellaneous others agree as in a chorus, she or he was "Larger Than Life." Undoubtedly, it's true!  It still amazes me, though, how quickly after a death, that our language changes.  Almost immediately we bring out euphemisms and bandy them about as if we've just discovered them. The person becomes a past tense verb.  She was , no longer is , even if we're talking abut someone whose body lies dead in the hospital, waiting to be picked up by a mortuary. The present tense verb  does  quickly becomes   used to do ; smiles changes  to smiled   and like quicksilver,  laughs shifts  to laughed.  In the blink of an eye, we push the built-for-just-this-occasion-self correct button, thus mimicking proper verb usage for others.  Often,our behavio