Notes From A Broken Heart

I once believed that    Every cloud had its silver lining, A pot of gold stood sentinel at the end of every rainbow,    I was a princess destined to live Happily-ever-after.    I even believed in Santa Claus; Little by little I realized none of these existed.    But it did.

"Everything must change.  Nothing stays the same.   That's the way of time, and no one stays the same..."    When Quincy Jones, the music maestro, recorded those lyrics from his Body Heat album, they seem  so innocuous, almost non-event-ish. And I suppose when viewed through lens of innocence, change appears harmless.  That's the way of time... Yes, everything must change, BUT, UNLESS, or UNTIL that change heralds  pain. I don't means stub-your-toe-pain or even  a catch an unexpected blow to the plexus pain.  Those are painful, but not permanent.  I'm thinking about life-uprooting, earth-shattering, stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off pain!  No matter how minor, major, whatever, I think subconsciously we fight change.  Maybe that's why we lament in song, "The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to  be; the old gray mare she ain't what she used to be many long years ago&quo

When occasional signs caution           Men At Work,  We slow down, Cautious until we no longer           See them; Not so when           God At Work He assures,       Directs       Guides       Protects       Secures       Abounds In every nook and cranny           of our lives. Gives respite as He drives The steering wheels of our       Hearts, Removes fear,        Danger        Doubt       Anxiety  From our worlds,  Carries us safely Wherever we need to go:           God is!           

The last few days, I’ve felt better, more in charge of my life since I took a first, albeit tentative, step in a long trek toward dealing with life, death, and those things are in the middle or on the periphery.   Any thing.   For so long I’ve felt nothing.   Or nothing worth noting. Like James Weldon Johnsn's Creation,  " Darker-than-a-hundred-midnights"  emptiness has marked my stark days and twilight mornings.  Ever since my Baby Daughter died.  It’s taken weeks and months even to want to acknowledge the notion of   a thumping, jazzy-gospel   mix of   “Compared to What,” by Roberta Flack, Les McCann, or Eddie Harris among other greats.  Where did that come from? I wasn’t even thinking about it---neither the song nor the thought. In fact, the lyrics for the most part, ring nonsensically:             “I love to lie and lie to love             I’m hanging on they push and shove             Possession is the motivation             That is hangin’ up

My mom used to lead the "Missionary Board" members in singing "Showers of , Blessing."   There shall be showers of blessing. This is the promise of love.  There shall be seasons refreshing, sent from the Savior above."   These "mature" women---grandmothers all---typically opened their meetings with this declaration.  I was young then, back in the day, but for the  life  of me, I couldn't imagine why they sang with such vigor.  In sun-baked summers and wind-whipped winters, these good ladies of the Church declared the promise. I grew up in an era when children were to be seen, not heard, which was just as well because I couldn't figure out a way to ask what "showers" they were singing about without sounding impudent.  We either got rain, hard driving rain, or humid-hot summers.  I couldn't imagine what constituted a shower. Of blessings? What were they? Did they come, like birthdays? Or were they like the surprise parties

Perspective.  That’s what it’s all about.  It’s how I look at it, whatever it  is.   It’s more than how I pronounce it:  You say to mah to, I say to may to.  It’s what in my mind and often what’s on my mind   that makes the difference. And probably a lot more.  Certainly I filter things through history, background, and memories. When it comes down to “brass tacks,” as my parents used to say, it’s  either or black or white.  Or is it that simple? In terms of perspective, is there a difference between April 9th, the date of my daughter’s departure, and today, March 16th, between 15 months and 319 days later?  (Forgive my math!).  What's the difference? Or, am I  trying to fill the time with things that make no difference? I remember reading a comment years ago about the brain not knowing what it doesn’t know.   Because it doesn’t know what it doesn't now, it fills its mind with what it thinks it knows. Since it doesn’t know what it doesn’t know, it fills itself with a bunch

If today, RIGHT NOW, you are at the lowest point in your life---on the brink of hopelessness, helplessness, or despair, STOP! Stop thinking.  Stop feeling. Stop worrying.  Stop fretting. JUST STOP. I want to assure you that you are not alone. You have not been abandoned. The same Supreme Power---God---who created you is at work, and has been at work, in your life, from the moment you were conceived.  How do I know? Because I read it in black and white, in indelible ink, from the best-seller of all times, the Holy Bible.  The prophet Jeremiah records in the first chapter, fifth verse of the book named after himself: "Before I formed you in the womb, and before you were born, I consecrated (dedicated) you..."  (Jeremiah 1:5) God is All Powerful, All Knowing, and Everywhere at the same time.  Yes, He knows the circumstances of your inestimable loss.  He knows how hard all of this has been, and is, for you to handle.  He knows your very thoughts "from afar off.&q

LOOK FOR THE SILVER LINING The song goes, "Look for the silver lining whenever clouds appear in the blue; remember somewhere the sun is shining, so the right thing to do is make it shine for you ..." But what if  tsunami  clouds, some ominous but rarely benign, have invaded your peace?  Sometimes, I find it hard to look  past my  clouds to the vitamin D-enriched sun.   Where is the peace I subconsciously crave and often pray for? Do I feel there's a way to turn back the hands of time to my life before  the grievous loss that shattered everything dear to me? What happens when  positive "self-talk" doesn't work? When well-meaning friends can't console? When the search for the "Balm in Gilead" appears to be a mirage, a dry splotch on the highway? What, then? What if I'm stymied by lyrics that promise, "Remember somewhere the sun is shining, so the right things to do is make it shine for you. .." .but may try as I might,

When we think of it in terms of a profession, many of us may not see ourselves as a Script Writer.  It sounds so formal, yet so glamorous, so Hollywood-ish.  That's what I thought it was, especially  knowing that I have a niece who writes professional scripts that have the look and feel of Broadway or Hollywood . Well, the School of Life has shown me that not only I, but most of us, live as bit players on a stage we didn't construct and don't own.  Life can be so exciting but also mundane---pedestrian  We remember the big things, sometimes,but usually operate from the persona of a puppet, as if we have no control over our life, world, and affairs.  Maybe we don't.  But what if we do? What if our dreams really could  come true if or when we chose to take ownership of the three-act play that we sometimes woodenly walk through, often forgetting our lines? What if we have missed opportunities to be in charge of our destiny, with help from God.  "Ask and it