Notes From A Broken Heart

Go ahead, Dorothie! Unclench the jaws closed so tightly they appear to be soldered together. Relax the tension in your shoulder blades and unflex the fists that seem ready either to throw the next blow or receive one.  Release the glower that began as a worried crease between the eyes and morphed into a  menacing glare that telegraphs animosity.  Relax.   God's got this, and everything else that seems ready to take me out.  Go back to what I  know.  Stroll memory's lanes and recount all the times God rescued.  All the times He calmed storms and rendered powerless the chimera that chased you.  Why do I again insist on drinking from the fountain of despair, anguish, and near-hopelessness?  I  know better. And I do know better.  I know the question the Sons of Korah asked and answered in Psalm 42:11:  "Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise him, my salvation, and my God."  Their "why" questi

Year after year and even decade after decade, I marked life events and circumstances in upper-case, or capital, letters.  I did not differentiate between little or big, unimportant or important, attention-riveting or mundane happenstances, or deserving of attention or not.   Either I did not realize what I was doing or I suffered from complacent myopia.  It became easier to view EVERYTHING through the lens of imminent or downright catastrophe.  Of course, this indecisiveness exhausted, which ultimately excused any inaction.  Extreme. Malingering. Or both?  After all, how could I be expected to find the time to address myriad events sensibly? Hmm. Then the flickering light bulb stayed on long enough to look me in the eyes and ask, "How dare you? How dare you live life beneath your privilege? How long will you bathe in uncertainty?"    Finally, life intruded, replete with a pair of spectacles unencumbered by rose or amber tint.  I could no longer avoid or deny that the train of

  My dear, loving Nephew-Son, I love you, Robb.  I hope you know your value to me and the love I hold for you are opposite sides of the same coin  I've sat here for some time trying to sort out my feelings since I received the startling news of the choice (which really was not a choice!) that you had to make yesterday.  Rufio has been "put down!"  Euphemisms drive me bonkers, even as I understand why we use them.  "Put down" attempts to soften the gut-wrenching, heart-splitting truth.  Rufio. Is. Dead.   How harsh and impersonal a declaration.   Yet, "dead" falls far short of this permanent turn of events. Your mom didn't have to tell me how you agonized over the non-choice: You couldn't bear the thought of life's final ending for the "gentle" giant of a friend.  Your dependable, best friend,  and literal "Road Dog."  I was visiting Chicago fourteen years ago when you chose each other and the team coalesced.   Just that

  I'm not sure when I noticed how brevity, even a terseness, had virtually replaced complete sentences.  May as well blame it on widespread computer usage as anything else.   Can anyone remember when the computer became " de rigueur"  in the homes of all but those imprisoned by poverty or broadband-lessness? Not to worry, just rhetorical musings.   Back in the day, I remember when most English teachers were female (and often spinsters),  learning that a sentence contained a subject (noun or pronoun), predicate (verb), and object (direct or indirect). was standard.   Actually, I wonder why gender and marital status mattered.  They probably didn't; yet, they rest in the area of my brain where minutia lurks. Back to brevity. In first grade, I mastered reading "Run, Spot, run"  and "See Spot Run," along with other three-word sentences.  Quite the accomplishment, according to my teacher's assessment.  Later in high school,  English teachers introdu

  It's all in how I look at it.  No, let me correct. It's all in the way I choose to look at the situation.   The light bulb shines through lessons learned from the "Mother May I" childhood game.  True, at the age of four, five, or six, I knew absolutely nothing about "Choice."  I grew up with Southern-born parents.  Translated for the uninitiated, "If I say do it, then do it! If I say, don't do it, you'd better not!"  A part of the southern culture you tested at her own peril. To be allowed to "backtalk," like asking "Why,"  must've been one reserved for more liberal parents.  Evidently, they were native Northerners or some other aberration.  None of them lived in my neighborhood, which took decades to evolve into a "community." I liked the neighborhood better.  Still do.  All adults (even the marginal ones) received respect. The underlying threat to potentially disobedient or disrespectful kids hid a defi

She was the only person I knew named, "Elna."  Not that she was the only one who answered when called by that tag.   There must have been thousands around the United States and the world who shared the appellation.  (Even a sewing machine sold under the "Elna" brand).  I never asked Mother why she chose it for her firstborn daughter.  I wish I had.  Elna certainly could have carried Delores, Mary, Ruth.  Grace, or Eleanor (a form of Elna) easily .  Since her life personified patience, graciousness, and compassion, just about any name would have sufficed. In contrast, I know the derivation of my name. A compromise between Daddy, who wanted a "Dorcas," for the New Testament seamstress, and Mother's adamant refusal to acquiesce. Too cumbersome a name for a baby girl, Mother decreed.  They agreed on "Dorothy," which means "Gift of God." Thank goodness! Why and how its current spelling came about deserves its own blog.  Always and forev

Waking up to Mother singing, "Just a closer walk with Thee;  Grant it, Jesus, if You please, Daily walking close with Thee, Let it be, dear Lord, let it be," alerted me to the "Hymn du jour." It also presaged the tone of the day.  I didn't realize, then, that Mother already enjoyed a relationship that "churched" and "unchurched" people search for today.   When I was growing up, "religion" was the maxim associated with God. The rituals churchgoers practiced began with weekly Sunday School and 11 A.M. church services.  Wednesday mid-week meetings refreshed soul and spirit, and sometimes Friday night "Tarry Service," capped off the week.  God was a remote, impersonal entity that "Sat high and looked low," as He dictated behaviors, found in the Holy Bible, and interpreted and monitored by the pastor/preacher, deacons, and often, visiting evangelists. Original sin and "fire and brimstone" prophecies accounte