19 October 2015


My past is my kryptonite.

This journey forward has been bogged down by the muck and mire of my beginnings.  I may not have started the mess, but I deepened the ruts. I hitched my wagon and followed the path of least resistance.

I brought it with me. I have tracked the filth into each relationship. I sullied the potential, smudged all of the possibilities and then cast aside probabilities as tarnished.  Me. I did that.

I said I believed I was a new creation and then feared the same old stuff in the same old way that the old me feared.  I react to the new with the poison of the old. Fear. Fear is the venom inside me killing my hope.

Forgetting what lies behind.... only when I am not frightened.
Claiming my identity in Christ... and then reciting the mantras of my past making my history my god.

As a believer, I am more than the sum of my past.
I am the recipient of a future hope.
No ruts, no filth, no mire.
The Gospel trumps everything.

My past is my kryptonite.
What's  yours?

07 September 2015

Undone. Forgetting. Pressing On.

The last two years of my life have been hellish, not because of a major traumatic event, but because of me. I did it. I'd like to place the blame on someone or something, but I can't. The common denominator in all my suffering is me.

That isn't to say that nothing trying has occurred. There have been challenges and bad decisions. There have been events and happenings, but the misery that is clinging to my bones making each breath painful is my own doing. Or rather, my undoing.  I am, to borrow from Isaiah, undone.  My question; is being undone enough?

If you look at various translations of Isaiah 6:1-5, you will see undone translated as lost or ruined.  If there could only be an English word that encompassed all three ideas at once, I would use it.  Unlike Isaiah, I am not undone, lost or ruined because of a vision of the Almighty.  I am worthless because I am clinging to the past.

Paul's letter to the Philippians encouraged them to put the interests of others before their own.  That's part of the high calling we have as believers and a lofty goal. It's impossible too.  I am so busy working on self-preservation tactics that there is no way for me to actually put others first. I put them first once I am certain it is safe for me to do so.  Emotional safety is my prime objective. My emotional safety.

Sure, Paul also encourages his readers by admitting he's not able to do it either. He tells us to forget what lies behind and press on. It's hard to know what to forget. Do I forget the childhood that has left me so battered and bruised? Do I forget the multitude of sins I have committed by putting exercising my self-preservation skills?   Once you admit that you are broken, do the shards of your heart reunite? Or are they still weapons you hide deep within, ready in case you need to wield them to keep vulnerability at bay?

Forgetting what lies behind.  Pressing on.

05 August 2015

Thinking Things Through

There are a lot of things I am trying to work out.  Writing is my therapy. Grab a cup of coffee and sit in on my therapy session if you'd like. Or don't. Either is OK by me.

Lots of horrible stuff about Planned Parenthood happening in the news. I have always thought that Planned Parenthood was a horrible place and if you cared enough to ask me why, I'd tell you in a  heartbeat. I have always been anti-abortion, even in my most liberal years and trust me, I was a liberal's liberal --except when it came to abortion.  This sums up my argument against abortion.

I don't understand why people don't talk more about the obvious problem we  have in our society and the underlying premise on which pro-choice folks build their argument and organize their lives.  Want.  We have elevated what we want to a godlike status.  Abortion is the termination of an unwanted life.  Drill down past the inane argument about whether or not a fetus is human and you're left with this: It is if I want it and if I don't want it is not.  The holocaust and every genocide that has occurred or ever will occur has its beginnings in want.

Another issue in the news that's giving me trouble is the officer in Kentucky that put handcuffs on children with "special needs."  The ACLU is involved and where they go, lawsuits are inevitable.   I don't get the fuss.  Anyone who has worked with children, special needs or not, knows that they are capable of inflicting injury on adults, other children and themselves.  Come on, people. If the officer had flex-tied a child to a light standard and left him or her out there on his own, by all means call out the ACLU.  A child hitting and kicking needs to be restrained and putting some handcuffs on their biceps isn't cruel and unusual punishment.   The child in the video knew what he'd done to cause him to be restrained and what he needed to do in order to have the restraints come off.  Having been described as having ADHD doesn't mean you have a free pass to injure folks or be disruptive. Mom, Dad, get a grip.  By the way. I actually know someone whose child was flex-tied to a light standard and left to sit in his wheelchair.  In this case, the person had a traumatic brain injury and was simply annoying to people. You see, he didn't have a motorized wheelchair and it took him a while to get through intersections on his own. That was a violation of civil rights, the temporary restraint of a child acting out is not.

Know what else is bugging the snot out of me?   Kermit and Miss Piggy announcing their break-up. Of all the lame publicity stunts...  because what we need are more characters kids love to be nasty to one another in a break-up. What in the world are they thinking?  Never mind, I know. They want the Muppets to emulate real life.  Gag me.

Look, I have read the back of The Book.  I know that things are going to get worse and not better. I also know we believers have been charged with being salt and light as it happens.  Machen said, "The Church is perishing today through the lack of thinking, not through an excess of it." - Christianity and Culture. We are being pounded with the world's propaganda in more ways than we could have imagined but none of them are a surprise to God. That's where I find my comfort.

05 June 2015

typing myself off a ledge....

I write for therapy. When I am stressed, angry, happy, melancholy or all of the above, my first desire is to write something down.  I'm sitting here, eating a delicious salad and writing whatever comes to my pointed little head.  Grammar perfectionists, you may want to medicate yourselves before continuing.  When I am feeling this way, my mind and fingers aren't always in sync and I don't give a rip.  Don't say I didn't give you fair warning.

I have a lot of stress going on in my life and most of it is not going on the internet. I can't quite understand why folks put their dirty laundry and drunken blunders on the internet. Probably because I am not drunk. Maybe it makes more sense then?   Everything you do makes seems like a fabulous idea when you're drunk, right? I digress, back to what I am writing about.

So, here I am with lots of stress, most of which is none of your danged business.  I am going to begin with the phone call I received just before going to pick up veggies from my CSA at their new location, a farmer's market in the downtown area of my rural Kentucky community. Mind you, I chose this new CSA because of the farmer's market. I was looking forward to finding out who the other upside down hippies were and what a hillbilly-upside-down-hippie looked like.

My youngest called and I could tell she was crying, scared and something horrible was happening. Her apartment was on fire.  She lives in a four-plex and all four homes were burning. She was terrified. Her cat of 14 years was too frightened to come to her and was hiding in the house. The firefighters wouldn't let them look for the cat.  My kids and I are first class, Grade-A, government inspected animal lovers. I welled up with tears.  I knew my kidlet and her kidlet were OK and I knew for that to continue their animals had to be OK.  I listened to her some 2400 miles away and felt helpless as she was having the worst day of her life.  To make matters worse, the fire started some 30 minutes before help was called.  Neighbors, with whom she'd had trouble before, were responsible for my sentimental sweetheart watching her life go up in smoke. Life is always unfair but does it have to also be that hard?  To hate the people you live near is bad enough but to have them burn down your home because they are stupid? That's too much. We talked all we could and I hung up knowing the bad part had only just begun for her.

I've lost everything I own once. The disaster that took my memory anchors was a flood. After the disaster, you get to do the clean-up part. You try to salvage something and it's painful. You are adrift and disoriented.  You realize you're chasing ghosts, but you have to try. How will you live knowing your great-grandfather's bookcase was in there and might have survived, but you didn't care to see? Each time you hope for some little piece of memory to be OK and it's not. It's a yo-yo ride from hell.  I realize I am reliving every painful moment of loss while also feeling helpless about what my kid is going through. I also am painfully aware that the balance is changing.  I am closer to the age where my kids  are becoming my heroes and able to do anything. I haven't quite lost all of my superpowers, but I can't fix this for  her either.

With all these emotions roiling I got into my car and went to pick up some organic lettuce, chard and sugar snap peas.  I would be meeting the man who owns the farm I purchase from for the first time and I would see what the farmer's market contained.  I parked and managed to hobble up to the market which is set up in front of the new courthouse. There were booths set up with an inside and outside circle around the interactive fountain in the middle. Interactive meaning kids are meant to play in it and there were children of various ages having the time of their lives.  There were dogs on leashes with the kids and they were having the time of their lives.  There were adults milling around. There were things to look at, touch and taste.   I felt like I couldn't see or speak or appreciate anything.  I most assuredly have PTSD. I can't deny it. I also can't want it.

What I haven't mentioned in this story is that the flood that took my memory anchors occurred while I was working in public safety.  I was helping to rescue other people from the flood while my life was being made a shamble. A childhood from hell and a career in public safety have left me with about a thousand memories I would rather not have. My memories trigger anxiety when I least expect them too and yet always when it is decidedly inconvenient.  As a biblical counselor, I know what I need to do. I need to apply truth to truth.

The truth is that really bad things have happened to me. Also true is my belief that God is absolutely sovereign in all things. Even really bad things. I walked through the market using my other memory anchors, memorized Scripture. Verses that assure me that all things work together for good.  I remind myself that the two most oft given commands in Scripture are "fear not" and "remember". You don't have to be in a war to have PTSD, You don't have to have the most traumatic occurrences. I didn't have the worst childhood I know of, but it was the worst childhood I have ever had.  As I felt the anxiety rise, I reached internally for my anchors; the Anchor of my soul.  I begged Jesus to give me something else to focus on and just as I  had completed the walk around the small circle, He did.  I had reached the stand owned by my farm. It was time to introduce myself to the owner.

"I don't recognize you from last year!" he said, reaching his hand out to shake mine.  "I'm Ford."  Oh, perfect...or should I say prefect! For those of you who know me, you know that my mind immediately went to Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  Now I was hoping not to giggle or say something stupid. That's not when the magic happened though. The real magic happened the moment he took my hand and felt the calluses on Ford's hand. My prayer was answered in that quick moment and my mind immediately fixated on the comfort I took shaking this young man's hand. Good, honest, hardworking hands and a genuine smile to offer in appreciation of my purchasing his organic foods.

On my drive home, I didn't think about fires or floods or horrible experiences. I prayed for Ford. I hoped his kids and his wife appreciated the roughness of his hands and would always remember how hard Ford worked to get them. I prayed that his farm would thrive and that he and his family were believers.  And just to prove I am not always good, I wondered if he had a towel handy.

Why this story? Because I started to stress out again about the fire and I made myself remember how God brought me back into His truth yesterday.

Philippians 4:8
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

05 May 2015

So much to say..... A fools lament

So much to say and no one to listen.  No one to pull the weeds out of the random thoughts taking root in my head.  Somewhere in there is a garden of good ideas and fossils of righteousness embedded in the sedimentary consequences of sin. 

Today is difficult. Yesterday broke me. Tomorrow may bring something different. Maybe.  Maybe not.  I won't know until I get there. I won't get there if I quit today. 

Helpless opining. Unable to choose wisely in my own affairs; rock-solid certain I know what you should do. Arrogance sprinkled on wisdom. I am a jerk . 

A riptide of anxiety to pull me under or a measure of hope to hold me fast.  Which will it be? A taproot of bitterness or joy? 

Ephesians 5:15-17English Standard Version (ESV)

15 Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, 16 making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. 17 Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.

21 April 2015


Today I am struggling with the remnants of my past. All the anxieties that resurfaced during the last year or so haven't been vanquished. The thing I want to do most in the world is hide.

This is when I turn to the Psalms and focus especially on Psalm 139.

Psalm 139

O Lord, you have searched me and known me!2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar.3 You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways.4 Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.5 You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.6  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it.7  Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?8  If I ascend to heaven, you are there!  If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!9 If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,10 even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.11 If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,"12  even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.13 For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb.14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.   Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.15  My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.16 Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there were none of them.17 How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!18  If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you.19 Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God! O men of blood, depart from me!20 They speak against you with malicious intent; your enemies take your name in vain! 21  Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?22 I hate them with complete hatred; I count them my enemies.23 Search me, O God, and know my heart!  Try me and know my thoughts! 24 And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!

20 April 2015

Common Denominator

It has been nearly a year and a half since I have written a blog post. Time may fly when you're having fun, but it also whizzes by when you're out of control.  Perhaps because being out of control masquerades as fun? Trust me, it's not.

I almost don't know where and how to begin blogging again. I enjoy writing and the mere act of letting my fingers sort out words helps me identify what's really going on inside.  One of the dangers of living alone is not having other folks daily reflecting back to me who I am and not who I pretend to be.  I need people rubbing up next to me to help me recognize the rough spots. It takes others showing me my inconsistencies and irritating the snot out of  me to help me acknowledge my besetting sins. It's therapeutic and the way God has designed it for all of us.

During the last year or so my life has imploded on several fronts. I may have looked OK from the outside but on the inside I was certifiable.  I have had blowouts with friends and family.  My home is a wreck. My finances are a wreck. My health is a wreck.  I'd like someone to blame for all this but alas, the common denominator is me. Sinful, selfish, comfort-seeking me.

Before I continue I need to own up to a couple of things. Firstly, I am giving my opinion. My opinion and a ten-spot will buy us coffee at Starbucks and little  else. I am not advocating you, dear reader, do anything about what you read. Agree, disagree, think about it, dismiss it, whatever you do, do it knowing it's your choice. Your choice, your responsibility.

Speaking of responsibilities, my second point is to say I am doing my best to take responsibility for my choices. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to ruin a year or more of my life. There were a series of choices and decisions that alone seemed harmless enough but clustered together were, for lack of a better description, horrific. One of my favorite lines from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard, goes like this: "There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said --no, But somehow we missed it."  Simply put, I had my chance to say, "No!" and I missed it.  

Tell me, what do you do when you've come to a sudden stop and find yourself mired in your own sinful mistakes and presumptions? There's not much you can do but throw yourself at His feet and beg for mercy. That's where I find myself as I sit and write. I am a beggar of mercy.  I should have started here first.

What series of bad choices did I make? I can't remember each one in detail, but the one that has had the greatest impact on me was deciding to do whatever it took to be pain-free.  I experience relentless physical pain.  Every single day is different but a contest nonetheless. I fight with my body for what I can do versus what I want to do.  I haven't been comfortable with my body for years. Don't feel sorry for me. That's not why I am writing this. Many people experience worse pain than I do and most of them do it with more grace. I let it get the best of me.

 Someone in the 1920s said, "It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out; it's the grain of sand in your shoe."  Chronic pain is a grain of sand that will wear out your soul if you let it. My pain affects my sleeping, my sitting, walking, standing, and eating. I negotiate my life around my pain. When people at church want to stop me and talk to me, I am in agony. If I have to wait in a checkout line, I fear I will collapse in pain. Every single thing I do is a negotiation with my hostile body.  When my rheumatologist recommended a drug that has helped some people manage chronic pain, especially lower back pain, I was ripe for the wrong decision. The drug he recommended was Cymbalta. Despite my reservations regarding SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor) and SNRI  (serotonin and norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor) medications, I said yes.

For the first couple of weeks, the drug worked remarkably well.  As my body began to tolerate the medication, the pain came back.  My medication levels were increased, the pain sort of went away and then came back with a vengeance. And so the cycle began. Like an addict chasing their high, I began chasing the feeling of being at least semi-comfortable if I couldn't be pain-free.  My behavior began to change in little ways at first.  I can read it in my previous posts and journals. Contrition over sin turned to maudlin excesses and self-pity. My emotions bounced back and forth like Newton's cradle. What few filters I do have were knocked loose. I said what I wanted when I wanted and without a thought to the recipients well-being.

Next, every area in my life that causes me anxiety became more pronounced.  A childhood fear of mail reappeared. Since that fear was borne out of my feeling abandoned by my mother, my fear of abandonment escalated.  I was a mess. I began to doubt my ability to negotiate the ins and outs of daily life. One day as I prepared to go to see my family doctor it occurred to me to ask her about the drug the rheumatologist had me on. It didn't seem to be working and there was in my mind a correlation between my mental instability and when I began taking the drug.  To my relief she quietly told me that she'd rather not have me taking that drug because it's "a complicated medicine."  We devised a plan to back off Cymbalta slowly. I left her office hoping I would be back to normal in a few days. I had no idea that there is a recognized syndrome called "Cymbalta Discontinuation Syndrome."  Lucky me, let the agony begin!

It took less than 48 hours for me to start hearing and feeling what I can only describe as electrified Velcro being ripped apart at the base of my skull. The sound was deafening and the sensation flowed like ripples down my spine. Moving my head in any direction instigated the event. It was torturous and lasted a couple of months. Concurrently I had major mood swings and insomnia. My emotions bounced right out of Newton's Cradle and tried their best to do an interpretive dance describing chaos theory. The Velcro sensation would rouse me from sleep like a cattle prod. Involuntary muscle twitches that had begun when I started the meds increased as I was coming off of them. Add feeling like my muscles contained an old Jiffy Pop stovetop popcorn maker cooking in them. I was beyond a hot mess.

The thing that is amazing to me is how in God's economy, nothing is wasted. I wouldn't volunteer for this experience again, but I am so glad I have been through it.  The entire time I was in Cymbalta withdrawal I had a prescription bottle full of pills. I knew all I had to do was take one pill and the electric Velcro/Jiffy Pop hell I was in would cease. One little pill. Sure I would probably be crazy but my sanity seemed a small price to pay to stop what was going on with my body.  For the first time, I could more than empathize with someone fighting addiction. I am not saying you have to have been an addict to counsel someone who is but I am saying really understanding the desperation of "just one more little pill" has given me more mercy for folks who find themselves in the throes of withdrawal and addiction.

I have never believed in the chemical imbalance theory as the reason for depression and other mental  health issues. If you listen to the ads for the drugs the pharmaceutical companies have on television, they don't either.  To cover their assets they add the disclaimer: "We don't know what causes depression, but we think it's a chemical imbalance."  There is a reason they qualify that assertion.  I am not anti-medication, not at all.  I am certainly not advocating anyone stop taking medications currently being prescribed to them by their physician.

As a believer in the gospel of Jesus Christ, I have hope and resources I neglected to tap into when I made my mad dash to what I thought would be pain-free living.  Had a doctor prescribed Cymbalta for depression, I would have declined. I know what depression feels like. I know how hard it can be to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. My soul has cowered in dark places while being chained to hopelessness and beaten with despair. It was physical pain that I thought my faith couldn't manage.  It was the desire to be able to travel and do fun things that got me to compromise my position on SSRI/SNRI medications.
Wherever you draw your line in the sand your flesh is willing to take up the challenge before you even know you're in a battle.

And so I begin again, I am overwhelmed with the damage I have done. Good thing I serve the God of the Universe. He hasn't been taken by surprise. I have not extended myself beyond his grace.

2 Corinthians 4:8-9
We are  I am afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed;