A Safe Place

I've been thinking about "safety" lately, particularly in terms of relationships.

For too long, I think I have had an operating definition of "safety" as the freedom from physical harm.  Obviously that is a key component, but I am realizing it is far from the only one. 

Almost as important as the freedom from physical harm is the freedom from emotional harm.  Everyone needs a place where their emotions are given space "to be," even if those emotions might strike someone else as irrational, excessive, or "wrong." 

(Emotions can't be "wrong," by the way.  They just are.  It is what we do with those emotions that earns the labels "right" or "wrong.") 

It is only recently that I have realized that denying a person emotional safety not only feels like abuse, it actually is abuse.  The pamphlet "Peace at Home" put out by the RI Coalition Against Domestic Violence identifies five areas of domestic violence: physical; sexual; emotional, verbal, and psychological; financial; and digital. 

The pamphlet describes emotional abuse in these terms:

Includes constant put-downs and criticisms; minimizing the abuse or blaming the partner for the abuse; isolating the partner from family, friends, and activities; excessive jealousy; accusing the partner of cheating; monitoring the partner's every move; using threats and intimidation, such as threats of violence, angry looks or gestures, using weapons, driving recklessly, threatening to self-harm, or threatening to report the partner to social service agencies (e.g. welfare, immigration, child protection).

Hopefully you have never been in a relationship characterized by any of these things.  Since the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey reports 1 in 4 women and 1 in 7 men in America have, however, the odds are good that many of you out there know what this looks like first-hand.

For those of you in a relationship like this, it can be a lonely, desperate, miserable place.  There are some steps you can take, however.  The first is to talk to someone experienced in these issues.  A counselor/therapist and/or a local or national domestic violence agency would be a good first stop. 

The degree of the abuse and the degree to which it is negatively impacting your sense of self, your social interactions, your financial or emotional independence will impact whether you can or should remain in the relationship. 

I think it is important to remember, however, that any form of abuse is about power and control.  The fault for the abuse, all the time, is the abuser's.  It is never the victim's.  You don't make someone abuse you; they choose to abuse you. 

It is also important to remember that abuse can escalate.  Emotional abusers can turn into physical abusers . . . and you may not see it coming until it's too late. 

Oftentimes, the people in the relationship are the ones least likely to term it abuse . . . even as they are suffering intensely under the weight of it.  If you are a friend of someone in such a relationship, find a quiet time to gently and firmly describe what you see that concerns you.  Perhaps bring a resource like "Peace at Home" and cite concrete examples that illustrate your point. 

DO NOT PREACH, however.  If your friend cannot hear what you're saying or is unable/unwilling to act upon your words, that is okay.  Assert your support and love for them.  Remain close to them.  And let them know you are there for them if they ever want to talk. 

If they finally reach the point where they are ready to act, they will need you beside them more than you could possibly imagine.  It is okay to bring it up when you are concerned, but stop if they ask you to and refrain from judging them in any way. 

Getting into an abusive relationship is a thousand times easier than getting out. 

Everyone deserves a safe place, in every sense of the word.  Let's work together to make that a reality. 

In Empathy

My sister-in-law just lost her grandmother.  After talking with her today, I am convicted about how I do or do not empathize with others.  I didn't send my sister-in-law a card or a fruit basket or a little card telling her I had donated to a worthy cause in her grandmother's name. 

Why not? 

Well, I saw her in person and hugged her and said I was sorry.  I have made plans to attend her grandmother's memorial service. 

I wonder, if it were my grandmother, would I feel like that was enough? 

Then there is one of my friends whose nephew was just killed in a car accident.  We were supposed to get together, and she had to cancel to fly home to be with her sister. 

I am shocked beyond words at what they are experiencing now.  I emailed my love and concern.  I am praying for them. 

If it were my nephew, would I feel like that was enough? 

English major that I am, I am pondering the difference between "empathy" and "sympathy."  "Sympathy" is to feel badly for someone.  "Empathy" is to actually feel the same emotions as the other person. 

I find it interesting that we say "In sympathy" on our cards.  Perhaps it is an unconscious truth we are expressing.  How many of us truly hear of a friend's tragedy and take the physical and emotional time to slide into their skin and truly grieve as they are grieving?  Or do we find it much easier to feel badly, to wish they weren't hurting, and then to go on our way? 

I am ashamed to admit I probably do the latter much more frequently than the former.  There are reasons for this, and some are good and valid.  After all, if we truly felt all the pain of all the people we know as they are experiencing it, we would explode.  And sometimes our own pain or trials can be so consuming that we have no capacity left for those of others. 

I've been in that place a time or two.  I am not quite in that place now. 

So tonight I am taking a moment to live in my sister-in-law's loneliness.  I am taking a moment to feel myself sitting with my own grieving sibling as we mourn one of my precious nephews.  And I am weeping for--weeping with--these two precious women and their families whom I love so dearly, and whose pain is so great. 

Love to you both.  And your families.  A prayer of strength and comfort for you both.  A knowledge that no words can assuage your pain. 

This is my love note to you.  In empathy. 

Coffee's On

I am in the process of learning to take care of myself.  By that, I mean I am trying to take a step back and observe what my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs are and then fill them. 

Some people are good at that.  My mother recounts a story of her best friend sitting down to eat lunch while her kids were clamoring for her attention.  Rather than jumping up to wait on their every need, she calmly finished eating and then addressed their needs. 

At one time I would have thought that selfish of Mom.  Now I see that it was most likely very wise of Mom.  Providing for others requires that you have something of your own to give.  When we are overly hungry, tired, emotionally drained, we have nothing good to give.  Rather than giving bread to our children (spouses, friends, etc.), we are more likely to give a stone. 

Today I was blessed to have a day that met my need for girl time.  Two of my friends--one planned, one impromptu--shared a cup of coffee with me . . . as well as some delightful conversation. 

I don't know what it is about a coffee klatch that gives me a little extra "oomph."  There is, of course, the caffeine . . . although I usually brew decaf, so that doesn't really apply.  Maybe there's just something in the flavor of coffee that tricks my brain into thinking it's been given a shot of energy!

There's also the fact that I'm sitting.  We moms don't do that very often.  Laundry, dishes, meals, playtime . . . we do it all on our feet.  And the few things we do sit down for--eating, paying bills--end up feeling more like work as we train our youngsters in appropriate table manners and juggle the dollars and cents. 

Coffee break with the gals is a different kind of sitting--the restful kind!  Today we sat outside in the lawn chairs, watching the kids drive their dune buggy all over the yard (and occasionally each other!), lazing in the shade, watching the sun creep across the sky.  Talk about bliss!  I can't remember the last time I just sat in my yard visiting!  No wonder my great-grandparents' generation made it a regular part of their routine! 

What I think I enjoyed the most was the intimacy.  I learned things about both my friends that I hadn't known before.  Their backstories, their current struggles, their ups and downs were opened up to me, and I was honored by the gift. 

Social media can be a wonderful thing.  We can keep in touch with friends all over the world at little to no cost in either time or money.  If used judiciously, it can even help maintain friendships that were developed in person decades in the past. 

The danger with social media, as many have noted before I, is that it can create a false sense of intimacy.  You may know many personal details about a person, but you never actually communicate one on one with that individual. 

Not so over coffee.  Sharing done over java is as personal as can be.  You not only tell your story, you are at the mercy of the raised eyebrows, puzzled frowns, or unbidden laughter of the individual across the table. 

On the other hand, you are also blessed by the accepting nods, the empathetic giggles, and somber sympathy of that same person. 

I was so blessed today.  Twice.  I hope they were, too. 

Celebrating Sisterhood

My sister is my best friend. 

If you call me at 8am and can't get me to pick up, chances are it's because I'm yakking with her.  Better not wait for me to call back; I could be tied up for an hour or more.  We can talk all day about everything and nothing.  Politics, religion, make-up, hairstyles, kitchen appliances, child rearing, herbal tea . . . nothing is off the table with us. 

Since my immersion into the texting world, we also send each other periodic updates on all kinds of things.  Example:

Me: "Water in basement.  (Frown face.  Wave imoji.)

Her: "Yuck!! (Bigger frown face with tongue sticking out.)  Need a hand?"  

Note: Sister lives 45 minutes away and has 3 kids on school vacation . . . and she's offering to help me?!  What a gal!

We were not always this tight.  When I was in middle school and she was in elementary, we shared a bedroom.  It was rarely a peaceful cohabitation.  I don't care what it was, we could turn it into a fight, but bedtime was the worst.

My sister and I shared different philosophies on sleeping environments.  I liked background noise; she wanted quiet.  I liked the dark; she wanted a light on.

Every night it would begin.  I'd put the country music station on. (Or worse, my tape recording of me reading my history notes so I could ace my weekly quizzes--what a nerd!)  She'd tell me to turn it off.  I'd refuse.  It seems to me I usually won that battle. 

(I have to say I finally see her perspective on this one.  My ex used to listen to sports radio EVERY NIGHT without fail.  I was okay with it falling asleep, but if I woke up in the middle of the night I COULD NOT fall asleep again.  Baseball season wasn't too bad, but football?!  I have not fallen asleep with the radio on ONCE since he moved out of the house 7-1/2 months ago!  I feel very bad for what I put my poor sister through!) 

After we'd fussed over sound, we'd start in on illumination.  She wanted the hall light on.  I wanted it off.  My bed was right by the door; hers was in the back corner.  I can't help but wonder why we didn't just swap our beds around . . . maybe we just needed to squabble over something. 

I don't know why we fought so much as kids.  What I do know is that our warring days started diminishing when I went to college.  Maturity?  Distance?  Don't know.  But by the time she got married and had my first delightful nephew, we were very close. 

Now, I count her one of the most important people in my life.  It's not just the free babysitting or the coupon apps she suggests or the way she listens to me say the same boring things over and over.  It's not just the unique and beautiful perspective she lends to every subject or her artistic nature or her sarcastic sense of humor. 

It's all of that.  Plus it's knowing that we have this shared lifetime of jokes and stories and dysfunctions and successes that nobody else (outside of our brother!) can touch. 

I look at my kids sometimes and hope that when they are older they also call each other far too often and text far too frequently and appreciate each other far more than any words can ever say. 

You are His Hands and Feet

Many years ago at Honey Rock Camp in WI, I was part of a foot-washing service.  Each of us took turns both washing the feet of someone and having our own feet washed.  To my surprise, the washing was easy.  Being washed?  Not so much.

I say it was not easy, but it was incredibly humbling and beautiful.  I was reminded of that occasion because this week I have had my feet washed many times by many people, and I am again humbled. 

Last week my sister-in-law's brother cut down four enormous trees in my backyard for a shockingly small amount of money.  My neighbors, who share a boundary line, paid half the tree removal, despite having had some unexpected bills from another source.  I expected to pay the rest.  My kids' dad did instead. 

The lovely thing about dropping trees is, of course, the cleanup.  I wish I could put a number on the volume of trash and wood in those trees.  I can't.  I can estimate that it would have taken my neighbor and me roughly 1 year, 2 hernias, and 3 trips to the psychiatric ward to clean it ourselves.  Today, apart from a trailer or two of rake-able debris, it is done.

How?  Well, my dad, brother, and their pastor's son (who works for them and presumably got paid...not by me) spent a day with chainsaws, a pickup truck, and my other neighbor's lawn tractor and trailer cutting, dragging, hauling, driving, dumping, ad nauseum.  I helped some, but with 2 little kids to keep track of, my contribution was minimal.  

Despite putting in a full day, they didn't get it done.  Two days later, my father-in-law came down with his dump truck, chainsaw, and servant's heart and we cleared up the rest.  (Aside from the aforementioned leavings.)  

Pop did more than that, however.  He patiently watched my sleeping babes while my neighbor (the one who shares the border with the former pine wall), brought me to get Cebu the Subaru, complete with a new set of (soundless!) brake pads.  

(Alack!  The radio cannot be repaired without sending it out to a specialist.  I haven't decided what to do about that . . . I told you God broke it in the first place!)  

This same lovely neighbor also picked me up at the shop in the morning after dropping her own two grandsons at day care.  

This week my Pastor, he of the soon-to-be-arriving goats, popped in, listened to me blab, and helped me determine what kind of hardware is required for changing the locks.  (I never have had the keys to two doors on the property, so this seems like a good time to rectify that little oversight!)  

Last night my mother stayed with my kids until around 10:30pm while I went to visit a family counselor (who was another blessing from above!) about the kids.  (I was happy to hear that with a little work on my part, and a lot of divine grace, the kids will most likely handle this as well as can be expected.  What a relief!)  

Today, my in-laws came down, ostensibly to help set up the pool.  I got us derailed by buying a little grill to replace the one that belonged to my kids' dad.  So instead, Pop watched the kids (mostly!) while Grammy and I set up the grill.  That's right, we two gals did it on our own.  

Might I just add that Char-Broil has lovely grills and the absolute WORST directions ever?!?  Would it kill them to add a few words like "front of grill," "right side of grill," etc.?  I'm also a bit annoyed that one piece was missing a hole and while I own a cute little drill, I apparently no longer have the driver attachment . . . or a set of drill bits.  Looks like Mommy is taking herself to Ace for Father's Day!  

Pop also took the time to drag out our giant, self-propelled, walk-behind Lesco mower and give me a crash course on operating it so I would be able to use it without cutting my leg off and bleeding out in the middle of my pasture on Father's Day weekend!  After they left, I put it to use.  Between the Beast and the Toy (which is what my other mower now feels like!)  I finished the entire yard, pasture and all, in under 3 hours.  Not bad for beginner learning curve, huh?  Thanks, Pop!  

Thanks also have to go to the kids' dad for leaving it behind for a while.  

Then there's my sister, who is my REAL counselor, the one I call every morning at 8am and text throughout the day . . . my "oxygen mask" as my counselor puts it.  She is also hosting the Father's Day bash tomorrow, which I will blog about on Monday, I suspect.  She is my best friend, most honest critic, and all-around greatest sister ever.  

Add to that, I have friends around the world--and around the corner--texting and emailing their encouragement and support . . . and praying for me.  Some of you are reading this right now.  

So it is with honesty that I say I feel very fortunate.  Suffering is part of life.  ("Life is pain, Highness . . . and anyone who tells you differently is selling something." Wesley, The Princess Bride!)  We all do it in different ways and to different extents.  And whatever struggles we face, to us it sometimes seems insurmountable.  

But I am not sure that everyone who suffers has been surrounded by such an amazing support system.  I certainly do not deserve this kind of love.  I can only bathe in it, as it truly is a healing balm, and pray that one day I will be able to do the same for someone else, hopefully these someone elses. 

Good Day, Y'all

Have you ever asked yourself what constitutes a "good day"?  Like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, I've always just rather assumed "I know it when I see it."  Today tested that theory and found it lacking.

It was a pretty run-of-the-mill kind of day.  The kids were in and out of "time-out" all day for everything from knocking each other down to hitting Mommy to fighting over who gets to hold the PawSox tickets from Sunday's game. 

After a ridiculous amount of fussing, I finally got the kids dressed and outside for our daily fence-fixing expedition.  (This morning I had to cut the new fence I installed last week at the back end of the property to create a gateway so we can dispose of all the tree-trash we created taking down 4 giant white pines dying near our house.) 


By the time the daily fatigue meltdowns came, it was lunchtime.  We read "The Sword in the Stone," and the kids took insanely long naps.  Both of them.  Fabulous!

My neighbor came over for tea.  I called my sister.  I did some dishes and laundry. 

The kids woke up.  We watched a Signing Time episode.  I made supper.  We did baths.  I pulled a tick off Chinchita.  (If I'm not pulling at least one tick off one of us each day, we just have not lived!) 

It was 6:30pm.  The kids were clean.  The bedroom was clean.  I was vacuuming their room when I thought, "This was a good day." 

Then I stopped.  Why? 

Nothing really special happened.  I can't honestly say the kids were "easy."  At that moment, however, the kids were playing wildly and happily in the living room.  ("We're late for Mass!" they yell, jumping into my empty laundry basket.  This is my proof that Grammy takes them to church during Pajama Party Sleepovers . . . to the kids our church is "our church"; hers is "going to mass"!  Very cute!) 

My day had been productive.  My new gate required no new purchases, just some scavenging from other unnecessary areas of fence.  My neighbor lent me his trailer, so a pile of brush was ready to head to the back pasture through said gate.  I am almost ready for goats.  I even had time to do some extra clean-up before bed. 

I spent real grown-up time with my friends.  I decided not to spend 11 hours writing a $100-200 article tomorrow and to stay home with my munchkins instead. 

I neither cried nor felt the urge to once. 

And maybe that was it.  The end of the day had arrived, and I simply felt at peace.  I wasn't turning cartwheels, but I wasn't drinking tears with my coffee either.  I had worked well and, while there was more to do, I was satisfied with the progress we had made.  I was receiving help I felt uncomfortable taking, but I swallowed my pride and took it.  (I probably could have been more gracious, but the reasons for my tension will make a post for another day!) 


As I finish this blog, it is 10pm.  Not midnight, like I've done too frequently lately!  I'm ready for bed, but I'm not dragging from exhaustion.  It feels good. 

One of my dear college roommates texted me this today:  "Ah that is the magic of middle age, I am discovering.  We are better able to separate dream from reality.  More peace with reality and better enjoyment of dreams. ;)" 

When I first read it, I felt a little depressed.  I don't like giving up those hazy, cirrus-cloud dreams of romance and excitement and passion.  But now, I think I am understanding more of what she meant . . . and I am coming around to her way of thinking. 

There is a beauty in acceptance.  There is a peace in taking what is before you for what it is, without comparing it to the past, the future, someone else's present, or the unreal ideal of youth.  Today I experienced some moments of quiet contentment, and I cherished them. 

It truly was a good day. 

Charmed, I'm Sure!

The bracelet was supposed to have been a Christmas gift from my husband this year.  He never really gave me that kind of thing, unless you count a few pairs of beautiful hand-tied earrings he made while we were dating.  (I wasn't sure what to do with those after he asked for the divorce.  I didn't want to wear them, but I didn't really want to give them back.  I compromised.  I decided to keep them for my daughter. . . they will be something special for her from him.)

This year, I had decided it was time for some jewelry, and I wanted a Persona bangle.  I pretty much demanded a Persona bangle.  It was pretty, and I could ask for charms that meant something special to me.  I was excited. 

I went through the booklets of charms and circled the "Mrs." dangle, blue mottled stones that reminded me of the ocean, charms for my kids . . . all kinds of charms. 

Then, two weeks before Christmas, I found out he wanted a divorce.  Did I still want the bracelet?  WHAT?  NO, I most certainly did NOT want the bracelet.  But that wasn't quite true.  I did want the bracelet . . . I just didn't want it from him. 

So, I tallied up money I'd been given for my birthday, and I had enough to cover a bracelet and three charms.  So what would I get? 

First, I selected a frog wearing a crown for my frog-prince, my Ranita, as I call him.  As an infant he used to curl up on my chest with his legs and arms tucked under him like a little frog, so the name stuck.  Then I picked a ladybug for my Chinchita, "my little bug," because she's, well, cute as a bug in a rug. 

The final charm rests between those two. . . three footprints and an inscription that says, "When you saw one set of foot prints . . . it was then that I carried you" from the poem "Footprints."  Either of my children can tell you that one stands for God carrying us. 

That bracelet means an awful lot to me.  I tell my little ones it's because I can carry them with me wherever I go.  My kids take it to heart.  More than once I have left the house in a hurry and have forgotten to put it on.  I usually notice it in the car, backing out of the driveway.  Ranita tells me, "Don't worry, Mom.  You don't need it . . . we're here with you!" 

I always smile, proud of his innocent insight, and say, "You are absolutely right!  And you are better than any bracelet!" 

This morning, he used it in a different way.  I was struggling with the carpet cleaner my in-laws graciously gave us (one day I'll write a blog about their generosity . . . I sure can't list it all in an aside!).  For some reason I could get the attachment to work, but the foot wouldn't, no matter how many times I switched it to "Floor."  Since Chinchita had managed to get poop on the carpet this morning (don't ask me how; I still have no idea!), I really needed to clean the carpet. 

So I took apart the pieces I could, cleaned them out, and still couldn't get it to work.  Then I did the most productive thing possible: I sat on the floor and cried.  Suddenly I felt a small hand on my back.  My little Frog-Prince stood there holding my bracelet.  "Here, Mom," he said, "I wanted to give you this because I know it makes you happy." 

Sweet child! 

He got a big hug.  I dried my eyes (slowly!), and thanked him for being so thoughtful.  (I did have him put the bracelet back because I didn't think wrestling with the machine was the best thing for my treasure!) 

Somewhere along the line the carpet got washed.  I did much of it using the tool, but then somehow it seemed as if the foot started working . . . I don't know.  The carpet got wet, then it got drier, and the clean water ended up dirty.  The carpet both looks and smells clean.  Sometimes that's all I need to know! 

Well, that and the fact that God really is carrying me.  And sometimes He uses my children to do it. He's carrying them as well.  And sometimes He uses me to do that.  Today he also threw in my mom and my sister . . . and my in-laws, though they probably don't know it. 

Days can be hard.  Some days are really hard.  But it is comforting to remember we never have to navigate them alone . . . whether we're wearing a shiny silver bangle or not. 

A Day in the Life . . .

Here is a glimpse into a typical day in the life of the Castrataros. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed living it.  (Really . . . I laughed a lot today . . . I was SuperMom today!) 

6:30 am 

The kids awaken me.  (Note: This constitutes "sleeping in.")  I stumble into the bathroom only to find that one of the dogs had messed in the bathroom.  A lot.  Blackness.  At least it didn't smell.  I throw the dogs out and clean up the bathroom. 

6:45 am

I get my daughter out of her crib.  Before letting the dogs in, I notice Nyssa was the one who left her gift in the bathroom and she has some on her feathery legs and tail.  I grab the scissors and give her a haircut at the front step.  I wash the scissors and my hands.  

7:00 am

I'm trying to make coffee and determine what the kids want for breakfast.  My son rejects my 18 options in favor of the one thing I don't have.  I finally sell them both on egg sandwiches on English muffins (with cheese and bacon....yum!!!)  

7:15 am

The ex comes in from the barn and greets the kids.  Daughter runs around screaming like a banshee in delight.  He says something to the effect of "crazy morning," and I respond, "Every morning's crazy."  I find aphids on my new Angel vine--THAT explains the dead ends and general malaise of a plant that has been more carefully monitored than any I've ever owned.  I spray her with soap, trim her up, and feed her (per my ex's instructions).  She already looks happier.  I think.  I hope. 

 7:30 am

Ex leaves.  Kids eat, sort of.  They eat their muffins and pick the cheese off the eggs.  Leave the eggs on the plate.  (Query: Why is it that my daughter devours omelets and won't eat fried egg sandwiches which are the exact same thing with the added plus of carbs?)

7:45 am

Cleaning up breakfast, I notice disgusting wetness in my son's booster seat.  Yup.  Peed in it.  He's potty trained.  I swear.  He was also still wearing a Pull Up from overnight.  You try to figure it out.  I bleach the seat.  The kids do some artwork.  My daughter gets glitter everywhere.  I clean it up. 

8:15 am

Time to dress the kids.  Well, my son.  My daughter (the 2-year old) comes out wearing a striped shirt and a plaid skirt that somehow manage to look coordinated in an edgy non-traditional sort of way.  Without a Pull Up.  It takes five minutes of scuffling to make her understand that yes, she can wear the skirt and yes, she must also wear the Pull Up.  

I go in the bedroom to help the 4-year old and step in wetness on the bedroom carpet.  Yup.  The dog.  My son informs me he watched her do it earlier this morning.  Didn't think telling Mommy was necessary.  Out comes the Carbona 2-in-1 with the nifty applicator (an AMAZING invention, by the way).   I finally get my son dressed. 

8:45 am

Today was supposed to have been a pajama day, as it was the only day this week with nowhere to go.  But since we were all dressed anyway, I decide we should do some singing and dancing . . . while working.  So I put on the motion videos for the VBS I'm directing, and we all sing along with Yancy.  (My son is SO into these songs!  I'm so excited!)  It was very fun! 

9:15 am

My pastor's wife--dear woman!--stops by with goat's milk, eggs, and dinner.  (I feel a little guilty taking the generosity, but I have to say the pampering is like a balm on a deep and painful place inside . . . and I am so grateful to her.)  I do dishes and laundry. 

10:00 am

The incredible Secretary/Treasurer of the RI Ag Council stops by with items for Ag Day at the State House next Tuesday.  My son runs in wearing only a shirt and his Pull Up.  I no longer care where his pants are. 

10:30 am

My children are so tired and cranky that it defies description.  I put them to bed for a morning nap knowing my daughter will sleep, my son will not, and I will miss out on the afternoon collapse I had been looking forward to.  

I email my editor with story ideas, email a couple farmers about interviews, book one, call my mom to try to figure out childcare for next week which already requires three days of "working" on my part.  (I'd like to know what exactly I'm doing all day every day if not "working," but that's another blog altogether!)  

11:30 am

My son, who didn't nap, gets out of bed and wants lunch.  I make him and me roast beef wraps.  We drink goat's milk . . . with a little Ovaltine for kicks.  I clean up lunch. 

12:15 pm

I am in the kitchen.  I hear a crash in the living room.  Wailing.  This is not good.  My son is on the floor holding his face.  His brand-new glasses, 26.5 hours old, are on the floor with one arm broken off.  I hold him and examine his cut eye, swollen nose . . .all else seems fine. 

What happened?  I didn't even have to ask.  He'd been doing headstands and flips on the couch all day.  I had been scolding all day saying, "Stop doing that!  You're going to get hurt!"  Mother knows best.  I text the ex and tell him about the glasses.  NO EPOXY this time.  (Dr. Waterman cautioned me against doing that ever again!)  Fortunately, I had wisely kept the formerly-Epoxied pair as a spare . . . I didn't expect to need them quite so soon.  

1:00 pm

My daughter wakes up and wants lunch.  I make her a roast beef wrap . . . and goat's milk with Ovaltine.  She eats the lettuce, 1/4 of the wrap, and some roast beef . . . she says.  I continue doing laundry. 

1:30 pm

There's a break in the never-ending rain--are we living in England or Oregon or something?  What is this gloomy, cold, wet miserableness????  I pack up the kids and we go next door to give our neighbor their mail that had been left in our mailbox 2 days ago.  Our "we can't stay long" lasts about 2 hours.  The kids are happy, though; they get to watch Curious George and The Cat in the Hat.  

3:30 pm

There's another short break in the weather.  The kids run around while I pull Norway maple seedlings out of my garden.  My other neighbor, who I have not seen in days due to my crazy schedule, comes to the fence.  We chat. 

4:30 pm

The rain begins again.  Wet kids, wet dogs, and wet Mommy get into the house.  I heat up delicious supper from wonderful wife of the pastor.  We eat.  The kids clean up their toys.  I help them into pj's.  They brush their teeth and feed the dogs.  I do more laundry.

6:00 pm

We three snuggle on the couch and watch New Friends for Thomas.  

7:00 pm

I read the kids their Bible story, we pray, and sing, and I tuck them in.  I put off "working" to write this blog.  

8:00 pm

I finish my blog and begin working on the display for Ag Day that needs to get printed before next Tuesday.  Oh yeah, and the brochures, too.  Oh, and posting my post on social media, and ...

Cream-Colored Ponies and Crisp Apple Strudel

I find it funny that sometimes the best days end terribly and the worst days end beautifully.  Yesterday was the first.  Today was the second.  I won't go into why today was a hard day--the people involved would not appreciate the fame--but it was a grueling, emotionally-exhausting, heart-breaking day.

My kids fell asleep in the car on the way home, snuggled in their pj's.  When we arrived, I woke them up and herded them to the house, my daughter stumbling into things and my son whimpering.  I zipped them out of coats, slid them out of sneakers, and tucked them into bed in under 2 minutes.

It was when I put my daughter's hand-crocheted afghan (thank-you, BJ!) around her that it happened.  She snuggled on her side, rounded her back, and sighed the contented sigh that only the really tired and really young can make.  I thought, "This is one of my favorite things."  And it is.  I love watching my sleeping babies, snuggled in their specially-made afghans from great-grandma and great friends, knowing they are happy and safe and at peace.

And so I began to think of my other favorite things.

Shaggy dogs, whole bodies wagging in ecstasy as we come through the door.  (Not to say I don't sputter and nudge and exclaim, "For goodness's sake . . .let us in the door!" but I love them just the same.)

Sunshine.  Any sunshine.  Winter sunshine, the blinding glare off the snow making you forget it's below freezing.  Spring sunshine, heating up the house as it streams through my storm door.  Summer sunshine, warming my pool and the ocean so we can actually enjoy swimming in them.  Autumn sunshine breaking through storm clouds, scattering double rainbows around the house.

My children playing together.  Laughing.  Making up stories about Sharptooth and Woody and Sharky and Snappy.  Sharing.  (Yes, it does happen that way.  Sometimes.  Rarely.  For a moment.  And that moment is delicious!)

My sister.  Anytime.  All the time.  Happy, sad, frazzled, jubilant, bored, busy . . . whatever moods we are in, it's good to be together.  I, at any rate, am always better for having been with or talked to her.

My whole family.  They're all crazy.  I'm crazy.  We often drive each other crazy.  And for some unfathomable reason I am crazy about them and wouldn't want to be without any of them.

Weed-free perennial gardens.  This is one thing I like about spring.  You can do a hard weeding once a week and keep the gardens looking pretty sharp.  Come summer, that's a whole different ball game.  I can't keep up with weeds for love or money then.  Of course, I have neither love nor money, so maybe this year I'll have a chance!

Heptacodium miconioides.  I have to thank my ex for that.  (I can call him that, right?  It's time.)  He planted two of these elegant trees--one in the front yard and one in the back--and they have become one of my favorite plants.  They are gorgeous all year long.  White, peely bark in the winter, tiered green foliage in the spring, white flowers in the summer, and red "fruits" in the fall.  Truly the perfect tree. Picture a tree nymph.  That's them. 

Published articles.  Okay, guilty pleasure, but I'm nothing if not honest!

And that leads me to you, my blog readers.  You come from ten different countries (so far!) and a good number of you visit Storm Songs regularly.  I know you are all busy with your own lives, and the fact that you make me a part of them is very humbling.  So thank you!  You are a gift. 

Shrunken Head, Expansive Heart

Almost a year and a half ago, my husband and I started seeing a fabulous husband and wife counseling team: Dr. James and Christine Schwarz.  I know what you're thinking: how fabulous can they be?  You're getting divorced.

True.  They were not able to help us save our marriage.  They are, however, doing a bang-up job of helping me. (No small feat, I might add!)  Because of them I am finally beginning to understand:

• I am not responsible for all the evil in the world . . . not even all the evil in my immediate circle!
• I am not responsible for making the whole world happy . . . not even those in my immediate circle!
• I am responsible for my own happiness and fulfillment . . . my husband, friends, parents, children, strangers on the street are not.  
• My best really is good enough . . . even if I fail.  God Himself does not ask me for more than that; why should I ask it of myself?  
• God's divine mark on me is a spirit of joy, excitement, and effervescence.  Starving or disdaining that part of me is, at best, unhealthy and, at worst, sacrilegious. 
• Every feeling is given to us for a reason, and we should embrace them, identify them, and use them to either enjoy our present condition or change it.  
• I am not a victim--of my parents, my spouse, my children, the President of the United States.  
• Life is a dance.  I can't necessarily change partners, but I can always change the dance.  
• God's grace and mercy towards my children is greater than my ability to mess them up.  
• Stepping out in faith and watching God be God in my life is the most intoxicating thing I've ever known.  

Why had I not figured these things out myself after four decades on God's green earth?  I ask myself that regularly.


The only answer I can come up with is that the human mind has an incredible capacity to ignore truths that it finds too uncomfortable--or too confusing--to confront.  HOWEVER: I have also discovered that the human mind has an eerie ability to heal itself.  For a surprising number of psychological pains, the mind knows both the underlying cause and the cure.  We just need to give it a chance to do its work. 

Of course, if that work can involve sandboxes, ogre-princess figurines, friendship, and prayer, so much the better!

Of Jesus, Gems, and Double Chocolate Cookies

Today I went to visit one of my "gems."  Through the years I have been blessed with an undeserved abundance of amazing friends: these are my gems.  They are the truly priceless treasures that have made and continue to make my life so rich and delightful.

When it comes to precious stones, Rhoda is a pearl.

Rhoda and I are connected in a variety of different ways, and today we reminisced about most of them.  She is, to begin with, a cousin . . . distant, but blood nonetheless.  (Half of North Scituate is a cousin in one way or another . . . that's why I married a guy from Cumberland!) 

Her cousinhood is never the first thing I think of, though.  In my mind, she is one of my spiritual grandmothers.  We attended the same church throughout my childhood, and she has left an indelible print on me.

For one thing, she is truly the kindest woman I have ever known.  I have never heard her raise her voice or say a harsh . . . not even a remotely critical . . . word about anyone.  She has an amazing ability to see the good in everyone, no matter how little good there is to find.

Combined with this is her love for everyone, and I personally have always felt surrounded by it.  When trying to describe her to people I have often said, "As a child, I always felt she could walk in on my brother, my sister, and me setting fire to the sanctuary and somehow find a reason why it wasn't our fault."  (Disclaimer: None of my family would ever consider setting fire to the sanctuary!  We all loved our church!)

Now with most people, it would be hard to stomach so much sweetness.  I don't know about you, but I don't usually trust people who are perpetually happy . . . kind . . . gentle . . . good.  Chalk it up to my own wickedness, but I tend to think they're hiding something.  Rhoda is different.  After knowing her nearly forty years, I can vouch for her authenticity.

If she were to read this--which she won't unless someone prints it and sends it to her because she doesn't have internet--she would put up her hand as if to deflect the compliment and say, "That is the work of Jesus!"  And again, she would be completely sincere.

For Rhoda loves Jesus.

Rhoda, whose grandson is my age, still leads 5 Bible studies a week, often using a study she and I compiled with others from our church decades ago.  Rhoda doesn't just believe in telling others about Jesus, she believes in growing others into Jesus.  She is the true definition of a disciple-maker.

And Rhoda prays.  In fact, while I was sitting at her table sipping peppermint tea and munching on the best double chocolate cookies I have ever tasted, she received a call from the prayer chain, took the message, and then called the next person on the chain.

Now, I know Rhoda is not perfect.  I have not personally seen any of her flaws, but because she is human I know she must have them.  She, like us all, faces problems that challenge her trust that God can provide.  Yet trust she does.  Like the man who asked Jesus for help, she (and I!) sometimes cry, "I believe!  Help me in my unbelief!"

I think I am compelled to write about her today because I would like to be more like her.  I would like to be more generous in my assessments of people . . . of myself, even.  I would like to be more unselfish, unstintingly giving of my time and resources, even when there is no hope of reciprocation.  I would like to spend more time in what really matters . . . sharing Jesus with a world that so desperately needs him (and doing a better job of living like someone who has been saved by His grace).

I don't think I will ever attain that, but spending time with her sure gives me motivation to try.  If nothing else, maybe I can get her to share her cookie recipe with me . . . !