The blue angel story continues...

   After long time away, I hope to revive the blog again. So hear goes my first attempt at its resuscitation.  

   A year ago, our spiritual lives were turned upside down when the congregation we have attended for most of the past 26 years imploded.  I cannot go into detail about what exactly happened without talking negatively about people that I love, so we'll just skip over that part.  But as a result of said implosion, we have ended up at a new church, in a new county, with all new people, and under a new denominational flag.  When we decided for a fresh start, we apparently decided to fully embrace the "go big or go home" phrase.  Some people have accused us over leaving "the church."  Instead we left "a church" and decided to spend some time at "another church."

   Yesterday we had a picnic with our new church family.  Monte Santo park was alive with the beauties of spring- clear blue skies and cool breezes with the sunshine full of the promise of coming warmth.  While enjoying the day I talked with a gentleman who had a few questions about our travels to Western Europe and also my writing.  Since these are two of my favorite subjects, I was thrilled to talk!

   During our discussion we made our way round to how John and I ended up at St. Andrew's church. I told him about my broken heart after Angie passed away.  I explained that I was so lost and needed something, but I didn't know exactly what it was.  When John would go out of town I would venture around to visit other church families.  One Sunday I ended up at St. Andrew's.  I knew I would like the place when I saw they were named after the patron Saint of Scotland and had a Scottish flag on the sign.  When I walked inside the first thing I noticed was the large Celtic Cross at the front of the building and then a blue angel stained glass window.  If you aren't familiar with the story of my connection with the blue angel, just scroll down through my previous posts.

   As I told him about my love of the blue angel stained glass, he told me that he himself had commissioned the window in memory of his beloved wife.  As he researched an angel image to be made into a stained glass window, he found a lovely image he connected with, but the angel's dress was red.  When he went to the artist studio to pick out the colors he wanted for the piece, the artist didn't have any reds.  So he had to pick out a different color.  He chose blue.

   We both decided after our discussion that the stained glass angel was always meant to be blue. I love connections like this!

 

Airport Jesus

   I dream a lot.  Perhaps its all the medication I have to take now due to Dysautonomia, but the fact remains.  I dream a lot.  Last Thursday was quite a vivid dreaming night, producing a dream I won't soon forget.

   I was in what felt like an airport.  People were walking back and forth in front of me, as it looks while in a concourse setting.  I was trying to make my way across the flow of people, but there were so many that I just couldn't seem to break into the crowd.  I felt a man come up from behind me, grab my arm and talk to me in my right ear.  "Just follow where I lead."  I couldn't see the man speaking to me because he was behind me.  Honestly I was a wee bit creeped out.  But with him holding my arm, he guided me safely across the mass of criss-crossing people.

   On the other side of the crowd we were in one of those convenience store shops, the place to pick up a last minute newspaper and soft drink.  I found myself standing at the cash register waiting in line, but I didn't have anything in my hands to purchase.  I looked up at the person at the cash register and it was Jesus.  I don't know how to explain how I knew this, but I just did.  I was looking at Jesus.  I got so excited I started pushing through the people ahead of me, knowing "I have to get to him." I was in sheer panic mode fearing I would not be able to reach him.

   Next thing I know he was on my side of the counter and full-on, body press hugged me.  I felt him from my head to my toes.  And he was laughing a lovely, smooth as syrup, belly laugh.  He kept saying in my ear as he hugged me, "I'm here, even when you cannot see me."

   I cried telling John about the dream the next morning.  I cried telling my ladies class about it yesterday.  I'm crying as I type it out now.  I pray the feeling doesn't wear off.  I feel loved, cherished, and safe.

   God is good.  Jesus, come quickly, even if its only in my dreams.

The Election Season Thus Far

   I'm a political junkie.  The direction of this country means a great deal to me.  I believe my vote is a reflection of who I am morally and spiritually.  Back when this political cycle began, I laughed when Donald Trump stepped into the race.  But "Mr. Brash and Uncensored" touched a nerve with people, especially the ones who are disappointed with the past 8 years.  I could see the reason people were falling in line behind him.  But the creepazoid made my skin crawl. 

   I'm a conservative through and through.  I believe God gave us all brains and we don't have to depend on the government to tell us what to do and/or think.  I believe if American churches did their jobs in the community, we would have no need for governmental social programs.  American churches have grown lazy and prejudice.  Some don't like messing with "those people".  They don't like having to welcome people very different from themselves into the church fold.  If people come to the door of the church knocking, we've become much more likely to send them to the social security office for food stamps than we are to take them to the grocery store and assist them with what they need.  Actually talking to the person in need and loving them is exactly what Jesus would do.  

But I digress.  Back to this election cycle. 

   So we whizzed through the primaries and it was a joke.  The debates got nasty and at some points downright inappropriate.  The primaries were nothing short of a circus.   What I've come to realize is that the circus is a direct reflection of the American public.  We are sinful, chaotic, uncensored, prideful, prejudice, and morally defunct.  Therefore here we are a month away from the general election with two candidates that are a joke, a flat out joke.  

I have not watched their two debates for a few reasons.  
1.  I don't enjoy the feeling of supper creeping back up into my mouth.
2.  The debates are past my bedtime.  Seriously, I have slept through them and most of the ballgames that are on past 6 o'clock pm.  Call me old.  I care not. 
3.  Listening to either of them makes my blood pressure rise into the danger zone.  With Dysautonomia that happens far too often anyway.  I don't think its healthy to watch them speak while knowing it may kill me.  
4.  And last but not least....how shall I put this.....  THEY.ARE.MORONS.  

   If you read one of those trashy 50 shades of something books and are offended by Donald Trump, you are ridiculous and hypocritical.  If you have ever reprimanded a child for lying or hiding anything and you support Hillary, you are ridiculous and hypocritical.  If you believe that anyone in this country with the need for a security clearance wouldn't have been fired and possibly jailed for doing the things Mrs. Clinton did, you are also a moron. If you believe that a president should be trusted, this is your election cycle to skip.  

Lets just take a look at the Presidential Oath of Office, shall we?  
 I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.
   
  The very first phrase requires that you must trust their word.  Donald or Hillary?  Hello? 

   Now the interesting part.  They are swearing they will do all these things to the best of their ability.  With Hillary and Donald, that is a pretty low standard.  I'm a 50 year old, over weight, chronically ill woman and even I could jump over that standard.  Donald is good at starting businesses, going bankrupt, building buildings, getting married, degrading women and lying.  Like I said, "Creepazoid."  Hillary is good at helping hide her husband's sexual abuse of various women, deleting and sharing classified emails, doing what she was told was against the rules of proper government, lying, making decisions that have killed innocent people, and in general being a political whack job.  

   Their main job according to this oath is to hold faithful to the constitution.  When is the last time either candidate said something about the sacredness of the constitution to this nation's heritage and future?  Hmmmm?  Do you think either of them have even read it?  This process thus far has been a "Saturday Night Live" version of a serious subject.  

   Some of my most trusted political friends have encouraged me to remember the Supreme Court when voting this year.  While its a good point, my question is this.  Do we really trust that either of them would actually do what they have promised during the election season? As far as I'm concerned, I have seen no evidence that either of them is trustworthy.  Donald Trump might select Donald Duck as a supreme court nominee for all I know, regardless of who is listed on his website.  He has never held any kind of office that gives us a useful background to know how he might react in the future.  

   I have always looked for candidates I can vote for instead of candidates I'm voting against.  In this cycle, neither candidate is worthy to be voted for.  They should both be canceled out.  

   Some say we just have to hold our nose and jump into the election pool choosing the"lesser of two evils."  Think about it.  The lesser of two evils is still evil.  I can't be a part of that.  Unless something drastic happens, I will be using my beloved American freedom to refrain from voting for President this November.  I never thought I'd see the day.  But alas, here it is.  I cannot and will not align myself with either of these candidates.  I love my country, but this whole mess makes me embarrassed, sad, and dreadfully concerned for our future.  

  I'm not encouraging you to do the same.  But I do encourage you to prayerfully consider what God would have you do.  
   

Peach Ice Cream

Angie was an ice cream-aholic.  She always had several kinds to choose from in her freezer.  We made countless u-turns in various cities to go back and have a wee bite of ice cream at a shop we almost missed.  Angie didn't need a special day to have ice cream.  Just drawing breath was reason enough to have a cone or bowl.

I'm working long hours trying to finish this book.  I'm filling in plot holes, adding conversation, and enhancing descriptions.  If I had known how difficult this would be, I might not have attempted to write my first novel at fifty years old, especially considering where I was emotionally when this project started.

When I started seriously writing this book, Angie had been gone just over a year.  I was suffocating in the depths of sadness.  C.S. Lewis once wrote, "Why did no one tell me that grief feels so much like fear?"  Indeed.  I was terrified in this new Angie-less world.  I began doing what I always do to work through things.  I wrote.  In the beginning, writing would bring up grief in tsunami sized waves that felt like a rising fever threatening to consume my body with the infection of despair.  Nausea caused cold sweat to linger on my neck. My eyes would burn from crying.  Some times I wrote blind because tears hid the computer screen or journaling page.   I couldn't catch my breath as my lungs moved against the jagged edges of my broken heart.  I never imagined that I would respond in this way. A dear friend who has gone through too much grief advised me, "Go through it.  Don't go around it.  If you go around it, you'll just have to work through it later."  

I've worked through my grief in all the ways one should:  With a counselor, through prayer, with my family, journaling, etc.  And still after 3 years and 2 days shy of 6 months, my heart breaks afresh on some days. Today is Angie's birthday.  Yep, my bestie would be 50 today.

This morning I've tried to imagine what we might have done today.  Shopping?  That's what we did on my last birthday celebrated with her.  Have supper?  We did that many times.  Talk on the phone?  Yep, most likely so.

I've decided today I will celebrate my friend's birthday with some ice cream.  Seems appropriate don't you think?

Angie, I miss you so much.  I think I always will.  I hope when Jesus calls us up into the air, I can be there to meet you with an ice cream cone.











 

Warm Crayons

   

An excerpt from my writing this morning.  This will be in the first book of the "Echo in the Veil" series.     

   This strange, unbelievable adventure began a long time ago in Mrs. Cox’s classroom on the last day of sixth grade.  It had been a terrible year for me.  I felt trapped in the gap between being a child and a teen.  I still played with my Barbies in the afternoon after school.  But I was ashamed of it and would have melted in denial had anyone my age ever figured out my afternoon activities.  The boy on the bus I secretly fawned over was fawning over someone who was not me.  My body betrayed my childish, Barbie loving self.  I started my period that year and was prone to days of weepiness, soothed only by boxes of chocolate covered raisins. My mother bought me something called a training bra.  After all these years I have discovered the little flimsy, lace bra was obviously not training my breasts to grow. I wanted to wear makeup, especially shimmering, silvery, eggshell blue eyeshadow like I had seen on the girls of "Charlie’s Angels."  But my mother, being a wet blanket to my slowly emerging womanhood, said there would be no makeup for me, at least not until seventh grade.  

   In those days we had no air-conditioning in public schools and so our stifling hot classroom smelled of warm crayons, preadolescent sweat, and cafeteria pizza.  A small boy named Lucas sat in the desk across from me.  He had very pale blonde hair and eyes that reminded me of a rabbit, all pink rimmed and prone to water.  Sara sat on the other side, but two seats behind. She was a pudgy, blonde haired girl with the most beautiful, big blue eyes I had ever seen.  We sat together during lunch and on the playground.  We were not a part of the cool crowd so no one bothered us. We talked about Sean Cassidy who starred in "The Hardy Boys" and discussed the opening ice skating sequence on the previous week’s “Donny and Marie” show.  We had even spent the night with each other.  

   During pre-texting days, we had another means of communication, very prehistoric by today’s standards.  We passed notes.  On the last day of school, soon to be seventh grader, Sara moved toward the pencil sharpener and slipped a piece of paper across my desk.  I caught a whiff of her Love’s Baby Soft perfume as she walked past and the paper skidded to a stealth halt on my desk. She had drawn a large sunflower and in her beautiful, round handwriting the words, “To My Best Friend.”  From that moment our fate was sealed.  We would be best friends for better or worse, until death parted us. 

   Had I known how the adventure would end, the only thing I would change would be paying more attention to details.  Over the years I learned love echoes in the details.   

Curiouser and Curiouser

My adventures through June have been numerous.  I have written and written some more in preparation for the Southern Christian Writers Conference.  Someone asked me at church last week, "So what is the point of a Writers Conference?" There are at least three reasons I go.

1.  It's good to be with people of your tribe.  I have writing friends, but we don't ever get to be together as often as I'd like.  At a writer's conference, I get to be around people who "get" this side of my life.  They understand the struggle, the passion, and the craziness that live inside my writer's brain.  I like being around my tribe.
2.  In each class, I always learn something new.  It is a goal of mine to learn something new every day.  I want my brain to be active and creative.  I want to stretch my brain muscles as far as I possibly can. I simply don't want my brain to get old.  I turned 50 this year, so that seems to be an issue with me. I know my body is getting old, but inside I feel the same as I did at 18... only smarter.
3.  At conferences we get to meet literary agents and publishers.  THAT is the main reason we go to Writers Conferences.  Doors are open at conferences that might never be open otherwise.
*In the interest of total transparency, I must also add that getting to stay in a hotel room by myself is an added bonus.  I adore my family, but I adore them more if I am allowed some alone time now and then.  Here is a funny for you.  All alone in my hotel room, I had the opportunity to sleep later than normal.  Anastasia and Brigid (the main characters in my novel) woke me up at 5am wanting to talk to me.  I tried to shush them and go back to sleep, but they refused to be shushed.  So alone in my hotel room at 5am on a Saturday morning,  I got up and wrote.

At this particular conference, I made a few new writer friends and I met a literary agent that I really, really like.  Now I'm hoping she really, really likes me!  I sound like middle school girl fawning over the most popular boy.  But seriously, the relationship between an agent and writer is very personal.  The agent is made aware of all your hopes and dreams. You deposit those hopes and dreams into their (hopefully) capable hands, along with your precious baby book.  Then you hold your breath hoping the agent can open the doors to publishers, eventually leading your book to be published for all the world to see.  I am hopeful after our interview.  I will keep you updated.

*

I turned 50 this year, but that doesn't make me feel as old as my youngest son turning 21 yesterday.  I no longer have a teenager and now both of my children are "legal."  I honestly do not know how this happened without me noticing.  I tucked my wee boys in bed one night and BOOM!  They are men.  Amazing.

*

June also seems to be doctor month for me.  All my specialist get to see me for my official yearly visits.  My visit to the Autonomic Disorders Clinic did not go well.  My blood pressure was up extremely high and they were quite concerned.  My sweet doctor changed my meds and it is much better.  With Dysautonomia there may be no apparent reason for the increase in pressure.  Instead it is likely a misfiring of the autonomic nervous system telling your body to do something that it should not.

*
In an earlier time in my life, I was absorbed by politics.  As a professional photographer, many of my clients were candidates and officials. I am a constitutional conservative which means I will vote for the most conservative candidate on the ballot.  All that said, I am not happy at all with the current political landscape. If feels like we've fallen down the political rabbit hole with no hope of finding home.   Things get "Curiouser and curiouser."  (My favorite quote from "Alice in Wonderland")  All I know to do is continue crying out to God for guidance on what I need to do with my vote.  He will provide an answer, so I encourage you to pray along with me.

I leave you with one more favorite "Alice in Wonderland" quote.

"It would be so nice if something made sense for a change."  Amen to that.

Dressing on Memorial Day

Yesterday was Memorial Day here in the states.  Its a time to honor and think on the sacrifices made for this country.  Its a humble remembrance.  Most folks also think of it as the first day of summer.  Every year that I can remember, it has been a time for grilling out and celebrating with family and having fun. 

This year we did things a bit different.  Two of my bestest best friends, Ginger and Lily, are away on a cruise celebrating Lily's recent graduation.  Ginger's husband, Lily's dad, and  John's buddy, Mike did not go with them. 

Ginger, Lily, and Mike are our regular Sunday lunch buddies.  I have no idea how long this has been going on, but it is a rare occasion that we are not together for Sunday lunch.  Oh the conversations that have happened over Sunday lunch!  Over the years we have built a very tight relationship.  Mike is like the irritating brother I never had.  I love my brother from another mother dearly, but don't tell him.  Ginger and Lily "get me" like few do.  They are both only children and so we understand the quirks that come from being an "only".  Lily has battled Severe Aplastic Anemia twice and is my medical rock star.  Ginger teaches high school students so she is a miracle worker. 

Back to Memorial Day...

Since Ginger and Lily are out of town, we invited Mike over to have supper.  In the recent past, Mike and I discussed our shared bafflement over the fact that few serve cornbread dressing except for Thanksgiving and Christmas months.  Mike is like me and my Daddy.  We all love cornbread dressing.  At my folks house, my Daddy and I fight over who gets the left over dressing. 

During our dressing conversation, Mike told us about his love for cooked cabbage and squash casserole.  (You see where this going.) 

With all this in mind, yesterday for our out of the norm Memorial Day gathering, we served my sausage and cornbread dressing, squash casserole, cooked cabbage, mac and cheese, purple hull peas, cranberry sauce and marinated cucumbers. 

It was awesome!  Mike, my mom-in-law Hazel, my folks David and Wanda, John, John  David, Adam, Bekah and I gathered to celebrate summer with a Thanksgiving feast.  Oh and we had Guinness chocolate cake swimming in a pool of Bailey's Irish Cream Chocolate Icing. 

If you read this Mike, I love your stinkin' guts.