Makes Me Wonder

 Sometimes I just sit in my little chair at my little desk with my internet all fired up while I think about things that have nothing (or very little) to do with reality whatsoever. I mean, there's no place I would rather be than inside my own head. I could spend days on end there if I could just find a way to earn money while I hang out and swim in the glorious pools of my imagination. I could visit the land of Heather, my beloved Scotland.  I could and would be an ambassador of sorts for those who couldn't dig deeply into the folds of their own brains. Through me, they could travel, instantly, spontaneously, excitedly, oh so very sensually vividly.  The crimson laced clouds floating aimlessly as they melt into deeper azure skies; glancing back to see if someone is following me, I hope he is there. I hope he remembered to bring his kilt. (He doesn't actually have to wear it really, not if he's willing to give a grin or two while he removes it.) I won't tell anyone.

    My mind allows me to escape at a moment's notice. Faster really. I can release reality like it's nothing more than smoke on the tip of a fat brown cigar, burning ash and forever gone. Even the lingering vapors of validity would convey the impression that I was someplace where fairies danced and fiesty weasels whispered in dreamlike woodlands. Who wouldn't want to be with me there? I want to be with me there right now; the only thing holding me back is the fact that I'm about to fall asleep and bid my mind hello for a few restful hours; hours I cherish on a daily basis. I only wish I could be more catlike and sleep more often. Dreams become my playground, my body wrapped in veiled thin ribbons, colors, textures, laces, light. I don't remember being here before, but if this is where I'm going to be I'll remember it so I can in fact return again; another night.

    There are times when I wonder who that man may be, if there will be one, who can release his own mind long enough from fear and fret to wiggle and twist a dance with me through airy breezes cascading from sapphire lifts just before dusk calls the two of us to her breast. Makes me wonder what this poor man ever did to God to serve such penance as to remain with me, and what wonderful peace I may have been mercifully shown for the same gift from Almighty God...my pleasure to be his woman if he will be my man. There is but one. There can not be more. The poor soul must truly be repentant for something in his past to be charged with trying to wrangle my spirit while we tickle each other through the mossy clover on the moors of my mind. Whatever it is that he has committed against our Holy Father, I am grateful. But a dream - - is a dream. 

    Tonight is another night, the end of a summer month, the beginning of another time. Tonight is a genesis of sorts for mind's ardor, for my excitement of what is to be, what is to come, what is to be revealed. Tonight I rest and rest well, I live to draw breath enough to sustain another fantasy full and ripe with the fruit from the valley. I am again able to stare into the darkest of skies to see the tiny pinpricks of light declaring that there is a Heaven I will be a resident there one day; just not today. Tonight I rest and I know that the very stars I gaze upon are being seen far far away by perhaps the man who is wondering if he would ever be given another chance to love. 

    When I am awake I know that there is no one strong enough to be my captain; not at this time. I am a force to be reckoned with; myself refusing to be tamed. When I am ready, when God is willing, there will be a partner to my spinning, there will be one to remove my ribbons and hold me against his form. There will be a man dear enough, strong enough, faithful enough to God to be my everything but not tonight; tonight I dream. Tonight I wonder. I imagine. I smile. 

Photo Credit: Ean Grimm

Homelessness for Children

 I could bore you with all the gory details, the stats on how many kids today are either homeless or without a bed to sleep in at night. I could tell you the numbers, draw your attention to the data, and cause your brain to dull out from overload; but I would rather just get your attention another way. I've been teaching in one capacity or the other since the beginning of the 21st Century. Though it doesn't seem like it. Sometimes it seems like it's been 100 years while other times I barely know I've learned anything at all about the profession. If I'm not learning on a daily basis I feel that I'm falling far behind my peers. One thing for certain that I do know without having to look it up in a book, online, or use a lifeline, is that children who are homeless do not thrive in educational environments due to the very base facts that they are displaced physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, and spiritually. These kids have a greater chance of self-harm than any other demographic.  Look it up. It's real.

    By nature (and perfect design) a child is brought into the world through the same old-fashioned way that every last one of us arrived here. We were either conceived in love or happenstance, but we were conceived and if we're living and breathing we were born. We weren't hatched and we weren't made in a baby factory, found under a cabbage, or brought to the doorstep by a big gangly stork. We were born. We may have been born to good parents; as being homeless does not mean that the people who find themselves in this situation are innately bad, but many are born into homelessness, abandonment, and in a general state of playing catch up from the day they arrived. It's not uncommon in my particular school district where I live, to run across kids who have lived on the streets for more than two years running. Some of the more grounded homeless kids are those who in fact have adapted to their living arrangements, be that as they may be. Some of the more challenging homeless students are the ones whose parents have only recently found themselves under more exigency times, and now they must face unbearable decision making regarding whether or not they can even find a way to get their child to school, to the place where he or she will at least be warm for eight hours, be fed breakfast and lunch, and at least have a roof over their heads for now.  No wonder these kids show up early and leave later in the day.

    A kid without a bed is a drastic thing. Sure, there are families living with other families too, and crowding too many faces into a house, I get that. We see that as often as we see kids living in cars, under bridges, and literally inside the bus stops. Driving to work each morning I pass the same woman and her two young daughters who have made rest at the back of a church; the church can't allow her to come into the building when it's closed, but at least I feel that when it is open they may allow her to wash up, use the restroom and maybe do something for her. I have stopped to talk with her, but she doesn't speak English and she's not willing to get too close to someone she fears could turn her over to authorities. It must be gut-wrenching for some of these immigrants who expose their souls to give their families a new way of life only to find themselves begging for bread and a place to wash their hands each day.  Dealing with issues I've never had to deal with, have really only read about and watched on television; these parents and children walk it, talk it, breathe it, move it, manage it, and when they can't manage it they lose it. I feel so helpless when I realize I can't do much more than pray.

    One of the statistics that just goes right through me is the fact that a homeless child is nine times more likely to fail a grade than any housed child.  A homeless child is displaced usually more than three times during a school year, and each time he or she is displaced, moved around, they lose nearly all of the educational study they may have begun to retain. The new school may not be teaching the same things, or it could be teaching exactly what the child has already gone over, so yeah, they may get that lesson down, but not the one before it which wasn't taught at the older school, but now maybe forever lost and you know there isn't time to go back over the who, what, when, where, why, and how of the "Tell-Tale Heart" or "The Giver" when the real questions sound more like "Where am I going to sleep, what am I going to eat, who is going to try to hurt me, when will this be over, and how do I even cope with all of this?"  

    Interestingly, one of my homeless students told me she was homeless. I think she did this because she understands that under Oklahoma law I must report it to the Department of Human Services, and maybe they can find her a shelter or a better way to cope.  She wanted me to know that even though she wasn't living in a home, more like a tent in the woods (her words) she would read every word of every story because it gave her an escape from her reality.  I couldn't hold back my emotions. I couldn't restrain my tears. We're not supposed to hug the kids really, those days have passed, but I couldn't stop myself from reaching for her and just squeezing her.  I let her know that if she ever needed more books she could take them. If she ever wanted more paper, pens, just anything I could provide, to let me know. You know I'm that teacher that finds a way to sneak an extra bit of string cheese, apple, Pop-Tarts, or something to the ones I know are struggling.

    When you think about the school year starting, and all you can think about is COVID-19 or if the school's teachers or students are wearing masks on their faces, change your thoughts every now and again to the harder colder reality that there are students who slept outside last night without blankets. There are students who eat once a day if they are lucky, and can only really get food at the schools.  Think of the kids who fight for everything they have, which may include the one pair of jeans they wear every day because they just don't have anything else. It is never, and I mean NEVER the kid's fault that they are homeless -- as a society, we need to do so much more, and I'm not talking about just building shelters. We need to build relationships. We need to understand that one terminated father or mother could lead to four starving children who lose it all -- over what? The father or mother may have used their cell phone during work hours to call home?  We have too many issues in this country to deal with to have to be so petty as to release parents from their jobs for lesser reasons.  The consequences are dramatic in most cases.  

    The Bethany Christ Trust, a homeless shelter and social refuge for people in crisis is a great place (in Scotland) helping more than 7,000 homeless people, many of them students, on a daily, weekly, monthly, annual basis.  We need more places like BCT here so kids can go into a safe place to talk to adults, get to know people who care, understand that there are ways to survive drastic circumstances. Through God, through Jesus, through the Spirit, there are ways to share our love and our resources. Until we come to these conclusions we are destined to repeat the strangely routine methods we've used for too long and that have caused so much damage.  A homeless child is five times more likely to succeed with a suicide attempt because they truly want out of their current pressures.  We need to stop that before it becomes six times, seven times, and more. We need to know the signs and be willing to reach out when our hearts are pricked - - will you help?

    Some of the signs that a child is homeless are: 

    They pull away from crowds, lay their heads down to rest more, hoard food, steal money and food, show up to school really early and stay really late. They often wear the same things, but they aren't clean most of the time. They talk about the days they had a house, if you listen to the way they say things you'll understand they are speaking in the past tense. When they had a house. When they were OK.  We should all be a part, or willing to be a part, to end this horrific reality for others. We are blessed.  We are given the responsibility to do more with that blessing. There, but by the grace of God, go each and every last one of us. Literally. 

    

Photo Credit: UNICEF

Let's Have a Real Conversation About Self Worth

 I won't apologize for the content of this blog. This is going to be one of those times when the truth needs to be not only told but heard.  This is one of those times when I speak my mind because it may assist or help others to understand that it really is OK not to be OK all the time. You're allowed to feel down, you're allowed to be upset, you're allowed to be angry about a situation as long as you also take a moment to fully understand and appreciate that even if something is your fault, you are not defined by your mistakes. You are defined by how you respond and what you do after you realize you've made the mistake. You simply cannot beat yourself up over and over again about something you may have been a party to that got out of hand. Own your mistake, yes, but move forward from it, and learn from it. No one has the right to strong-arm you (bully) into believing you are worthless or worth less. There is a difference.

    YOU are a magnificent being in and of yourself. Our God, Himself, made you in such a way as to be uniquely crafted. Not only are you made in His image, but He literally only made one of you. You are therefore the best you out there, and not one of us, no matter who we are, can say you are less valued than ourselves or anyone else. YES...yes, there are those people who live and breathe by trying to one-up someone else and when that person, or a person like that, is married to a person who has a history of PTSD, lower self-worth, or anxiety, it can really be a volatile and vulnerable thing indeed. I am talking very specifically here, and where I know that my friend will read this blog and understand I am speaking about him, this blog is also about others who are too hurt to step forward; thank God my friend is strong enough to allow me to share a bit of his story to help those who live (and have lived) through similar circumstances. Where this story may or may not fit your story to a T, it may strike a chord, or it may ring a bell, and if it does, I want you to KNOW, not think, but to KNOW that there are people out there who will never condone such behavior - - it's not that hard to find us. Look for us! We want to help.

    My very close friend is a man. He is currently going through a divorce that he realizes now is long long overdue. Not one of us, his friends or family, would have wanted or hoped that his 17-year marriage would end in such a manner. He and his wife have two daughters, they raised and fostered another child who is grown now and living on his own. They have started a very successful business together, and when the divorce is settled, he will likely buy her portion of the business out so that he can work on rebuilding all that he has lost over the past few years to her constant abusive behavior and attitude which manifested itself both emotionally and finally (after many years of verbal abuse) into physical abuse. I say finally because once the physical abuse began and (we'll call him John) John could determine that what she was actually doing was wrong, he finally found help through speaking to male friends who he believed would understand.  He was absolutely too embarrassed to tell any of his close friends who were female because what he was going through was quite difficult to express in words that we would comprehend. When He did tell me what was happening, I just stood in my tracks and wanted to cry for him. I wasn't sure if I could even reach out and hug him, or if even that sort of touch would bring back painful flashbacks of what he has been enduring over the past few years as the abuse escalated.

    John is in his late 30's and his wife is just a few years older. She had been married before and claimed to have been abused. John felt that she would be a perfect partner because of her history with being abused, perhaps she would be able to understand his emotional stress (baggage) from being left to fend for himself as well as to try and defend himself against an accusation that labeled him undesirable as far as society was concerned.  He wasn't actually guilty of the crime he was accused of, but through low self-worth, he confessed to something he didn't do in order to protect who he thought loved him. Not only did it leave him with a permanent criminal record, but his character was also scarred as well, making it very difficult for him to be employed if he was to be around money, children, or older people who needed specialized care.  Because his degree was in Music, John wanted to teach and become a music minister for a church. Those dreams were flushed when he admitted to a crime his partner had committed.

    When he met his wife she seemed ideal.  She was pretty, young enough to still want to start a family with him, and she even suggested that he stay home and raise the kids. She had a son she was raising, a foster child who was 7 or 8 by this time. They began a modest life in a modest house, in a modest part of England where he was rarely questioned about his past.  Things were rocking along rather well until he wanted to bring more of his own personality to the forefront, which of course meant she would need to take over some of the house duties. Her argument was that she already "brought home the bacon" and she felt that she was cutting him a deal by "allowing" him to be unseen and under wraps. Isn't that what he wanted? Why was he trying to be more now? After ten years she had grown to understand that his role was at home while hers was in public where she would be honored and praised for all of the hard work she was willing to do, all of the sacrifices she had to make because he was apparently not capable of bringing in a decent income with his past haunting him, literally dogging him, and biting at his heels constantly.  It's just that John had found a way to put his past behind him, over time, and now he wanted to let the world see his talents as a writer and singer; couldn't he have the best of both worlds? Wouldn't she as his partner and wife want him to achieve more? He thought so, but he was mistaken.

    There were highs and lows, ebbs and flows, ups and downs, and when I tell you that I heard about every one of these events I am being 100% honest with you. I listened to John, I talked with his wife. I watched them, I asked questions. I prayed for their marriage. I prayed for their singular hope of becoming one again, being strong enough to work through it. Both of them were Christians, I wanted the best for the girls mostly. Having to hear mom and dad fuss and fight constantly is just no way to live, they say the children are always the victims, and where that's true, John was certainly hurt pretty hard.  

    I would say it started with lies about him at the office. She told family members he would say or do things he never said or did. These were things he would not likely ever be told about, but the looks were unmistakable and the comments at times, were just a bit too telling too.  She had obviously begun expanding on those stories, maybe exaggerating just enough to garner a bit of pity for herself. Isn't that the standard game plan?  Eventually, it came down to John realizing that he was being lied about and he stood up for himself a couple of times, only to be slammed back into his hole of depression and anxiety when the two were alone at home and she was literally blaming him for why they couldn't have nice things, go on fun vacations, or keep a bit of money in savings. He was always to blame, it was his fault for not working, not bringing in enough money, but if he worked they would have to find daycare for the girls, and it would all wash out in the end. These were the years that he was needed at home, and with COVID and lockdown, there was absolutely no way he could go out and get a job making enough to cover daycare when the girls were home from school!  Lockdowns caused a few couples to focus in on what those vows actually meant. No one expected for better or worse to be worse. Not really.

    Those vows we take are real.  For better or worse is not optional. It is what it is. For richer or poorer is gut-wrenching when poorer shows up, and then couples are expected through Christ to cherish too! What? I mean yeah, cherish is sort of thing.  How many actually fulfill that one on a daily (hourly) basis after years of marriage? Most couples struggle to meet eye to eye on finance, sex, raising children, discipline, school work, housekeeping, jobs, religion, and politics.  I know my own parents were rather unique in this manner, I can honestly say that my daddy worshipped the ground my momma walked on, and she, to the day he died, breathed his air as if it were her own. They were in love; but they were not without issues, arguments, troubles.  I will tell you this openly, my daddy never laid a hand on my mother, and she would have never dreamed of hurting him either.  John's wife never met my parents, and apparently, for her, it was acceptable to slap his face from time to time when she was upset. After the face came the punch to the stomach, and after she got away with that enough times, she punched him in the groin so hard that he was sent to the E.R. TWICE.  

    My eyes well up when I think about it.  My throat begins to close when I imagine the pain that both of them went through to get to the point that they could harm the one they promised to stand beside come what will, come what may.  It took eleven hard, long, agonizing months of abuse before John began sleeping separately, and another year before he finally broke down and began making plans to leave his wife.  Not being the breadwinner, he had to plan a way to escape without losing his children. He had to find employment, be able to obtain, maintain, and manage his own apartment, but having never had a place in his own name before, that was not an easy task. He didn't have any family to help. One of our friends co-signed. I couldn't as I wasn't in England. I wanted to. I sent money because money is all I could send.  (and love of course)

    John's history of self-hate kicked in, but he was such a pro at wearing the mask of civility that we were fooled for such a long time. He would say he was fine. He and his wife appeared at parties, online, in photos, memes, comments, you name it, they looked perfect -- that was the goal. They pulled it off, and no one was the wiser, but everyone was the loser in this scenario.  No one comes out smiling or smelling like a rose when abuse is the flavor of the day over and over again. My God, and I mean it, MY GOD, I am thankful that John stopped his madness and was strong enough to put an end to his anguish.  His suffering was longstanding, it was overt, it was covert, it was detailed in his prayers but not to anyone who would have beaten back the jungle to find a way to help him. I can't imagine the sorrow his heart created for itself having to suffer for so long alone. Literally alone because he didn't want anyone to know of his defeat.  He placed the blame of it all on himself. This is so typical of those who have been through such terror; it's a vicious incredible cycle that can't stop if someone doesn't seek help. We didn't know his wife was secretly drinking, staying out late with "friends" and gambling online.  He hid those facts to protect her, trying to get her the help he felt she needed. All the while, every time she screwed up, somehow it was his fault. 

    Oh, I beg you. I plead with you, and I implore you to please ask for help if someone is hurting you or making you feel as if you are to blame for something they are doing but they are too much of a coward to let you stand on your own.  I pray you will seek God's help, man's help, friend's help, church help, some sort of real help to get out from the quagmire that can cause you to conjure imagines of yourself being less than what you are - - YOU ARE AWESOME!  If you haven't done so yet today, please thank God for your existence. I don't know you, but you being here is glorious, and we are all connected somehow. If you weren't here we would all be less -- you make us more. You fulfill us. We are all subject to being hurt. Let's all be willing to stand up and help when we can. 

    That really is all I have to say about it - - except that I am so proud of John for realizing that even though he has put 17 years into this relationship, he doesn't have to continue it if it means he is forced to be held back and put down for having his own opinion and desires. He is truly a hero to me today. God made a really good one when He made John and when the rapture comes, and you're up there - - you'll find him someday, he'll be the one smiling, knowing that God never makes mistakes, and John (and you) are proof of that fact. 

Photo Credit: Psycho2Go

    

Southern is as Southern Does

 So, yeah, it may just be a Southern thang, but I do put melted cheddar cheese on top of my hot homemade apple pie. Don't get me wrong, if I have to buy the pie from the store, I'm still slicing off a chunk of good old sharp cheddar and sticking that puppy in the microwave.  (Please don't write to me asking me if I stick puppies in microwaves.)  I love my apple pie, and yes ma'am, yes sir, I do love my cheddar cheese on top of it. I know, you can do ice cream alongside it too if you want to, but it needs to be vanilla. Some days call for chocolate, I understand that fact, but not apple pie with cheddar days. You need to get your Southern book out for that one and maybe highlight the paragraph that talks about it, maybe dogear the corner of the page so you can find your place when you need to show your friends.

    Now that I think about it, maybe I should just go off and write an actual book about Southern thangs we do, and why is it that we do them. We're not uncommon, not rare, just Southern, and we do things. We don't always ask why we do things, but we know why we do them - - we do them because our mommas did them, and we do them because their mommas did them, and you never argue with your granny, not if you know what's good for you. So, if you're Southern, and you mind your granny, you do what she and your momma do and did and you just shrug your shoulders a bit to explain it. You can even roll your eyes as long as neither one of them is looking at you when you do it. Make sure you turn your back when you roll those eyes, and check to be sure your little cousins aren't watching too closely. 

    Southern ladies are apt to just say some of the craziest things you've ever heard come out of a woman's mouth. One minute she's sweet as strawberry cream fillin' and the next she's sharper than a brass tack glued to a chair seat. You're gonna feel it when she snaps at you. God save your ass if she ever shakes her head and calmly tells you everything's fine - - it ain't fine. Walk away, don't turn your back, just walk away.  My Southern roots feel a bit deeper now and then, especially when I reach for a garden hose to get a drink and cool myself off from working the horses. I may just jump in their water trough with my boots on; it's easier to do that than to walk back to the barn with socked feet and picking up stickers along the way. Leather dries. 

    I've even been known (from time to time) to cuss a man up one side and another for not fixing whatever it was that I paid him to fix, but then turned around and talked to him at church that next Sunday as if nothing ever happened. He knows what he didn't do. I know what he didn't do, then when it comes time for me to talk to Jesus and say I'm sorry for cussing at the man, I tell him I have to talk to Jesus but when I do I'm going to tell Jesus the truth about what happened and why it was that I had to lose my mind for a second. I usually get an apology out of the man and a promise to come back and do the job right because he knows I'm likely to ask Jesus to put him on his ear for stealing my money! If I had to be honest about it, I'd tell you that Jesus already knows both sides to the story, and He's used to me explaining things before I get around to asking for forgiveness; He made me. He knows me.

    I wasn't born in a posh upper-middle-class family where I was sent off to boarding school to learn how to be proper and to say things in such a way that my point is made with gentility and quaint precision. No, this woman is a Southern woman, and not just a Southern woman, but I'm from the Great State of Oklahoma, where it can confidently be said that I am a football fanatic, love my Sooners, swear and cuss by them, and if I don't like what's coming out of your mouth I may open up my mouth to not only add a couple of cents worth of my opinion, but I'm likely to adjust your skull and bend your ear backward until you see things my way -- again, being a woman it's probably going to end up being my way anyway - - and then I'll probably ask you if you've eaten yet, and tell you that dinner is at six. I'll even let you know what I'm cooking! Yes, I will expect you to be there if I let you know I'm cooking, and yes, I do expect you to eat whatever it is that I make. That's another Southern thang; but yeah, it's a good thang.

    Most Southern women are good-hearted women, long-suffering, quick to get a little pissy (not drunk, but upset) and we're likely to call you a fool, thump you on the head, or simply shake our heads and say "Bless your heart"   It's all the same thing -- you're an idiot, we know it, you know it, now the world knows it, so either straighten up or get the boot. We're into boots here too, they may not be pretty and all dainty like, maybe some of them even have a little stink still left on them from cleaning a stall or two, but it's better to be kicked by a boot anyway than one of those stiletto heels, right? I would think so. That all being said, you should know that being a Southern woman in these days just is not (ain't) the same as it was back in the day -- we're sort of losing our touch if you ask me.  Used to be a Southern woman could stare you down and give you the stink eye and you didn't have to ask what was going on in her pretty little head - - today I've seen idiots ask her to let them know what she's thinking - - mind you, it takes a fairly good-sized fool to do that. 

    If you're only been around women from up north of the Mason-Dixon line, and you're not understanding what I'm saying, do yourself a favor and come sit a spell down South. Grab a chair on the porch, sit back, and enjoy momma's sweet tea with maybe a buttered biscuit if she's got any left from breakfast. Pour a little honey on it, and just listen to the ladies talk. You don't have to chime in if you don't want to, just listen to them jabber on about what it is that caught their attention, what they did during the day, what Sunday's sermon had to add to the way she decided to handle herself, and let her sweet drawl just lure you into knowing you're going to be OK soon enough. We get over whatever it is that got over on us pretty quickly - - that's another really really good thang about Southern women, we know how to hold a helluva grudge if we need to, but most of the time we let it go - - if you stay out of our kitchens. (Stay out of our kitchens)

    

Rapture Ready?

 With the new developments in the geopolitical world today, and by today I literally mean TODAY, there are some real reasons to look up; our redemption is drawing very very nigh.  The Rapture of the Church is a yet-future event, one of those things that the Bible is adamant about, but not really all that clear.  There are passages leading us to it, describing something but not fully stating with great detail exactly what it will seem or look like. You hear people say (in a form of argument) that the Rapture of the Church is not Biblical, or that it is modern preaching. This isn't true, and where I can prove that, I'll not waste my blog doing so. I'll just state that I know of at least 5 (five) stories in the Bible that show evidence of followers of Christ being separated from those who are not followers, and those beings being saved or protected while the others suffer.  One such story is the story of Daniel. It's no wonder we look to the Book of Daniel to couple it with the Book of Revelation when we discuss End Time(s) events.

    Daniel was spared while he was in the lion's den, but that's not the same "saving" as when he was taken from the "boys" and separated from them when they were charged with worshiping King Nebuchahnezer. The fact that Daniel was taken away prior to the boys being thrown into the furnace (a furnace that the Bible mentioned was 7 times hotter than usual; seven.) Shows a TYPE of Rapture of the Church, meaning that Daniel was spared the event of the furnace; the boys were saved in the middle of it, but did have to go through it. Jesus Himself stood with them, and they are a symbol of Israel going through the Tribulation. There are many other events showing a prior-to-punishment separation which is a TYPE of Rapture event. Let's not get bogged down in that right now, let's talk about how the fall of Kabul and future events will lead to the actual Rapture of the Church.

    Kabul, Afghanistan has fallen. It's not a secret that the United States has pulled out of the region. We can blame the Trump administration, we can blame the Biden administration, and we can blame the world at large. Let's stop for a minute to reflect on what the Bible has to say about these political events that take place at the END OF TIME so we can better understand the next steps that lead us to the taking away of the RESTRAINER (those of us who have the Holy Spirit in our souls) and what will occur at the time of the departure, and immediately following; both in Heaven for us, and on Earth for those who did not accept Jesus as their personal Savior. Yes, this is real, yes, this is happening, and no, I'm not crazy. Remember, I was called a conspiracy theorist a long time ago too; and now I'm a consultant for so many of my friends and family who can finally (FINALLY) see the dots being connected.

    Kabul is just step one.  Taliban (bad guys) take over, and we (not necessarily the good guys) aren't really stopping it. In fact, to the chagrin of many millions of people, the U.S.A. is simply washing our hands of a two-decade debacle, and moving forward (or backward as in retreat) but we are getting out and staying out of world police work. It's cheaper they say, and the liberals in charge of it all seem to think that is what will help our country focus on more domestic situations. What will happen now is that Taiwan will fall to China.  Syria will fall to Iran.  Russia will align with Iran and embrace Turkey, and together they will move to attack Israel to gain the "spoils" or goods that Israel, that tiny tiny little nothing country seems to have in droves. Why is that? Why does Israel always seem to have more than everyone else? Oh, simple answer; God put HIS name on Jerusalem many many years ago, and there's a matter of an eternal covenant that God made with Abraham and his descendants. ETERNAL doesn't mean it will end, it means it will not end.  Russia (though Orthodox) doesn't really agree with the way Revelation is written - - or how it ends. Watch.

    Taiwan will fall.  Israel will be threatened by Russia, Iran, Turkey. There will be a coalition of 10 major countries that come against Israel demanding spoils; gold, oil, strategic land, etc, and of course Israel will say no.  Saudi Arabia will verbally defend Israel without any weapons or force. Nations will rise against Israel, and there will be an incident in Damascus wherein the city is literally struck down annihilated overnight, one night, gone, poof! Sounds like nukes to me.  Whether this event is before or after the Rapture is not clear, but the war that takes place after that event must be after the Rapture according to the Word, so we know we are very very close to the departure of the Church simply because we have the following events taking place NOW, all at the same time the Bible said it would happen.

    COVID-19 and the disaster it has bestowed on the world. The Bible tells us in many verses, but one being Revelation 18:23 that the bride and bridegroom will no longer hear the world, but that the world will be deceived by the "sorcery".  The word "sorcery" is literally the Greek word "pharmakia" which is a word for poison and/or medicine. Think about it, the ENTIRE world was deceived recently by one thing; poison, a medicine, a lie.  The Bible says that at the time of the Rapture there will be earthquakes in many places, volcanoes erupting, rumors of war, specific nations named that will come against Israel, nations that were not in existence when they were written about. People like to say the word "Rapture" isn't in the Bible. Neither is the word "Trinity", or the word "Palestinian".  The Rapture is a concept; the Greek word "harpazo" is the word associated with the Rapture, it literally means to SNATCH UP in a very violent way, in the nick of time, as we like to quip. 

    So many more things are happening and taking place right now as they were spoken of in the Bible regarding the last days, the End Times, the days before the Judgement. As the Bridegroom loves His Bride, He takes her, snatches her way, just in the nick of time, and He marries her, protecting her forever in His Father's house. This is what will happen very soon, and when it does there will be another worldwide lie spread about how this could have happened to so many of us, and people will believe it. They have to believe it, if they don't they are faced with realizing that we nutters were right and they were freaking left behind to suffer the wrath of Almighty God -- which by the way, is exactly what will happen.  

    I can't say "Sorry" because I'm not. I'm absolutely stoked about going. I have been ready for years. I'm one of those Christians who thinks God has waited far too long, but that's my own problem, I am just a bit impatient. I know His time is better and that He will return when He's ready to do so. (Actually, Jesus doesn't even know when the Rapture is, He's waiting on His Father to give the word to grab the Bride!) You can bet He won't waste a full second after the go-ahead has been approved. Bam! We are so out of here.

    What now? Is it real? Sure it is.  Look around. America has to be gutted militarily before the things mentioned in the Bible could take place, and get this, America wasn't here when it was written, was it? Nope! Scotland, England, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, and Australia, nothing was formed at that time that would eventually become America; maybe Italy, but it wasn't called Italy, was it? Rome was there, and boy oh boy, does Rome ever play a big part in all of the End Time chaos with their Pope and the false prophet. Yes, it will be exciting and terrible times indeed - - for those who are left here to deal with it. Get the vax or be killed, get the mark or be killed, worship the leader or be killed, follow the laws and rules, or - - you get the picture. The Sun will become hotter, the wind faster, the days shorter, and it will be increasingly difficult to buy or sell without bowing to the all-seeing-eye-network that knows your every move - - thanks to Big Tech, most of our moves are known now. Spoiler: It gets so much worse.

    So yeah, the next event to take place on God's prophetic calendar isn't the Tribulation. It's the Rapture. It isn't another war. It isn't Damascus falling, it isn't anything. There is NOTHING that has to happen before the Rapture of the Church -- what will they say took place? What will they blame it on? Aliens? An EMP strike? A meteor hitting the grid? Who knows! God knows. POOF...gone. When that happens not only are the Christians leaving, those who are restraining the evil at this time; but also every single child, baby, simple-minded, and those unable to make decisions regarding their own salvation will be taken. GONE.  Just....gone. In less time than it takes to blink your eyes, literally NOT HERE anymore. EVERYTHING changes. Everything on this Earth will change and folks, it won't be for your betterment. It will be their agenda - - or death.

    There is hope.  Jesus has not come yet. You can go to this link, and you can read the simple plan of salvation. You can accept Christ now. The Roman Road is a very simplified manner to explain what you need to do in order to become a Christian. After you are saved, (become a Christian) you'll want to create for yourself a relationship with Jesus and with God, but the first step is to start the journey of asking for forgiveness and if for NO OTHER REASON, to avoid the Tribulation and eternal damnation in Hell. God, nor Jesus, will really care if you're only doing this to not go to Hell. The relationship with Him/Trinity will come afterward - - it's a given. You can't stop the Spirit from drawing you into their Love.

    Thank you for listening -- Go to Twitter and other sources to watch the events unfold. Find www.jdfarag.org online and watch a few videos of the prophecy updates.  Go to www.superiorword.org and listen to a few sermons by Charlie Garrett. All very good sources of learning and living and loving the Lord. This is real folks, and it's happening in our time right now. 

Photo Credit: Christianity.com 

My Pen and I

 "To be honest" is the absolute mantra that I use when recording my thoughts in my journal. I have rarely been shy about allowing others to read what I write, and very rarely have I chosen to disguise what I write for the sake of hiding truths. I would rather someone I love to read exactly what I'm thinking and feeling so that they are not left in the dark. I would rather someone that I love to have access to my soul than wonder about what it is that I'm harboring in my thoughts. Writing the words isn't the hard part, words come out of me l like water from a spout, but there does seem to be a problem at times when people (those few brave enough) read what I wrote minutes, hours, days ago, and they have or take issue with what it is that I happen to be feeling - - should I have lied? Should I have been deceptive? Should I have hidden the journal away? It's not easy to hide over 130 books.  Even if I wanted to hide the latest journal from any and all eyes to read there would be no reason to do it. I am nothing if not transparent. Sometimes brutally. 

    My brilliant, wonderfully intuitive son-in-law Brandon ("Brandola") once quipped to me that if he were to ever come into the room where I am writing, and he sees me with my head down, eyes fixed and pen flying at 100 miles an hour, he knows I'm really upset about something and won't bother me. He does however admit to having gone back to the table where I laid the journal down so he could read whatever it was that I was writing because he wanted to be sure to be aware of whatever it was that was coming down the pike. He said that way he would have been prepared for it had I been angry at him; he could better fix a problem before it grew out of control.  What insight! He's still with us after more than 11 years, so yeah, he's a keeper. He gets me.

    My former husband, a man I have very few amicable words for, was not so marvelous as my Brandola. There was a day, a dreadful and incredibly hurtful day in 1997 when my ex decided to rape my soul before pouring gasoline over it and setting it on fire before the world.  Not only did this man read my journal, and find out exactly what it was that I was thinking of him and what I believed he was capable of doing, he (while I was working) collected over 12 years of my life's writings in over 160 notebooks, and he burned them in the hearth of our home just before my birthday - on my birthday he presented me with a box of ashes and with an incredibly evil smile stated that my writings weren't strong enough to keep the flames at bay. Twelve years. We had only been married a little over 9. He had no right to take from me, from my children, from my legacy, the recorded writings of my heart. Words such as "wicked" and "evil" are deceptively mild for the type of person who would cause such agony to another person simply because of pride and ego. Many insults I have consumed, but I have never recovered from that scarring. 

    Today, my journals are no longer written in composition notebooks. I have taken to going to the local Mardel store to pick up a fine soft-covered book with enough pages to last me about 3 to 3-1/2 months of writing on a daily basis. I wake up, I walk the dog, I make coffee, I write in my journal. Nothing and no one will disrupt my morning schedule - - it is what it is, there will be dog walking, there will be coffee, and my pen will be my weapon, my friend, my recorder, my judge, and often my jury.  There is a disorder called hypergraphia in which a person feels the innate need to write; they have no control over it really, they must write. I am not quite that bad off, in other words, there is no physiological reason behind my urge to pen my thoughts, but there is of course a mental order (not disorder) to the cause and there is an emotional order as well. I want to restore the many years I lost to hatred; I want my children and my grandchildren to know exactly who I am, who I was, and who I loved. 

    I'm not going to lie, I may write something really nasty about someone and I may call them names, berate them, let the world know I want to string them up by their ballsack, douse them in honey, and allow the wildness to take them. I am fully capable of extreme descriptive antidotes that I would want to see (only in my mind at that time) happen to said individual, but nothing I write would be something I would carry out in the real world. I am by nature capable of anger, but not unjustified harm. Jesus is my Lord, He keeps me sane, my pen keeps me balanced, allowing the poison to drain from me in buckets at times; creating a peaceful teeming of restoration of my soul when needed. God did a great thing when He made journals. He knew there would be people like me who just couldn't live without them.

    If and when I die I have decided to allow Laura access to my journals but with the strictest of guidelines and promises not to destroy them. Should she ever feel the need to publish them for prosperity or profit, I would hope that she would be kind enough to share her proceeds with her two siblings; I think she would be amicable to that.  Reuben would probably put them in boxes and store them in the attic never to be seen again.  Caity's kids may be interested in them later when they lose electricity and have no internet to use; they can get a good laugh at how crazy Gramma was; did she really mean to say that about so-and-so? Yeah, she did. That's what she thought on that day at that time. The good news is, and I tell my best friend Jeannie this all the time, if I write something bad about you one day, you should go back the next day and see where I took it back. If I haven't taken it back in a day or so then you know it really is your fault, and you need to apologize. 

    Words have consequences, don't they? The old nursery rhyme "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me"  is such a farce. Words do hurt. Words do mend. Words do separate, and words do bring together. Words can be the only thing that a man or woman have to share between them. Words may be the last thing someone has of another person. Words may be the first thing that a person shares with another person. Words are eternal even when they are forgotten. Even when they are burned. Words are too precious to destroy; but worthy to be revered. 

    When my Grandpa Edwards was passing away he took a minute to tell me that I didn't need to bother looking for the perfect man to marry because the last one was going to see Jesus that day.  He may have been right. Words are given and taken back. Words are etched in our hearts and on our tombstones.  The only regrettable words are the ones never recorded or spoken. 

    

Photo credit: Jude Stringfellow

Rupert, Roger, Murtagh, Oh My!

 Yeah, so yeah, that's me, sitting at my computer watching Outlander and drooling over the men in their kilts, when I glanced over at the other monitor on my desk to see that someone had mentioned me in one of their comments on a Facebook group that I'm a member of. The group is called "Scottish Kilts and Clan History".  Don't laugh at the title of the group, I didn't name it, but to be sure, the comments rarely have anything to do with either men in kilts (which I would be able to discuss all day and at a whim) and there isn't much discussion over clans or history of clans, but there sure is a lot of hot air being blown from both sides of the pond over who has the "right" to say whatever it is that they say in the posts. Damn.

    Those of us who are American, (or we'll say "other than Scots", because the Scottish born don't seem to have a problem putting us into our box when they think we deserve to be placed into it) may venture off on the discussion board with both ignorance and pride waving as boldly as ever.  We are if nothing else, true to our reputation of being know-it-alls because we have watched a few mini-dramas such as Outlander, or maybe we've seen Braveheart a few times; experts all in fact! (giggles)  What I find to be the most amusing is that most of the Scots who are commenting online about our American obsession with DNA tests "proving" we are Scottish, is that most if not EVERY DAMN one of the Scots who call us names for being so obsessed has (often) the same amount of Scottish blood or at times even less, than those of us whose ancestors crossed the seas to make a new life from scratch.  EVERY last Scot, and probably most Irish and English born will in fact be part (upwards of 30% oftentimes) Scandanavian because there was no Scotland at the time the Vikings decided to invade and leave babies with the women they found.  True fact. I'm not really being a completely ignorant know-it-all American at that point. 

    What do we do? What do we do when we see our names being mentioned in the posts on the sites and we feel as if we either need to defend our point of view or make some sarcastic remark in an attempt to bring levity and humor (humour) to the online club?  We do what I usually do, and that's to make a remark about something I know will both spark up another conversation and perhaps drive the negative nellies back to their holes where they belong.  Any self-respecting Scot should realize that nearly every American is an idiot when it comes to all things Scottish, and just leave us to fester in our own stupidity. Maybe they should laugh a bit, drink another Irn Bru, and watch a game of...wait, we call it soccer; they can call it whatever they want as long as they do so while wearing their kilts, stroking their beards, strumming their guitars, and speaking in their angelic brogues. Please, don't wake me up to force me to realize I'm not in my little dream world. I just got here, and I think I like it. 

    The comment that mentioned me was from Kathy B. (a Canadian with over 30% Scottish DNA) she wanted to talk about my preferences in men. What? Finally, finally, someone who wants to devote a sensible minute of time to a subject online that may actually be worth paying attention to. I won't waste my time if someone asks me my opinion about a Free Scotland because (A) I'm not Scottish (B) I can't vote either way (C) My opinion is just that, my ignorant uneducated opinion, and (D) I hate the English government with a passion, so yeah, if I can say stick it to them I will - - no, Kathy B. was asking me if I would rather go to bed with Jamie Fraser or Frank Randall.  WHAT kind of question is that?  Granted Kathy B. probably doesn't read my blogs so she would have NO IDEA that neither the red-headed hero nor the hapless be cockled husband of the Outlander would be of interest to me. Sorry, Sam. You're adorable and all, but no.

    Kathy B. was amused and entertained when I told her that I would rather be caught in the woods alone with Roger Mackenzie than with any of the others; but that I couldn't be with Roger as he was married. I have my standards. If I had made it to Oxford in 1967 I would have snagged Roger before Brianna could have met him, sure, but not in North Carolina in 1770? Nope. OK, so that being said I have a choice to make. Do I find and dazzle Murtagh Fraser (remember Fitzgibbons was his middle name) and put up with his crusty, sour, hardened but loyal manly man self or do I go around the gentle campfire to lure Rupert away from Angus long enough to toss a few twigs and leaves out of their place? Oh...simple answer.  Give me the rounded bearded man every damn time. Sorry, Murtagh, you're so cute, you're so mysterious and sexy, yes, oh, yes you are, but you are no match for the gentle-hearted, good-natured, God-fearing round-bellied man with the beard (and just think if he had been with me maybe he wouldn't have lost an eye, I don't know).  Yep, it's Rupert.  

    After being berated any number of times for my open and honest opinion on that particular site it was great to see that even some of the high-and-mighty born and bred Scots ladies agreed with me on the whole "I-don't-need-Jamie-Fraser" to be happy in my fantasy world. I was surprised that many a lass said they were drawn to the likes of Angus though -- I mean, no.  Sorry. Just no.  So there you have it. One satisfied, fantasizing, happy to be an American with Scottish blood woman just placating the many rude and nasty commentators on both sides of the world - - trying to make heads and/or tails out of what we really mean when we say we appreciate this or that.  Suffice it to say we can all agree that Outlander is fictional but wonderful and even if Lord John, Young Ian, or one of the Beardsley twins suits your fancy - - it's all good.  There are enough Jamie Fraser fans out there to keep Sam Heughan smiling for years to come I'm sure.  Grant O'Rourke deserves a little lovin' too.

Photo Credit:  Outlander (STARZ)

Rupert is on the left.

Hog Tie or Piggin' String?

 Here is just one more example of the varied differences between two regions of the South, here in the United States of America. Some of these differences can be worlds apart, others not so far off, and still, others blend together at times you just can't tell which or who is from when or where. We Okies say things a might differently at times from our cousins out in Tennessee for example. I may say "Hey mom, what's for dinner?" and my cousin from outside of Nashville may call the meal "supper", but you know (and never have to worry) that whatever it's called, there will be plenty of it to go around. If there's one thing we do here in the South (and Southwest) is cook.  (I'm supposed to say "to cook" if I'm being a bit more proper with my English).

    The other day I received an email from a police deputy in Edinburgh, Scotland, the place I dearly love. He informed me that it would be highly unlikely, strongly recommended, and even ordered that I should not try and bring any firearms to the United Kingdom. He wasn't specific about as to why that was exactly, but sent me a fair warning that to do so would mean not only confiscation of my weapons but a possible jail sentence should I somehow make it past customs and actually enter the country with them.  I can't tell you how sad that email made me, but I can tell you that if I do visit Caledonia, I am bringing my piggy.

    You may ask, "What's a piggin' string?"  and the answer is simple.  It's a 4 to 7 foot nylon or hemp rope that's been fashioned with a loop at one end and a frayed knot at the other. The loop is cut and sewn back into itself, held together usually with a piece of rawhide for security purposes because you don't want the rope to slip out of place when you hogtie a cow for branding - - or when you take down a man and hogtie him for whatever purpose you deem necessary at the time. (I would assume that branding would not be a suitable nor acceptable purpose really, but there are legitimate reasons why you may need to subdue a man with a piggin' string now and again.) 

    My cousin in Tennessee informed me this morning that my piggin string was in fact called a "hog-tie" where he's from, and that it only makes sense to call it a hogtie if, in fact, that is what you use it for. My immediate response was that he way very well be correct, but we call our national pastime sport "football" when we mostly use our hands to pitch, throw, and pass it, now don't we?  We call soda "Coke" no matter what brand it is, and we say we "might could" when we know we damn well can. It's a thing - - we're all a bit different down this way. Either way, piggin string or hogtie, it's a nifty little gadget that was created and designed for good reason, has served that purpose well enough, and when or if a woman finds herself in a foreign country without the use of a handgun by her hip, she can rest assured knowing she can at least hold a would-be assailant to the ground wrapped up in a hooey tight enough to bust his balls if he decided to try and wiggle out before the cops could assist with his disposal. It's all good.

    Something else my good cousin would say is a little different between the two of us, and how we were raised. He believes you can't change a horse's name or it brings bad luck to both the horse and the owner. I've never had a problem naming a pony what I wanted to.  When we were growing up here in Oklahoma, before his family moved off to the "far east" as my dad put it, he shot quail and rabbits like the rest of us, holding out most of his ammunition for the later part in the afternoon when the animals were more likely to hover around the creek bed.  I was never into hunting myself, I could never bring myself to shoot an animal even if we were going to eat it -- I can catch a fish, that's not a problem, but to shoot a bunny? No...not going to happen.  My cousin literally lives off the land now. He was telling me how he's been in the mountains so long he didn't even know what Netflix was, and he's not that impressed. Makes me wonder what the next 100 years will bring to this country. Kids today can't walk outside without their phones in their hands but I doubt that most of them have held a fishing pole.

    Yep, I may be the only woman in Scotland carrying a piggin' string on my hip, but I'm sure it will make for good conversation at the Wee Cafe in Edinburgh. Maybe it will catch on, what do you think?  You know, there may just need to be a wee demonstration from time to time as well, something to both entertain the customers and keep my swing in practice. I'm cutting in on a six-second wrap time, but that's nothing to write home about, nothing to brag about, especially if you're from Oklahoma and God forbid, in a rodeo family. Pulling a 6 would be rather embarrassing; wouldn't it?  I count on my charm at that point. If I can keep my calm while I throw, turn, twist, wrap, and pull, long enough to sweet talk the fella into not fighting the inevitable, well, I just might end up improving my time - - we'll have to see what happens.

Photo credit: Jude Stringfellow

DNA Don't Lie!

 They say "DNA doesn't lie", and yeah, I threw in the "Don't" for a quaint colloquial thing, seeing how I may be 30% Scandanvaian by blood, but this girl is 100% Okie!  I am who I am, right? Well, let's go over this damned report I paid for.  I knew when I sent off the money that I would be really hacked off about the end result, but I didn't realize the (b-words) would have added in my ancestors from pre-historic times! No, I'm just kidding about that, but they did add in the relatives from around 1000 A.D., the Vikings! 

    Yes, yes, yes, all is well in Scandanavia today, having the right to claim nearly every soul's DNA who has walked in or around Europe since before water was invented. The Nordic Vikings invaded England. They invaded Scotland. They invaded Ireland. They invaded Wales. It does make me wonder who was there before they arrived, that's one thing I've not really studied much.  Think about it, those islands became the "New World" for many a Viking, but I also think it was more for plunder and gain than hope for a new society, taxation, and/or religious worship.  Maybe history really was written by the literate and the winners of every known war.  The unknown wars and the illiterate don't stand a chance of any of us knowing their story, do they? 

    OK, so my story starts with my two parents meeting, falling in love, marrying, and making a baby; me.  I was born November 22, 1961, and though I'm nearly 60 years old on this Earth, I can't say that I feel even a day older than 20 most of the time due to my inability to grow old. Call it the Peter Pan syndrome if you wish, but I just don't see the need to grow old, and therefore I haven't allowed it in my life. Every now and then my body reminds me of the date-to-remember fact, but for the most part I am just barely out of my teens and hyper as ever, looking for new and adventurous ways to spend my time, my efforts, and of course, my money.  I didn't spend too much on the MyHeritage DNA test. I think I paid $59.00 USD for it, whereas my sister spent over $100 on her Ancestry test over ten years ago, so yeah, things have changed a bit I suppose. We have better and more accurate Science now, and it's a bit less expensive.

    My parents had parents. That fact shouldn't shock anyone. I think where the lines get hung up on DNA is when someone is adopted and they don't tell anyone, this corrupts all the data naturally.  I know for a fact that as far back as my great grandparents there were no adoptions, and through birth records, we have evidence of where my families from both mom and dad came from, but there were a few tricky steps along the way. We had to use military records at one point just before the Revolutionary War, and from that point, we were able to track it back to the original origin of at least that family line. Like every one of my family lines, they all traced back exclusively to Scotland and England. There was no Irish blood, no Welsh blood, nothing other than Scottish blood on Dad's side clear back to 1615, but that boy's parents were both from England, so from about 1600 and beforehand, I am 100% traceable to the Yorkshire area on both my dad and my mother's sides.  

    At least with Mom's side, there were a few wandering Edwards, Free (or Friar) and there is a bit of Manchester blood rolling inside of me, but for the most part, it's Yorkshire way into the 12th century where it stops as far as recordings go. The one record that proceeds that time is unstable and so the family (and me of course) tend to use the 1215 record of a Stringfellow (possibly James) being a part of the court record as a witness in a land dispute in a matter not pertaining to him personally. He was just a witness as a landowner in the area.  He is presumed to be our kin. It is foreseeable that he is/was because his line does match up neatly with Sir Robert Stringfellow, who was Scottish-born, but English knighted, probably out of duty to King Edward. We were given a family crest, which denotes we were at one point, loyal to the Crown. That ended. I would have been a Jacobite, I'm sure of it.

    When I think about it, and I do, many of my ancestors were either privateers, pirates, rebels, outcasts, settlers, revolutionaries, revilers, and/or spies for the rebel side. As recently as the Civil War, my people were spies on both sides of the conflict, my dad's direct ancestors being on the Confederate side, his cousins were soldiers for both sides.  From the English Lords to the Scottish Revilers, my people had difficulties with authority. Perhaps that's why I can't seem to stay employed unless I'm working for myself. It stands to reason; it's in my blood. I'll go with that.  I would, however, consider myself to be more of a privateer than a pirate. I don't do things out of sheer gain, but for the betterment of others and for the establishment of a new good in society.  Still a rebel by their account.

    The MyHeritage DNA test came back today after four weeks of intense testing.  I am (as you can see in the photo) over 30% Scandanavian, but that's simply not true. It is true in that before my people settled in England and Scotland around the years 1000-1050 A.D., I was of Scandanavian blood, but I think the test should draw a line at around 1500 A.D. since records are less apt to be found, and most if not everyone in those areas were in fact from Scandanavian blood - - at least I think so, perhaps I'm wrong. I get it, I am 12% Iberian and yes, there was the one Italian that slipped into the picture somehow.  She was probably a lady, and she was no doubt beautiful, sexy, and creatively wonderful in the kitchen. I think I like her.  She adds spice to my otherwise oatmeal life.

    If you take the 51.3% of my life that is proven to be both Scottish and English, and you add to it the over 30% that is shown to be Scandanavian, you have basically a 99% truth that I am of English and Scottish blood. It's not only 81% because it would by default, claim somewhat of the other as well, and there is a factoring involved that the MyHeritage people gave me to use as a means to distribute the Scandanavian bloodlines if I knew where and when they came from; but as I do not, the basic way to determine it is to do the factoring using England and Scotland as the two more likely countries to have been invaded and to go from there. If I do that I am around 99% English and Scottish, and if I divide it proportionately I would be 55% English, 44% Scottish, .8% Iberian, and .2% Italian, which equals one still very pissed off woman who would prefer that the Crown stay out of my life entirely. (Although I know that isn't possible) Viva la Rebel!

    All that being said and done, my sister has her test, I have mine. Hers showed that we were Nordic, mine says Scandanavian. Her test had a more German influence, and that would make sense considering my grandmother's stout little body and stumpy legs, but it doesn't show to be true in my DNA test, perhaps my sister was in fact adopted. We always said she was, maybe we were striking a chord and mom just didn't want to admit it.  The older I get the more I think it was me who was or must be adopted because I don't really relate to a single family member whatsoever. I just don't. It's as if I'm an island, and to be honest, that is perfectly OK by me - - I would actually prefer that to be honest.

    Well, I can't say that I am happy to know what I know, but I sort of already knew it. I didn't know about the Iberians or the Italian, but there's room for love in my heart -- except for the English, no love there....well, maybe for the Bee Gees; there's that. OK, and scones, tea, lemon curd, and maybe the aeroplane. Did you think it was an American who invented heavier than air flight? No, think again, that my friends, was an Englishman by the name of John Stringfellow, and yes, he is one of ours. I'll accept him. He didn't like England either and wanted badly to move to Ireland. I don't know that he ever made it, but he did manage to get his invention accredited to him rather than the Wright Brothers! (Of course, it was over 100 years after his death that this was made public!) Life. History.  Written, as I said, by those who are literate and those who have influence over others. (and a good publisher)

Photo credit: MyHeritage 

Letting Go, Letting God.

 I feel as if I have already written this blog in the past and it may not have been so very long ago really.  I just feel the need, the draw, and the pull actually to get it out again and to state it as matter of factly so that I myself can benefit from reading my own words and following any direction I may choose to give to myself. I'm truly the only person I ever expect to read my blogs and to possibly follow my good advice. I can't advocate for anyone else really, no one other than myself, but I am the best advocate that I have personally. I work myself over and over again until I believe whatever it is that I'm trying to get across to myself. My head and heart battle over the do's and don'ts all the time. I blame it on the fact that I'm nearly as much Scottish as I am (damned) Engish, and therefore, I can't stand myself at times. Surely I know better than to trust the British side in me; but there I go folly, folly, folly.  It's just such a great thing to know that God is there waiting on me to once again (and again, and again) call upon Him to settle matters.

    Every day I have a daily Bible verse pop up on a phone app telling me this or that, and leading me into either a time of devotion with God or maybe it just reminds me of something I already knew but needed to hear again. That happens more often than not.  Today it was letting me know that a woman (or man) who fears God is blessed. That person who knows and fears God is not only wise but on the right track to being able to literally leave every single issue or burden down and just walk away from it knowing God will take care of it. Today is one of those prayerful, burden-leaving, trust-and-obey days. I'm just at another down-to-the-wire moment, and I have nowhere to turn so what I do is always, always, always, fix my eyes back on God, head for the closet, sit awhile, pray, listen, and talk. I know by the time I get up off the chair and walk out of the closet two things will happen; one, the dog will be waiting for me outside the doors, and two God doesn't stay in the closet. He's with me too. I know this. He never leaves me.

    I have an assignment that I'm having difficulty with. This particular assignment, which I know was given to me directly from God, has been not only burdensome, but increasing frustrating, and it really does seem to be going nowhere. I've been working on the assignment for nearly two years and nothing seems to feel satisfactory to me so I know it's me. I know I'm the one with the problem. I'm not called upon to analyze the assignment, but to do it. Just pray. I'm called upon to pray for one particular person and I may never know what goes on in his life, but I'm to continue to pray and let God have it, whatever "it" is. 

     It just seems from what I see, read, hear, and know, that this man won't let go of his burdens; holding onto them as if he doesn't trust God to take them from him. He won't let go and let God heal him from inside out. It seems as if he's bent on remaining in a bad situation, pretending to be happy, pretending all is well, but all the while the outward signs point (very obviously) in another direction. He's gained an enormous amount of weight over the past year due to stress eating; he's a recovering addict so he has to eat rather than take drugs or drink - - for that I'm happy, but he's just hurting himself over and over again.  There is both heart conditions and Diabetes in his family, so the overweight issue is compounded. This bothers me as where he lives is all but known for their poor diet and lack of routine exercise. The thing is, he's not mine, I can't help him any more than to just pray over him - - which ended up being 50 times a day! (OK that's an exaggeration, but still)

    Well, yesterday I decided to think about, rethink about, and re-pray about those excessive numbers of prayers being poured out of myself for him because I really am not seeing any real improvement and it's causing me to become a bit stressed which can't happen. He's not mine to worry about. I can't have him, he's not mine to keep.  He's literally an assignment. I was minding my own business and God asked me to pray for him. I asked God what I should do now, and what I could do about it, and the obvious and sad answer was to let go.  I mean, I'm not stopping my prayers for the guy no, but I can't get wrapped up in trying to figure out if he's moving in the direction God wants him to go in because I need to move in the direction God wants for me. I am not supposed to try and live the life of someone else. I can't choose what they need to do, I can only pray, lift them up, ask for their protection, seek God's will for them, but then just let it go - - let God do what God does. It's hard.

    After you've been praying for one man for two years and you know he's in extreme pain mentally, emotionally, and now obviously physically, you can't help but crash inside, and I don't know about you, but my heart cries. I literally bawl sometimes thinking that this man, who is thousands of miles from me, and lightyears away really, could ever feel the connection God has given me with him.  He can't. I am not his assignment. He is mine.  It's not an easy thing to explain to people either. People think the way they think, which is usually not the way I think. I'm an ENTJ on the Myer-Briggs test of personalities, which if you don't know what that means, you may not understand my passion or compassion. If you do know that that means you know I'm not about to abandon my assignment.

    I have the man's photo on my desk to remind me to pray for him. When people ask who he is I'm apt to say a friend rather than admit he's an assignment given to me by Almighty God. People tend to walk away when you bring up overtly Christian traits like prayer assignments.  Funny isn't it? Our preachers talk and teach of angels and their feats, but try and tell someone (even another Christian) that you speak to your Guardian Angel and you're looked upon as a freak - - yeah, well, OK, be envious! My G.A. and I have had YEARS to get to know one another. I don't worship Sam, I ask him for advice, and it's always the same. He says "Ask God, not me." 

    Christians are often the worst advocates for other Believers. If one Believer's beliefs differ from another the other won't communicate with the first believing they are heretic or that they are trying to be more pious than others. It's been happening for eons so there's nothing new about it, but it really rankles my insides when I try to explain my assignment to another Believer only to have them say I'm obsessed, or that I'm pathetic to think this or that --- no, what I am is stupid for trying to explain my walk with Christ to someone whose walk isn't continuous because if they had a continuous walk with Christ they too would have an assignment or two and they'd understand rather than being harsh, rude and unnecessarily hurtful.  

    Believe me when I say I would not be able to tell even my assignment that he is my assignment, without backlash and hard words from him. He's normal like that. Though he is a Believer he would likely feel that his wife is the one called upon to pray for him. Well, hello -- if that's the case she can have you! You're not the easiest man to pray for, but since she's NOT praying for you, I guess God had to find someone else. (OK, sorry, I had to get that out)

    Well, God has given me the go-ahead to let him go and to walk away to some degree. I am able now to not hurt and not cry as much when I realize that even his own wife and mother don't pray for him daily; not his friends, not his father, not his children, not even those who "follow" him or listen to him. They are just that, followers. He is not at the core of anyone's heart and that is my burden, a burden I don't understand but accept. God placed him on my heart - - to carry him and I will. I just can't get as close as I did, allowing my heart to care more than it really has a right to do. I am to pray. I am to watch. I am to listen, but I am not to want. I am to remember that God never told me to keep him, just to lift him in prayer for wisdom, protection, his addiction, and his emotional/mental state - - and let it go. Pray - and let it go. Let go, damn it, let go. It's not easy to do. 

    Agony of agonies. I wish it was that simple, but his eyes hurt and they are so full of compassion for many. His heart breaks, and it is full of despair from years of self-abuse and self-hate. I have never experienced that; having always been with a loving and caring Christian family and in loving and God-fearing fellowship from the day I was born - - so blessed. My prayer remains fast. I won't change that because I won't fail my order from God; but I am now having to depart from offering even the slightest of empathy because it returns void to me and sears me like a hot iron; I give but it is not being accepted or returned by him, which I have to remember is not the assignment. God accepts my prayer. 

    God accepts and returns my hope.  Why do I have to be so damned human? Wouldn't it be so much easier to just have a good old-fashioned Rapture and be done with this? My problems, his problems, all gone. There isn't a single problem that either of us or for that matter any Believer, that the Rapture can't and won't cure. Let's do this. Let's go Home.  Until that moment God, I thank you for my charge, and I promise to let him be yours to correct, yours to direct, yours to protect, and yours to administer love to. I will just do what I'm told to do - - because that's the only way I know. Trust and obey.  

Photo Credit:  Moving Forward Matters

ONE YEAR AGO!

 August 3, 2020, I woke up and had a really hard time going through the daily routine I had found myself in, but I was determined to go through the routine anyway. I wasn't working, I was on unemployment just sort of waiting to be called back to teach, but after the 1st of August you sort of think maybe you're not going to get the call to show up to teach anywhere. I wasn't surprised, not after the last time I was terminated as a teacher - - it wasn't my first time, but to be honest with you, again, it wasn't my fault. These facts don't seem to matter much to employers or administrators at various school districts when they go through the resumes to determine if they want to bring someone onto their roster who has a history of being terminated over and over again for being (get this) too ethical. Truth is so much stranger than fiction.

    A year ago I woke up, I was having so much difficulty just walking around my apartment, getting around to taking the dog out to do her business, and going back up the stairs to make coffee and settle in for an hour or so to write in my journal, read my Bible, and just commune with God. Why was it so hard for me I wondered? Well, as it turns out, and the answer may not really surprise you, I was fat.  No, no, there's no need to sugar coat it, I was just simply fat.  I'm not body-shaming myself, I am simply stating a fact. My BMI was out the roof - - I was 5'7" (give or take) and weighed 216 pounds. 

    Not only was my weight higher than it should be, I hadn't been exercising or even swimming due to the COVID restrictions and just plain laziness on my part. There's no reason to try and make excuses for me, I was just out of shape, overweight, and in a mess of trouble when it came to doing what should have and was a fairly easy set of daily tasks. This day, August 3, 2020, was the day I realized something had to give, and it was absolutely going to be me to do the giving.

    I have always been disciplined with myself and able to take orders from my head to my heart. I'm not a shy person, I'm not introverted, and I have never been accused of being weak-minded. I didn't pussyfoot around it, I looked at myself, made an evaluation based on facts, and then I sat myself down and told myself there would be changes. I began planning to plan, and when I say that I mean it. My plans don't come about on a whim even if they may appear that way to some. I am more if not always more effective when I make a detailed plan to follow. My plans have the standard Plan A model, but I always include a Plan B, Plan C, and usually even a Plan D. In this case there was no alternative plan. I was just going to make myself obey my every demand and command - - and I did.

    Diet and exercise are part of a good program, but I know from experience that losing weight and getting in shape is far more emotional and mental than it is physical. I began where I always begin, inside the closet where I pray so I could ask Jesus to make me stick to my plans, and to remind me daily of His will in this matter so that I didn't overdo it, so that I didn't push myself too hard, so that I wasn't overly judgemental of others who I knew would continue to tell me that I didn't need to lose "that" much weight, maybe just tone a little. NO. I was fat. I was about 70 pounds overweight, to be honest, and that's before the toning. That's just weight.  A normal or good-sized woman at 5'7" should (according to the Mayo Clinic and other medical sources) weigh between 140-155 pounds. I was 216 pounds, so that's literally 61 pounds over the standard high-end. I could lose 70 and be in the middle of the acceptable weight table. The goal became 70.

    As the old saying goes, the wheels turned ever so slowly for me. Yes, at first I dropped water weight and I dropped the weight rather quickly as I was engaging in exercises that my body was not accustomed to doing. I was fasting, eating less calories, cutting out carbs, cutting out sugars, and doing what I knew to do without going full-Keto.  I didn't want to do a specialized diet program. I wanted to do something I could handle, stick with, and feel good about supporting it mentally and emotionally. I had to allow cheat days. I needed to have those times when I just had a burger at Braum's Ice Cream Store and know that would be OK. I wasn't the bad guy for wanting to be normal. It worked.

    Well, I say it worked. I am now one year from the day I woke up in such a state of mind and shape. I have lost 44 pounds, but I'm not where I want to be yet. Sure, I'm wearing clothes that are a great deal smaller than I was wearing last year and in fact, I haven't been down this low in several (maybe hundreds) of years, but I am not where I want to be and that mental stage of this existence is hard to deal with at times. I look in the mirror and I am not quite happy. I am happier, sure, but I'm not there yet. I have a goal, I will work and meet that goal. I'm not overbearing, just realistic and I refuse to compromise. I think it's best to stay focused and do what needs to be done without accepting compromise or defeat. I'm getting there. It's happening, and I'm so very grateful to God for keeping me on track and not letting me give up during the dreaded plateaus....which, by the way, are WAY too often. Let me just say that right now.

    Do I have another plan to make the last bit of weight drop? Sure I do. Of course, I do. I am the Queen of planning and implementing said plans. I am my own best soldier. This will happen, and in fact, it is happening today. I'm asking God for direction, I'm following that direction. I'm fasting intermittently and I'm eating correctly. I am exercising, working out, swimming, lifting weights, boxing, punching the daylights out of my weight bag, and I'm walking every day. I walk over 6000 steps combined with a workout and/or swim, and yes, I do still have the occasional cheat day. It's just too important to do that for yourself. You can't just go full steam and not burn out - - it's impossible.  So yeah, maybe in 3 months or so I'll hit the goal weight I want, begin my maintenance plan, and work on the next phase of my life, which is to be really strong, look 20, and be a full-time author. (giggles)

    Believe me when I say I will make it happen, but it's not really me. It's God. I could not, would not, will not, and shall not, do anything without His help - - "because He lives, I can face tomorrow." For that, I am literally eternally grateful. 

Heavier

Now.