This is the first year apart from my family on Christmas. The boys and Shannon are in Chicago, and I am alone. No tree. No stockings. No music.
But in my mind, I picture them resting with visions of sugar plums in their heads. My wife has left me, but I am with her in my mind. Holidays can be "hollow days" without the family. They are my reasons for the celebration. Nothing else seems to matter much. Being left behind in a dark, quiet trailer isn't my idea of Christmas.
I sure wish I had a story to read to my boys before tucking them in. I sure wish I could slide in next to my wife tonight.
I sure wish I could wake to the excitement of Christmas with them.
In my mind, that's where I am tonight.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Does Time Heal All Wounds?
I am startled at how easily I can cry. Christmas music is everywhere this time of year. It makes me incredibly sad. I miss being with my family. I miss watching "Rudolph" and "The Grinch" and "Frosty the Snowman" and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and "The Little Drummer Boy" with my kids. All the classics I grew up watching.
My wife set up the tree and decorated it without me this year. Our annual family tradition didn't include Dad.
I don't have a tree in the lonely single wide trailer.
I don't have any Christmas deocorations. Maybe I'm a Grinch, or a Scrooge. Or maybe, I'm just broken hearted that I can't have anyone to decorate for.
I miss my wife. I miss holding her hand. I miss how she used to throw one of her legs carelessly over mine while we watched TV.
God, I'd do anything to feel her leg on mine again!
You know that saying, "Time heals all wounds?" Well, it's not true.
"I miss how she used to throw one of her legs carelessly over mine..."
My wife set up the tree and decorated it without me this year. Our annual family tradition didn't include Dad.
I don't have a tree in the lonely single wide trailer.
I don't have any Christmas deocorations. Maybe I'm a Grinch, or a Scrooge. Or maybe, I'm just broken hearted that I can't have anyone to decorate for.
I miss my wife. I miss holding her hand. I miss how she used to throw one of her legs carelessly over mine while we watched TV.
God, I'd do anything to feel her leg on mine again!
You know that saying, "Time heals all wounds?" Well, it's not true.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tricked out of Treats
I heard a startling news report the other day: 70 percent of parents admit to stealing their kids' Halloween candy. 70 percent! What kind of society are we living in? You know what that tells me?
That's right, it tells me that 30 percent of parents are LIARS!
That's right, it tells me that 30 percent of parents are LIARS!
Monday, November 7, 2011
Woman's advice
My friend is going through a divorce after 17 plus years of marriage. Sounds familiar.
She shared that if only her husband would pay attention to her; she would have stayed in the marriage. "He acts like he doesn't care," she said. "If he fought for the marriage, I wouldn't have filed for divorce."
She heard my story, about how my wife wants nothing to do with me, but unlike my friends' hubby, I want to fight for the marriage.
She offered an idea.
"Send her flowers at work. Leave a note that says, 'I'm sorry.' "
If only my friend knew how many times I'd said, 'I'm sorry' to my wife. Each apology makes her harder and more cold.
But, if a woman going through a divorce says to give my wife flowers, maybe there's something to it. Maybe shared bitterness among women is universal. Maybe flowers really do melt the hard heart.
I found a nice fall bouquet with lillies in it. My wife loves lillies.
I called the floral company back to make sure they had been delivered. They had.
A day went by. No mention of the flowers by my wife. I went by the house. Nothing.
Two days. Three. A week.
Ten days later, my wife came home from a one day surgery. I noticed she had flowers from co-workers and the church.
"Hey, whatever happened to the flowers I sent?" I finally blurted.
She hesitated. "I gave them to someone else," she said flatly.
She shared that if only her husband would pay attention to her; she would have stayed in the marriage. "He acts like he doesn't care," she said. "If he fought for the marriage, I wouldn't have filed for divorce."
She heard my story, about how my wife wants nothing to do with me, but unlike my friends' hubby, I want to fight for the marriage.
She offered an idea.
"Send her flowers at work. Leave a note that says, 'I'm sorry.' "
If only my friend knew how many times I'd said, 'I'm sorry' to my wife. Each apology makes her harder and more cold.
But, if a woman going through a divorce says to give my wife flowers, maybe there's something to it. Maybe shared bitterness among women is universal. Maybe flowers really do melt the hard heart.
I found a nice fall bouquet with lillies in it. My wife loves lillies.
I called the floral company back to make sure they had been delivered. They had.
A day went by. No mention of the flowers by my wife. I went by the house. Nothing.
Two days. Three. A week.
Ten days later, my wife came home from a one day surgery. I noticed she had flowers from co-workers and the church.
"Hey, whatever happened to the flowers I sent?" I finally blurted.
She hesitated. "I gave them to someone else," she said flatly.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Bizzare Conversation
He sat across from the Pastor and his wife took a seat nearby, avoiding eye contact .
The silence proved too awkward, so the Pastor spoke.
Pastor: Well, *Joey, why don't you just become a prostitute?
Joey: (swallows, taken aback): I ... I guess I have no desire to become a prostitute.
Pastor: How many women have you chatted with online?
Joey: (Thinking) In the past 12 years? Maybe about a thousand.
Joey's wife hides her face with her hair.
Pastor: Why should she stay married to you?
Joey: She has her own mind.
Pastor: Do you want to stay married?
Joey: Of course. I love her!
Pastor: I don't advocate divorce, but do you see why she has every reason to divorce you?
Joey: That doesn't make breaking up a home with four young boys the right thing to do.
Pastor: I'm trying to retire. I need to reduce my case load. I don't have time for you. I'm sorry for your situation.
(Good thing this session is free ... he couldn't save a marriage if he tried!)
Pastor: You have a gentle attitude, but I'm not sure of your motives.
*Not his real name
The silence proved too awkward, so the Pastor spoke.
Pastor: Well, *Joey, why don't you just become a prostitute?
Joey: (swallows, taken aback): I ... I guess I have no desire to become a prostitute.
Pastor: How many women have you chatted with online?
Joey: (Thinking) In the past 12 years? Maybe about a thousand.
Joey's wife hides her face with her hair.
Pastor: Why should she stay married to you?
Joey: She has her own mind.
Pastor: Do you want to stay married?
Joey: Of course. I love her!
Pastor: I don't advocate divorce, but do you see why she has every reason to divorce you?
Joey: That doesn't make breaking up a home with four young boys the right thing to do.
Pastor: I'm trying to retire. I need to reduce my case load. I don't have time for you. I'm sorry for your situation.
(Good thing this session is free ... he couldn't save a marriage if he tried!)
Pastor: You have a gentle attitude, but I'm not sure of your motives.
Pastor: I'll walk you two out.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Alpha Male
That's been my theme for a year and change, so I clicked on it. Each page of the ad lured me in. Some guy who authored some material on saving marriages, from a guy's perspective. It made sense. I read the words on the screen with him, nodding in agreement.
Okay, okay, now for the catch. How much is he trying to sell his marriage salvation material for?
Hmmm. $197. Not bad. Worth a try, especially if what he says works. Money back guarantee. Okay...
Bought it. Read it. Riveting stuff, though simple. Good testimonials. I think I have hope again. Basically, the idea is to re-capture the attraction your wife once had for you by not being a wimp. Standing up to her and then loving her brains out when she complies. The author says its the kind of man the romance novels epitomize.
So, be that guy. Be the Alpha Male she wants to lead her and protect her and the children.
The weird thing is, the woman always tests the man to see if he is Alpha material. She tries to "beta-ize" him and make him subservient to her. He usually becomes beta-ized because he's tired of the drama she dishes out.
But ultimately, her desire for him dwindles if she successfully beta-izes him. She wants an Alpha who will stand up to her.
I get tested the very next day after reading up on it. My wife is on the phone, ragging me out about something she wants me to comply with.
I don't react (per the book).
I state my case and leave it at that.
She calls the cops.
The cop doesn't know why he's there. "I got a call," he says. I show him my ID. I really am the poor sap who's wife called to have him removed from her property.
He leaves. I leave.
I feel good about standing up to her. If this is how to win her back, it's gonna take awhile, but at least I have my dignity.
Monday, September 19, 2011
I shoot people for a living
Think what you may, I get paid to shoot people.
I walk into crowded restaurants, four or five nights per week, and shoot them. My style is to go down the row, booth, by booth, table by table, taking the same path, shooting everyone I can. If someone is on the cell phone, I leave them alone. Or if I know them, sometimes I let it pass. But almost everyone else gets shot. I make them sit close and smile when I do it. I shoot them in the face.
I shoot women, children, old people... I shoot more children in the summertime and more older folks in the fall. People prefer I shoot their children and sometimes ask not to be shot.
I grant their requests. After all, there are plenty of other folks to shoot.
After I shoot them in the face at close range, I return to where they sit and take their money. Not a lot. The most money I've ever taken from one table is under $70. I usually get $8 a pop. Sometimes $16.
But it's enough to make it worth my while and come back to do it again.
I walk into crowded restaurants, four or five nights per week, and shoot them. My style is to go down the row, booth, by booth, table by table, taking the same path, shooting everyone I can. If someone is on the cell phone, I leave them alone. Or if I know them, sometimes I let it pass. But almost everyone else gets shot. I make them sit close and smile when I do it. I shoot them in the face.
I shoot women, children, old people... I shoot more children in the summertime and more older folks in the fall. People prefer I shoot their children and sometimes ask not to be shot.
I grant their requests. After all, there are plenty of other folks to shoot.
After I shoot them in the face at close range, I return to where they sit and take their money. Not a lot. The most money I've ever taken from one table is under $70. I usually get $8 a pop. Sometimes $16.
But it's enough to make it worth my while and come back to do it again.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
September 1, 1991
Today is September 1, 2011. Twenty years to the day have passed since that day in St. Louis. We'd been together the night before in Kansas City, enjoying a Labor Day Weekend festival. Little River Band was on the stage. There was magic in the late summer night air. There was magic in her voice, in her smile, in the smell of her hair.
After experiencing the experiences of young love on the west side of my home state, we headed for the east side and took in the St. Louis downtown fare. I took my VHS camcorder and recorded her smile, her sweet voice, the surroundings, the Gateway Arch, the crowds, the kids playing under the spray of water released from a fire hydrant.
It was my time for young love. Twenty years ago today.
I dug out the old VHS tape with the date on it "Shannon Sept. 1, 1991" and played it again today, to remember, to the day, what I had, 20 years ago.
Our lives blended into a marriage less than two years later, and then came the boys... four of them. I treasure my times married to you, my darling. My sweetheart. You used to say to me, "Honey, sweetheart, love of my life..." It was when you wanted something from me, but it was cute.
I miss you, dearest.
My heart is as heavy as a rock today. Remembering what I had, crying over what I lost.
After experiencing the experiences of young love on the west side of my home state, we headed for the east side and took in the St. Louis downtown fare. I took my VHS camcorder and recorded her smile, her sweet voice, the surroundings, the Gateway Arch, the crowds, the kids playing under the spray of water released from a fire hydrant.
It was my time for young love. Twenty years ago today.
I dug out the old VHS tape with the date on it "Shannon Sept. 1, 1991" and played it again today, to remember, to the day, what I had, 20 years ago.
Our lives blended into a marriage less than two years later, and then came the boys... four of them. I treasure my times married to you, my darling. My sweetheart. You used to say to me, "Honey, sweetheart, love of my life..." It was when you wanted something from me, but it was cute.
I miss you, dearest.
My heart is as heavy as a rock today. Remembering what I had, crying over what I lost.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Half her age ago
Now, she's 40.
Half her life ago I became her boyfriend. I remember... 20 years ago this month, the fading of summer blending into the freshness of a new school year (for her, the junior year of college). I was an old, established guy of 25 pursuing a career in journalism with a youth pastor gig on the side!
I remember we'd only met once, in June. But I felt like I knew her real well. After all, I called her every night to be sure she remembered who I was. Calls usually took at least two or three hours to make sure she was doing well.
I'm sure "Ma Bell" didn't mind, in those pre cell phone days of long distance rates. I even got her her own private telephone line, so she could avoid the scrutiny of Christian college co-eds clamoring over her calls taken on the public phone in the dormitory hallway.
She boarded later with a college professor's family, literally retreating to the solice of a closet to ensure privacy during our intimate talks.
Half her age ago, my wife-to-be considered me her hero. My words mattered.
What matters most now to me is how to be her hero again WITHOUT words, but with actions.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
A year ago
A year ago my life was normal.
A year ago my wife and I slept in the same bed.
A year ago I rode in the same vehicle to church with my family.
A year ago I didn't know the horror that lurked around the corner.
A year ago I was days from disaster and didn't know it.
If I knew a year ago what I know now, I would change everything about everything to make everything better.
A year ago my wife and I slept in the same bed.
A year ago I rode in the same vehicle to church with my family.
A year ago I didn't know the horror that lurked around the corner.
A year ago I was days from disaster and didn't know it.
If I knew a year ago what I know now, I would change everything about everything to make everything better.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Elevator
At work there is an elevator. You can choose UL (Upper Level) or LL (Lower Level). Not much of a choice. Not much of a ride. But it gives me a few moments alone. I have learned I can cry or release a sob of anguish and recover as if nothing's wrong before the doors open. I've got it down to a science... timing my grief just long enough to get the effect of my anguish without jeopardizing my feelings in public.
Sometimes, it's just the simple things in life where private meets public life that makes it all worthwhile. The ability to release the grief into the atmosphere unobstructed and unobserved in a public place where I spend much of my time.
It's almost a naughty way of saying, "I can cry at work if I want to. I can think about you if I want to. I can be insanely sad if I want to and you can't stop me with your new life of separation from me."
Just me and my elevator. Who would have thunk such a simple device would create such solace, albeit brief and sporatic?
Perhaps if I had a longer elevator commute, my grief would develop to the unbearable stage. As it is, the brevity affords insulation from debilitating breakdowns and the cumbersome climb to stability and normalcy which follow.
Sometimes, it's just the simple things in life where private meets public life that makes it all worthwhile. The ability to release the grief into the atmosphere unobstructed and unobserved in a public place where I spend much of my time.
It's almost a naughty way of saying, "I can cry at work if I want to. I can think about you if I want to. I can be insanely sad if I want to and you can't stop me with your new life of separation from me."
Just me and my elevator. Who would have thunk such a simple device would create such solace, albeit brief and sporatic?
Perhaps if I had a longer elevator commute, my grief would develop to the unbearable stage. As it is, the brevity affords insulation from debilitating breakdowns and the cumbersome climb to stability and normalcy which follow.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Delayed Divorce Decision
Sunday before last my family left for church and I was getting ready to leave for work when I came across something that struck me like a gunshot wound. "The court hearing is at 8:30 a.m. Wednesday and John doesn't seem interested," I read my wife's handwriting.
Doesn't seem interested? I had no idea my divorce was coming up within 72 hours and I hadn't known!
I scrambled out the side door like a wounded animal, howling in agony as the family dog, familiar with my pained expressions, ducked out of the way. The tormented cadence of my cries rang sent my shoulders to lurching with each heave of emotion. The wailing and tears continued as I drove to work, punching in anguished texts to those closest to me.
God, the pain was too much. It was as if the weight of depression and hopelessness drowned out everything else.
I made it to work, but got caught in spasms of hyperventilation. At times I had to walk away. I was on the phone with my brother in Colorado, pouring out my heart as my guts went queasy with disbelief. I was getting divorced, she was pulling the trigger, and I wouldn't have even known!
Monday I asked her what was going on. She told me she hadn't heard about the hearing until Friday when she called her lawyer. When was he going to tell her?
What is this guy, collect the money and run? I got notice in a certified letter last year about a small claims deal; I got notice when my sister thought I was a threat to her a year ago, but I don't get notice of my own divorce?
I called her lawyer Monday morning. Twice. No answer. Until 3:06 p.m. when I was out. The kids came home from school and I went somewhere with them. When I got home at 7:15 p.m., I discovered the message from the lawyer's secretary.
Nice. Too late for a response, even though I called just in case.
Tuesday, I got hold of the law office. The secretary confirmed the divorce was set for the next morning.
Thanks.
Wednesday, I called my best friend Marv. I needed his support. He said he'd meet me at the courtroom.
I went in and found my wife, the one I adore, the one I pledged to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, til death do us part, forever and ever Amen.
She looked good. She was reading a book on the Kindle I bought her for Mother's Day.
I sat near her, one empty seat between us. Only one other couple in the waiting area, far away. Their woman lawyer came up and was talking to them.
"Where is everyone?" I asked Shannon.
"They'll be here," she said, as if she came here every week for a divorce.
We made small talk about her Kindle, two people without a care in the world, by the looks of us. I wondered if she would go out for lunch with me afterwards. I didn't dare ask.
It just felt weird, her being there and me being there, supposed to be getting a divorce after 18 years and four kids.
Her lawyer showed up. Nice of him. "There's the man of the hour," I breathed.
He went to the courtroom, motioning for Shannon to stay put. He returned momentarily, motioned her in, and came back momentarily, and motioned me in.
The other couple with the woman lawyer were the only other ones. We were first. Marv wasn't there yet. I thought it would be crowded and we wouldn't know how long a wait to expect.
Our case was first. I sat at the opposite table from my wife, who sat by her lawyer. I waited, wondering what I would actually say.
Her lawyer asked to speak with Shannon privately and I sat back in the pews. But this was nothing like church.
The other lady, who turned out to be with her father, came forward with her woman lawyer. The judge came in and the court recorder followed.
The woman was sworn in and testified that her no good husband was in the Greene County Jail and she was gonna get a divorce. She got one.
Then it was my turn.
Shannon's lawyer got first crack. He handed me a notice of divorce with pages of writing.
He told the judge my wife "desperately wanted a divorce so she could get on with her life" and that I hadn't responded in the 30 days allowed and was therefore in default.
I told the judge I hadn't responded because I was working on reconciliation, not termination. I told him I believed reconciliation was probable and I hadn't put energy into the terms of divorce, but that I didn't agree with the parenting plan and my wife's request for sole custody.
The judge granted me a 15-day continuance, telling me, "You've got another bite at this apple. I suggest you seek legal counsel."
I thanked him and left the courtroom ahead of my wife and her lawyer without a word. Marv wasn't even here yet, and it was already over. For now. I was glad to not be divorced, but I felt like a dirty dog for getting what I wanted. I felt like I somehow had betrayed my wife by not granting her everything she wanted. Weird.
Doesn't seem interested? I had no idea my divorce was coming up within 72 hours and I hadn't known!
I scrambled out the side door like a wounded animal, howling in agony as the family dog, familiar with my pained expressions, ducked out of the way. The tormented cadence of my cries rang sent my shoulders to lurching with each heave of emotion. The wailing and tears continued as I drove to work, punching in anguished texts to those closest to me.
God, the pain was too much. It was as if the weight of depression and hopelessness drowned out everything else.
I made it to work, but got caught in spasms of hyperventilation. At times I had to walk away. I was on the phone with my brother in Colorado, pouring out my heart as my guts went queasy with disbelief. I was getting divorced, she was pulling the trigger, and I wouldn't have even known!
Monday I asked her what was going on. She told me she hadn't heard about the hearing until Friday when she called her lawyer. When was he going to tell her?
What is this guy, collect the money and run? I got notice in a certified letter last year about a small claims deal; I got notice when my sister thought I was a threat to her a year ago, but I don't get notice of my own divorce?
I called her lawyer Monday morning. Twice. No answer. Until 3:06 p.m. when I was out. The kids came home from school and I went somewhere with them. When I got home at 7:15 p.m., I discovered the message from the lawyer's secretary.
Nice. Too late for a response, even though I called just in case.
Tuesday, I got hold of the law office. The secretary confirmed the divorce was set for the next morning.
Thanks.
Wednesday, I called my best friend Marv. I needed his support. He said he'd meet me at the courtroom.
I went in and found my wife, the one I adore, the one I pledged to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, til death do us part, forever and ever Amen.
She looked good. She was reading a book on the Kindle I bought her for Mother's Day.
I sat near her, one empty seat between us. Only one other couple in the waiting area, far away. Their woman lawyer came up and was talking to them.
"Where is everyone?" I asked Shannon.
"They'll be here," she said, as if she came here every week for a divorce.
We made small talk about her Kindle, two people without a care in the world, by the looks of us. I wondered if she would go out for lunch with me afterwards. I didn't dare ask.
It just felt weird, her being there and me being there, supposed to be getting a divorce after 18 years and four kids.
Her lawyer showed up. Nice of him. "There's the man of the hour," I breathed.
He went to the courtroom, motioning for Shannon to stay put. He returned momentarily, motioned her in, and came back momentarily, and motioned me in.
The other couple with the woman lawyer were the only other ones. We were first. Marv wasn't there yet. I thought it would be crowded and we wouldn't know how long a wait to expect.
Our case was first. I sat at the opposite table from my wife, who sat by her lawyer. I waited, wondering what I would actually say.
Her lawyer asked to speak with Shannon privately and I sat back in the pews. But this was nothing like church.
The other lady, who turned out to be with her father, came forward with her woman lawyer. The judge came in and the court recorder followed.
The woman was sworn in and testified that her no good husband was in the Greene County Jail and she was gonna get a divorce. She got one.
Then it was my turn.
Shannon's lawyer got first crack. He handed me a notice of divorce with pages of writing.
He told the judge my wife "desperately wanted a divorce so she could get on with her life" and that I hadn't responded in the 30 days allowed and was therefore in default.
I told the judge I hadn't responded because I was working on reconciliation, not termination. I told him I believed reconciliation was probable and I hadn't put energy into the terms of divorce, but that I didn't agree with the parenting plan and my wife's request for sole custody.
The judge granted me a 15-day continuance, telling me, "You've got another bite at this apple. I suggest you seek legal counsel."
I thanked him and left the courtroom ahead of my wife and her lawyer without a word. Marv wasn't even here yet, and it was already over. For now. I was glad to not be divorced, but I felt like a dirty dog for getting what I wanted. I felt like I somehow had betrayed my wife by not granting her everything she wanted. Weird.
Friday, March 11, 2011
I miss you
I miss you when I wake
I miss you when I lie down
I miss you all the times between
I remember holding you
I remember how you felt
I remember more than I forget
Now I live with my regret.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Kiss
It wasn't a Hollywood, "exploitive" smooch. Just a warm greeting of the lips and a suggestion of how she tastes. A warm shiver (can one shiver warmly?) tickled through my being. I knew this was the start of the remaking of the best love story I've ever lived.
I could almost hear a distant melody in the background; birds were chirping, spring springing and flowers blooming. Perhaps this was a euphoric Hollywood induced romantic moment, with the hope of an enchanted forever attached. Whatever it was, I was there and there was no stopping it.
Until I woke up.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Road Kill Count
Driving today along highway 14 for a stretch of 15 miles, I saw the following road kill:
Opossums: 0
Armadillos 0
Squirrels: 0
Rabbits: 1
Dogs: 1
Skunks 12
Not sure if it's open season on the stinky black and whites, but they far outnumber their fellow road kill species. For a five mile stretch in particular, just west of Sparta, they skunk carcasses (carcai?) were thick enough to be within sight of each other.
A nighttime migratory massacre.
Opossums: 0
Armadillos 0
Squirrels: 0
Rabbits: 1
Dogs: 1
Skunks 12
Not sure if it's open season on the stinky black and whites, but they far outnumber their fellow road kill species. For a five mile stretch in particular, just west of Sparta, they skunk carcasses (carcai?) were thick enough to be within sight of each other.
A nighttime migratory massacre.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
"Daddy, can you tuck me in?"
My 10-year-old son wants me to tuck him in with a prayer and a kiss each night. He came to the kitchen where his mother and I were dissolving into a disagreement. She dismissed him, saying, "Daddy will be in in about 5 or 10 minutes."
The little guy went off to dreamland, waiting for me as the argument dragged on. My wife doesn't let me sleep in our house anymore. It's complicated. But the next morning, I am expected to return by 6 a.m. when she leaves for work. This being a Saturday morning, I returned and fell back asleep since the kids didn't have school. About 6:30 a.m., my 10-year-old awakened to go to the bathroom. He stuck his head in and said, "Daddy, has it been more than 5 or 10 minutes?"
Instantly, I knew he had no idea what time it was. It was still dark out, so he may have thought half an hour or so had gone by. Not having the heart to tell him I'd forgotten in the aftermath of an argument the night before, I quietly slipped into his bedroom and whispered a prayer. "Dear Lord, be with Mark. Give him a good night's sleep. Thank you for the fun we had today at Grandma's birthday party. Give Mark a good day tomorrow at his Bible quiz. In Jesus' Name, Amen."
I gave him a peck on the cheek, and before falling back asleep, he asked, "How long has it been?"
I hesitated. "I'll see you in the morning, son," I said, and walked out.
The little guy went off to dreamland, waiting for me as the argument dragged on. My wife doesn't let me sleep in our house anymore. It's complicated. But the next morning, I am expected to return by 6 a.m. when she leaves for work. This being a Saturday morning, I returned and fell back asleep since the kids didn't have school. About 6:30 a.m., my 10-year-old awakened to go to the bathroom. He stuck his head in and said, "Daddy, has it been more than 5 or 10 minutes?"
Instantly, I knew he had no idea what time it was. It was still dark out, so he may have thought half an hour or so had gone by. Not having the heart to tell him I'd forgotten in the aftermath of an argument the night before, I quietly slipped into his bedroom and whispered a prayer. "Dear Lord, be with Mark. Give him a good night's sleep. Thank you for the fun we had today at Grandma's birthday party. Give Mark a good day tomorrow at his Bible quiz. In Jesus' Name, Amen."
I gave him a peck on the cheek, and before falling back asleep, he asked, "How long has it been?"
I hesitated. "I'll see you in the morning, son," I said, and walked out.
Sunday afternoon walk (Conversation with God)
Sunday, February 27, 2011. 1:15 p.m. My middle son is in the tub, my little son is in the crib, asleep. I have to get out of the house. The weather is unseasonably warm, near 70 degrees, but that's not why I must escape.
I have to get out.
I have to run. I don't like to run. I walk to the right. I turn about face, because neighbor's are home. I go the other way, past my house. My feet begin to run. My voice screams. Angry, anguished. Tears. Hot. Chest heaves. Heavy heart. Angry words, eyes lifted up at the parting clouds, asking.
Ver batim (at the top of my lungs): "How dare You take my wife away... She's my wife! She's mine! How dare you do that! Don't you know what that's going to do to my kids? Don't you care about their lives?"
There's more, but it makes less of a coherent passage from my lips as my legs give out. My head hurts.
I reach a burned out house, a brick exterior still stands, mocked by the gutted out trailer house it failed to protect. It's a metaphor for my marriage. Everyone sees the brick exterior today, but this week, a sheriff's deputy is scheduled to hand me divorce papers that I'm not supposed to know exist.
My brick exterior will soon reveal a charred trailer house interior to the world. My body and my mind are in shock. I return from the house to my intact house. It looks peaceful, solid, serene. How deceiving looks can be. I re-enter my house, tears dried, just in time for my 10-year-old son to get out of the bathtub.
He never missed me.
He never heard me.
I myself took a shower just before my walk, trying to let the sound of running water stifle my grotesque sobs. My 18-month-old son sometimes thinks I'm laughing as my gasps and cries come out in great gales, wracking my sides and splitting my head and reddening my eyes.
When my shower stopped the tears kept streaming. Towel in mouth to stop the screaming. God, where are You? I feel You watching but unwilling to stop my bleeding.
Why must this go on?
I have to get out.
I have to run. I don't like to run. I walk to the right. I turn about face, because neighbor's are home. I go the other way, past my house. My feet begin to run. My voice screams. Angry, anguished. Tears. Hot. Chest heaves. Heavy heart. Angry words, eyes lifted up at the parting clouds, asking.
There's more, but it makes less of a coherent passage from my lips as my legs give out. My head hurts.
I reach a burned out house, a brick exterior still stands, mocked by the gutted out trailer house it failed to protect. It's a metaphor for my marriage. Everyone sees the brick exterior today, but this week, a sheriff's deputy is scheduled to hand me divorce papers that I'm not supposed to know exist.
My brick exterior will soon reveal a charred trailer house interior to the world. My body and my mind are in shock. I return from the house to my intact house. It looks peaceful, solid, serene. How deceiving looks can be. I re-enter my house, tears dried, just in time for my 10-year-old son to get out of the bathtub.
He never missed me.
He never heard me.
I myself took a shower just before my walk, trying to let the sound of running water stifle my grotesque sobs. My 18-month-old son sometimes thinks I'm laughing as my gasps and cries come out in great gales, wracking my sides and splitting my head and reddening my eyes.
When my shower stopped the tears kept streaming. Towel in mouth to stop the screaming. God, where are You? I feel You watching but unwilling to stop my bleeding.
Why must this go on?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Emergency Room
Today was Valentine's Day. I had thought I'd wrap up my writing and clean up the house, make dinner and put out the good dishes and light the candles for a romantic evening with my wife. She works a day shift in the ER and would appreciate some soothing music while the boys played in the basement out of the way.
It was my best option for having no money since July when I lost my job. I fantasized about flower arrangements and boxes of chocolates, but had to settle for a few home made cards and a home cooked meal.
The older three boys would be coming home from school soon, and I was with my youngest. Eighteen-month-old boys are summed up in one word: ACTIVE! He climbs up on everything now. I was putting final touches on my novel around 3:20 p.m. and suddenly he'd fallen off a chair I didn't know he'd climbed. He had to have gotten up there in five seconds. Anyway, he fell and hit his eye on the chair leg and his head on the concrete floor.
I scooped him up and held him as he cried. Poor little guy!
Then he got sleepy. Oh, no! That's a sign of a possible concussion. I called my wife, who is an EMT and works at the ER. Her shift was just ending, so she advised me to meet her at the ER at the other hospital where we have our insurance.
I had to borrow my mom's van since I have no gas and no money and no job...
Then I got him a snack and a drink and took off. I had a makeshift car seat (not the "good" one, but it would have to do) and I talked to him to keep him awake during the 35 to 40 minute drive. His eyelid and forehead were turning purple, but he was in good spirits.
We got to the ER, and the sign said it had been moved to another part of the building and to follow the signs. I called my wife and she directed me to where she was waiting.
Waiting became the operative word. With a little guy, the minutes were ginormous. And the longer we waited, the fussier he became. Dinner time came and went, and the sun set. We walked with him, held him, chased him, talked to him, read a book over and over to him... at one point I was letting him stick his fingers in my mouth... although I don't like that because I've seen the nasty places those little fingers have been!
Two and a half hours later, as I was holding my not so light little guy in the entrace to entertain him with the three automatic doors (that's three directions he has to look to keep up!) my wife had had enough. It was Valentine's Day, and I had all the plans of a romantic homemade dinner for two with candles and music.
I texted my wife a couple times, even though we were in the same ER, just to let her know I was also thinking of her on this day of romance.
But romance wasn't in the ER. And our little man was screaming his hungry head off by now. Mercifully, the RN announced his name, but at that point I was halfway across the hospital on a sightseeing tour to keep the little one happy.
I huffed and puffed it back to my scolding wife, still in her scrubs from work and looking like she fit in here too.
After checking his symptoms, the RN obviously decided since he didn't throw up or black out, he was low priority. So back to the waiting room to bother all the sick people again. He was going in circles, weaving through the crowd. Since my wife worked all day, I took him 90 percent of the time.
After two and a half hours, my wife asked if she could just sign a waiver and keep an eye on him. After all, he was tired and hungry (and so was she!) and Valentine's evening was become a drag.
I hurried home ahead of her and got things spruced up with the help of my 12-year-old son who already almost had dinner ready... table set, candles lit (one candle was dripping on the table, but it was easily cleaned up before mom arrived) and everything ready except the potatoes (he'd put eight potatoes in the microwave dish for six minutes... not quite long enough there, son, but I appreciate your efforts!)
By the time mom and baby arrived, we were ready for the as perfect as it's gonna get meal and it went all right.
I'm just glad our son didn't have a real "emergency" with a wait like that... we skipped the bubble bath and chick flick and my girlie hit the sack and sent me away as is her custom these days.
It was my best option for having no money since July when I lost my job. I fantasized about flower arrangements and boxes of chocolates, but had to settle for a few home made cards and a home cooked meal.
The older three boys would be coming home from school soon, and I was with my youngest. Eighteen-month-old boys are summed up in one word: ACTIVE! He climbs up on everything now. I was putting final touches on my novel around 3:20 p.m. and suddenly he'd fallen off a chair I didn't know he'd climbed. He had to have gotten up there in five seconds. Anyway, he fell and hit his eye on the chair leg and his head on the concrete floor.
I scooped him up and held him as he cried. Poor little guy!
Then he got sleepy. Oh, no! That's a sign of a possible concussion. I called my wife, who is an EMT and works at the ER. Her shift was just ending, so she advised me to meet her at the ER at the other hospital where we have our insurance.
I had to borrow my mom's van since I have no gas and no money and no job...
Then I got him a snack and a drink and took off. I had a makeshift car seat (not the "good" one, but it would have to do) and I talked to him to keep him awake during the 35 to 40 minute drive. His eyelid and forehead were turning purple, but he was in good spirits.
We got to the ER, and the sign said it had been moved to another part of the building and to follow the signs. I called my wife and she directed me to where she was waiting.
Waiting became the operative word. With a little guy, the minutes were ginormous. And the longer we waited, the fussier he became. Dinner time came and went, and the sun set. We walked with him, held him, chased him, talked to him, read a book over and over to him... at one point I was letting him stick his fingers in my mouth... although I don't like that because I've seen the nasty places those little fingers have been!
Two and a half hours later, as I was holding my not so light little guy in the entrace to entertain him with the three automatic doors (that's three directions he has to look to keep up!) my wife had had enough. It was Valentine's Day, and I had all the plans of a romantic homemade dinner for two with candles and music.
I texted my wife a couple times, even though we were in the same ER, just to let her know I was also thinking of her on this day of romance.
I huffed and puffed it back to my scolding wife, still in her scrubs from work and looking like she fit in here too.
After checking his symptoms, the RN obviously decided since he didn't throw up or black out, he was low priority. So back to the waiting room to bother all the sick people again. He was going in circles, weaving through the crowd. Since my wife worked all day, I took him 90 percent of the time.
I hurried home ahead of her and got things spruced up with the help of my 12-year-old son who already almost had dinner ready... table set, candles lit (one candle was dripping on the table, but it was easily cleaned up before mom arrived) and everything ready except the potatoes (he'd put eight potatoes in the microwave dish for six minutes... not quite long enough there, son, but I appreciate your efforts!)
By the time mom and baby arrived, we were ready for the as perfect as it's gonna get meal and it went all right.
I'm just glad our son didn't have a real "emergency" with a wait like that... we skipped the bubble bath and chick flick and my girlie hit the sack and sent me away as is her custom these days.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Veggie Tales
The made for children cartoon "Jonah" in the Veggie Tales series struck me as I watched it with my 18-month-old son the other day. In the Bible, Jonah is described in the second paragraph of the book as running away from God. He looks like a cowardly villain.
The Veggie version explained Jonah likely had just cause to bail on the Almighty. In his Jewish world, to go to Ninevah (as God told him to) and preach was like going to the terrorists for us and trying to rescue them from punishment. Jonah felt justified in damning the evil Ninevites. They were Assyrians, not Jews. They were wicked, not part of God's chosen people. So, when God told Jonah to preach repentance warnings to them, he bailed. He didn't want any part of God's forgiveness on the enemy.
Now, it makes more sense. But you can't hide from God, even though you may run.
Jonah, as we all know, gets caught in a storm while fleeing and is thrown overboard to save the rest of the crew on board. He goes in and the waters calm as poor ol' Jonah gets swallowed by a great fish.
God has a way of capturing our attention, especially if we're running from our mission.
I decided to define my life mission and get prepared to speak in public and to sell books I write. I have written words and spoken words, but I have let my words get dusty. I feel like I'm with Jonah, running away from the enemy instead of calling out for his soul.
If God can choose to use a stubborn runaway like Jonah, who thinks he knows more than God about salvation and redemption, I can sure get in the path of God's will and let Him use me for good.
The Veggie version explained Jonah likely had just cause to bail on the Almighty. In his Jewish world, to go to Ninevah (as God told him to) and preach was like going to the terrorists for us and trying to rescue them from punishment. Jonah felt justified in damning the evil Ninevites. They were Assyrians, not Jews. They were wicked, not part of God's chosen people. So, when God told Jonah to preach repentance warnings to them, he bailed. He didn't want any part of God's forgiveness on the enemy.
Now, it makes more sense. But you can't hide from God, even though you may run.
Jonah, as we all know, gets caught in a storm while fleeing and is thrown overboard to save the rest of the crew on board. He goes in and the waters calm as poor ol' Jonah gets swallowed by a great fish.
God has a way of capturing our attention, especially if we're running from our mission.
I decided to define my life mission and get prepared to speak in public and to sell books I write. I have written words and spoken words, but I have let my words get dusty. I feel like I'm with Jonah, running away from the enemy instead of calling out for his soul.
If God can choose to use a stubborn runaway like Jonah, who thinks he knows more than God about salvation and redemption, I can sure get in the path of God's will and let Him use me for good.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Randy Van Warmer - You left me just when I needed you most
Oh, dear wife of my youth and mother of our four precious sons, please come back to me...
Train Wreck
I studied the best I could at train engineering school. Nobody told me how to drive a train; they just wished me luck and told me to pray and drive the train every day.
Without a set of rules, I felt ill-equipped. I watched other engineers who'd been driving longer, but none seemed to know how to transfer their skills to me. Observation wasn't enough. I needed hands on training.
And yet, I found myself roaring down the track, unable to stop the train as it picked up speed. The experience was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. Trees flew by, buildings, birds, telephone poles, cats, dogs, people, cars... I was passing all of them. I hit the brakes and squeaked across a narrow bridge, pulse racing. Was this a dream? You know, one of those hang-on-for-your-life rides that ends in a sweaty bedsheet when you finally awake?
I've been told you could die of a heart attack if you actually dream of falling and hit bottom. That's why most people dream of falling but awaken before they hit bottom. Not me. As a kid, I had a recurring dream of falling off our stairway in our large, two story double house in Indiana. I would invariably hit the bottom of the stairway, pain emitting throughout my entire being.
It got worse.
I dreamed of falling from a high rise skyscraper, screaming as the air was sucked right out of me. All I could do was spiral downward, dry eyed and dry tongued, rocketing faster and faster toward earth.
BAM! I struck with a force of a bullet, body numb with excruciating pain.
Maybe I was meant for this type of subliminal superhuman sacrificial suffering.
At any rate, here I am, at the wheel of the locomotive, roaring down the track and the brakes are hot. The damn track is sloping downward, pert near like a roller coaster more than a railroad track.
And yet, I found myself roaring down the track, unable to stop the train as it picked up speed. The experience was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. Trees flew by, buildings, birds, telephone poles, cats, dogs, people, cars... I was passing all of them. I hit the brakes and squeaked across a narrow bridge, pulse racing. Was this a dream? You know, one of those hang-on-for-your-life rides that ends in a sweaty bedsheet when you finally awake?
It got worse.
I dreamed of falling from a high rise skyscraper, screaming as the air was sucked right out of me. All I could do was spiral downward, dry eyed and dry tongued, rocketing faster and faster toward earth.
BAM! I struck with a force of a bullet, body numb with excruciating pain.
Maybe I was meant for this type of subliminal superhuman sacrificial suffering.
At any rate, here I am, at the wheel of the locomotive, roaring down the track and the brakes are hot. The damn track is sloping downward, pert near like a roller coaster more than a railroad track.
I'm spiraling out of control. I feel the wheels leaving the track. I want to pee my pants. Terror smacks me in the face with every blast of wind seeping in the open window.
I can't stop. I'm going to wreck. I am watching my life derail in front of me.
My blood chills. I close my eyes. I'm praying my fool head off, and I want to wake, but I fear I am not asleep.
Date Night
Saturday night. Between my wife's birthday and Valentine's Day. No job. No money. No worries. I called in the phone book to fancy restaurants and found the most exclusive members only one to be the one to think outside the box. Kelly, the sales director, answered the phone.
"I want to provide an extraordinary experience for my wife's 40th birthday. She's taking it hard, and frankly, I've been out of steady work since June and have no money at all. But if you're willing to think outside the box and help me, I'd be more than willing do something for you in exchange."
A pause, as Kelly considered how to reply.
"Well, this is an unusual request, I must say."
"I'm sure you weren't expecting a call like this," I said. "But I believe in being creative when necessary. I'm a professional writer, and I'd be more than happy to write a review of your club and my dining experience, if you'd like, in exchange for a dinner for two."
Kelly pondered a moment. "I'd like to help you," she surprised both of us by saying. "I'd like to think of myself as a person who thinks outside the box. If you write an honest review of your experience, I'd be willing to let you and your wife have a three course dinner for two on Saturday night."
My heart fluttered. Yes, yes, yes!
My wounded soul had a chance to woo the one I love, despite her lack of reciprocation.
Thus armed with a success, I sought more add ons. A free haircut came next, from a friend who works at a hair salon. Then, a bouquet of flowers from a friend who owned a flower shop. She considered what to do, but didn't have an option. Okay, I'll buy the flowers if necessary.
Next, I thought of a massage from a massage therapist friend.
The friend hesitated when I presented my request. "I don't make it a practice to do anything free, not even for friends, but I understand your situation," she said. "I'll give your wife a free 30 minute massage, good for any time."
What a relief! Being penniless wasn't going to prevent me from doing something for my special someone.
What next... my sister has a snazzy newer convertible. "I'll clean it up and vacuum it and put gas in it for you in exchange for taking my wife out Saturday night," I offered. Permission granted.
Yes!
Now, I had the car, the dinner, a haircut and massage. Not too bad for a guy with no money.
The experience was pleasant, though my wife wasn't willing to concede any potential romantic feelings. "Don't get the wrong idea," she said on the way home. I laughed. This was going to be fun. She doesn't know what to think of my going all out to be with her and to woo her. Let her wonder. I think she's warming up to me...
"I want to provide an extraordinary experience for my wife's 40th birthday. She's taking it hard, and frankly, I've been out of steady work since June and have no money at all. But if you're willing to think outside the box and help me, I'd be more than willing do something for you in exchange."
A pause, as Kelly considered how to reply.
"Well, this is an unusual request, I must say."
"I'm sure you weren't expecting a call like this," I said. "But I believe in being creative when necessary. I'm a professional writer, and I'd be more than happy to write a review of your club and my dining experience, if you'd like, in exchange for a dinner for two."
Kelly pondered a moment. "I'd like to help you," she surprised both of us by saying. "I'd like to think of myself as a person who thinks outside the box. If you write an honest review of your experience, I'd be willing to let you and your wife have a three course dinner for two on Saturday night."
My wounded soul had a chance to woo the one I love, despite her lack of reciprocation.
Thus armed with a success, I sought more add ons. A free haircut came next, from a friend who works at a hair salon. Then, a bouquet of flowers from a friend who owned a flower shop. She considered what to do, but didn't have an option. Okay, I'll buy the flowers if necessary.
Next, I thought of a massage from a massage therapist friend.
The friend hesitated when I presented my request. "I don't make it a practice to do anything free, not even for friends, but I understand your situation," she said. "I'll give your wife a free 30 minute massage, good for any time."
What a relief! Being penniless wasn't going to prevent me from doing something for my special someone.
What next... my sister has a snazzy newer convertible. "I'll clean it up and vacuum it and put gas in it for you in exchange for taking my wife out Saturday night," I offered. Permission granted.
Yes!
Now, I had the car, the dinner, a haircut and massage. Not too bad for a guy with no money.
The experience was pleasant, though my wife wasn't willing to concede any potential romantic feelings. "Don't get the wrong idea," she said on the way home. I laughed. This was going to be fun. She doesn't know what to think of my going all out to be with her and to woo her. Let her wonder. I think she's warming up to me...
Sunday, February 6, 2011
If I'd known
If I'd known in May it was my last intimate encounter with my wife
I'd have lasted longer
If I'd known in August she'd be gone the next day
I'd have held her
If I'd known she wasn't going to let me back
I'd have done things differently to win her heart
If I'd known what I know now
I'd have never done what I did.
If I'd known she'd want a divorce in January
I'd have made December better
I'd have listened to her more
I'd have worked harder to work harder
I'd have gotten closer
Been romantic
Been available to her cries
Held her if she'd have let me
Wooed her faster, better, stronger
Made a difference in her indifference
Stopped my lying
Stopped her crying
Done myself a favor
Done my wife a service
Protected my marriage
Saved my kids the grief.
Living in a separate world
On a lonely couch
Away
Not intended to live this way
Didn't sign up for this
Wedding vows were meant to keep
Not throw away on being a creep
I'm in too far, I've sunk too deep
She has no love for me to keep.
And so, I live without living
Do without doing
Talk without talking
Making no difference to her indifference
Making no sense of my life at all.
My journey now includes living
With the past that won't go away
With mistakes and poor choices
That carry consequences permanent in nature
Regret surrounds me like a shroud
And there's no silver lining beyond the clouds.
I'd have lasted longer
If I'd known in August she'd be gone the next day
I'd have held her
If I'd known she wasn't going to let me back
I'd have done things differently to win her heart
If I'd known what I know now
I'd have never done what I did.
If I'd known she'd want a divorce in January
I'd have made December better
I'd have listened to her more
I'd have worked harder to work harder
I'd have gotten closer
Been romantic
Been available to her cries
Held her if she'd have let me
Wooed her faster, better, stronger
Made a difference in her indifference
Stopped my lying
Stopped her crying
Done myself a favor
Done my wife a service
Protected my marriage
Saved my kids the grief.
Living in a separate world
On a lonely couch
Away
Not intended to live this way
Didn't sign up for this
Wedding vows were meant to keep
Not throw away on being a creep
I'm in too far, I've sunk too deep
She has no love for me to keep.
And so, I live without living
Do without doing
Talk without talking
Making no difference to her indifference
Making no sense of my life at all.
My journey now includes living
With the past that won't go away
With mistakes and poor choices
That carry consequences permanent in nature
Regret surrounds me like a shroud
And there's no silver lining beyond the clouds.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
I'm being followed
I look over my shoulder, and I'm sure I see it. But when I look straight at it, it isn't there.
A sudden flash goes by in a mirror; my reflection, or its?
No. There it is. I'm sure I see it, staring me down. I want to ask my friends if they see it, too. Perhaps they'd think me egotistical to assume I'm being followed. Being watched. Pursued.
I can't shake it, I can't leave it. I tried. Believe me, I've tried. Singing, yelling, praying, crying, laughing, cursing. Being in a crowd. Being alone.
Nothing works.
It's still there. I don't know if it's getting better or worse. How are these things measured? I feel okay, until I look for it. Then it's like my skin is falling off and my organs are dissolving. I can't breathe and I can't see. I panic. I don't like that feeling, so I go back to listening and looking over my shoulder, but acting as if it isn't there.
I don't like living in denial; I like to face things head on. That's how I've always dealt with challenges; no need to skirt around them or talk about them. Confront them, head on, sword raised, shield in place, armored to the gills... the "Knight in Shining Armor to save the day" approach.
I tried that this time, but it got bigger and meaner. I got burned and that was worse than before. Arms on fire, face scorched, I lept back and licked my wounds.
The stinging blinded me, caught me off guard. Reeling, I retreated. I stayed away from everyone and everything until the pain subsided. But it didn't. It got worse. I needed attention from a professional.
I sought help. Proud, but humiliated, I opened myself up and underwent a thorough examination. I found several people closest to me and revealed my wounds to them. They all basically said the same thing: "I've never experienced wounds like that before. But don't ignore them, whatever you do. Keep trying to let them heal and don't give up."
I followed their advice, but the wounds didn't heal. I tried bandages, salve, stitches, cosmetic coverups, herbal remedies, traditional medicine, the works. Nothing would make these wounds inflicted by it go away. I was followed by it, it lived with me. In me? I couldn't tell.
I decided after awhile to befriend it. My Wounder and me made friends. Now it's consumed me and I don't feel free, but I am at peace with it. I live with it. It hurts me and cripples me, and diminishes who I am. But if I cut it loose, I die.
So I exist in a new way with it and let it guide me and control how I think and who I am. I play a masquerade charade facade role in an award winning screenplay written by it.
It makes me convince everyone I don't see it or feel it, but those who know I see and feel it can't relate and can't help.
It's desperate, but it's the only thing I know to do to keep from suffocating and drowning. Survival is the absence of death, but unfortunately, not the absence of pain.
A sudden flash goes by in a mirror; my reflection, or its?
No. There it is. I'm sure I see it, staring me down. I want to ask my friends if they see it, too. Perhaps they'd think me egotistical to assume I'm being followed. Being watched. Pursued.
I can't shake it, I can't leave it. I tried. Believe me, I've tried. Singing, yelling, praying, crying, laughing, cursing. Being in a crowd. Being alone.
Nothing works.
It's still there. I don't know if it's getting better or worse. How are these things measured? I feel okay, until I look for it. Then it's like my skin is falling off and my organs are dissolving. I can't breathe and I can't see. I panic. I don't like that feeling, so I go back to listening and looking over my shoulder, but acting as if it isn't there.
I don't like living in denial; I like to face things head on. That's how I've always dealt with challenges; no need to skirt around them or talk about them. Confront them, head on, sword raised, shield in place, armored to the gills... the "Knight in Shining Armor to save the day" approach.
I tried that this time, but it got bigger and meaner. I got burned and that was worse than before. Arms on fire, face scorched, I lept back and licked my wounds.
The stinging blinded me, caught me off guard. Reeling, I retreated. I stayed away from everyone and everything until the pain subsided. But it didn't. It got worse. I needed attention from a professional.
I sought help. Proud, but humiliated, I opened myself up and underwent a thorough examination. I found several people closest to me and revealed my wounds to them. They all basically said the same thing: "I've never experienced wounds like that before. But don't ignore them, whatever you do. Keep trying to let them heal and don't give up."
I followed their advice, but the wounds didn't heal. I tried bandages, salve, stitches, cosmetic coverups, herbal remedies, traditional medicine, the works. Nothing would make these wounds inflicted by it go away. I was followed by it, it lived with me. In me? I couldn't tell.
I decided after awhile to befriend it. My Wounder and me made friends. Now it's consumed me and I don't feel free, but I am at peace with it. I live with it. It hurts me and cripples me, and diminishes who I am. But if I cut it loose, I die.
So I exist in a new way with it and let it guide me and control how I think and who I am. I play a masquerade charade facade role in an award winning screenplay written by it.
It makes me convince everyone I don't see it or feel it, but those who know I see and feel it can't relate and can't help.
It's desperate, but it's the only thing I know to do to keep from suffocating and drowning. Survival is the absence of death, but unfortunately, not the absence of pain.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Saltine Soldier
I am a stay-at-home dad (not by choice, but by miserable luck trying to find work.)
One good thing about being home is bonding with my 17-month-old son. The little guy wakes up every morning from his crib across the hallway with a hearty, "Daaa?"
I usually reply with a "Daaa?" in daddy tone to his youthful soprano.
He is thus inspired to reply with a fervent "Daa?" Or, if he's feeling chatty, a "Daa Daa?" for a double dose of daddy alliteration.
He's kind of a picky eater, the terrific toddler is. Breakfast shall NOT include eggs (picks them out of his mouth and hands them back promptly) or cereal (unless soy milk is used--- he's allergic to the real thing).
So, if I run out of yogurt or applesauce, for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, my sweet junior dumpling cake gets a cracker. He loves crackers. You could say he's, er, crackers for them. (Sorry, couldn't resist!)
Anyway, when I take him to grandpa and grandma's house nearby, he often gets a saltine cracker, the perfect square for the budding toothed boy to chomp on.
My little saltine soldier loves the taste and texture of those crackers. I had him on my lap today and noticed his breath smelled of saltines.
I tickled his tummy as he ate. He let out a contented giggle that grew more intense with each re-tickle (dad's can't resist a good thing when they start it, so we have to wear out the kids's tickle spot until it's no longer funny.) No matter how many tickles the tot endured, he always returned to his saltine cracker.
Yessir, somebody's gotta eat all those crackers we buy. Lord knows they can't all go in the chili or hot soup. Face it, saltines are pretty plain. No romance in 'em. They're sick people food, for those getting over a stomach virus to test if they're ready for real food, along with a spot of 7up to settle the tummy.
But for my little guy, the saltine presents a perfect anytime snack. Hey, that's why we buy crackers now. Not for soup. For the Saltine Soldier. He's way more entertaining cleaning up with the crackers than any other use for them would be.
One good thing about being home is bonding with my 17-month-old son. The little guy wakes up every morning from his crib across the hallway with a hearty, "Daaa?"
I usually reply with a "Daaa?" in daddy tone to his youthful soprano.
He is thus inspired to reply with a fervent "Daa?" Or, if he's feeling chatty, a "Daa Daa?" for a double dose of daddy alliteration.
He's kind of a picky eater, the terrific toddler is. Breakfast shall NOT include eggs (picks them out of his mouth and hands them back promptly) or cereal (unless soy milk is used--- he's allergic to the real thing).
So, if I run out of yogurt or applesauce, for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, my sweet junior dumpling cake gets a cracker. He loves crackers. You could say he's, er, crackers for them. (Sorry, couldn't resist!)
Anyway, when I take him to grandpa and grandma's house nearby, he often gets a saltine cracker, the perfect square for the budding toothed boy to chomp on.
My little saltine soldier loves the taste and texture of those crackers. I had him on my lap today and noticed his breath smelled of saltines.
Yessir, somebody's gotta eat all those crackers we buy. Lord knows they can't all go in the chili or hot soup. Face it, saltines are pretty plain. No romance in 'em. They're sick people food, for those getting over a stomach virus to test if they're ready for real food, along with a spot of 7up to settle the tummy.
But for my little guy, the saltine presents a perfect anytime snack. Hey, that's why we buy crackers now. Not for soup. For the Saltine Soldier. He's way more entertaining cleaning up with the crackers than any other use for them would be.
Strike Three
I heard sirens go by my house this morning. That is unnerving on a dead end county rural road. Only a few options, none good.
A glance out the window revealed a second fire truck. Beyond the flashing lights, a plume of smoke rose from the treeline exactly where the neighbor beyond my parents' house stood.
I scooped up my camera and toddler and headed toward the scene. Emergency workers flailed about as the roof was fully engulfed in flames. As I clicked my shutter, I shuddered. Was anyone home?
A first responder responded to my inquiry. "She was home, but she got out all right."
I found an ambulance guy. "Is (the lady of the house) all right?"
"Who?"
"Younger, blonde."
"Someone said she was gone before I got here."
No sign of any dogs. Hope her pets are safe, too.
The house is going up fast. It's a brick exterior, but the brick only encased an old single wide trailer house, and it's remains are fast disappearing.
I think of the devastating loss of coming home to no home. I think of Cody, Megan's man.
He comes later and says to me, "I just recently got insurance."
Thankful amid the ashes.
Helplessness. That's what I feel. My neighbors arrive from the dead side of the dead end. They, too have suffered devastating losses of homes. One lost her trailer to a fire last April. Her memories are fresh, as she suffered flashbacks watching.
The other neighbor, who called it in when she saw smoke, lost her home to arson decades ago just as she and her late husband had finished building it on their acreage. The rebuild was hurried and less than ideal for them. The memories, though tempered with age, still smolder.
I pray for my parents' home, next up the road, the only one not touched by fire. It is an old house, older than any other, and uses wood heat.
Then there is my home and the next one up before the blacktop.
This third strike of fire in our little neighborhood is devastating indeed. It's the third time for fire, and it's definitely not a charm.
A glance out the window revealed a second fire truck. Beyond the flashing lights, a plume of smoke rose from the treeline exactly where the neighbor beyond my parents' house stood.
I scooped up my camera and toddler and headed toward the scene. Emergency workers flailed about as the roof was fully engulfed in flames. As I clicked my shutter, I shuddered. Was anyone home?
A first responder responded to my inquiry. "She was home, but she got out all right."
"Who?"
"Younger, blonde."
"Someone said she was gone before I got here."
No sign of any dogs. Hope her pets are safe, too.
The house is going up fast. It's a brick exterior, but the brick only encased an old single wide trailer house, and it's remains are fast disappearing.
I think of the devastating loss of coming home to no home. I think of Cody, Megan's man.
He comes later and says to me, "I just recently got insurance."
Thankful amid the ashes.
Helplessness. That's what I feel. My neighbors arrive from the dead side of the dead end. They, too have suffered devastating losses of homes. One lost her trailer to a fire last April. Her memories are fresh, as she suffered flashbacks watching.
The other neighbor, who called it in when she saw smoke, lost her home to arson decades ago just as she and her late husband had finished building it on their acreage. The rebuild was hurried and less than ideal for them. The memories, though tempered with age, still smolder.
I pray for my parents' home, next up the road, the only one not touched by fire. It is an old house, older than any other, and uses wood heat.
Then there is my home and the next one up before the blacktop.
This third strike of fire in our little neighborhood is devastating indeed. It's the third time for fire, and it's definitely not a charm.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Negativity River
This morning, the alarm went off again and it was dark again. I had a sore throat and headache and wanted to complain again about how I'm not winning in life.
Before I got to my alarm, I decided not to jump into "Negativity River" again.
Like the subject of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" I decided to take the road less traveled by (by me, anyway) and give my well worn negativity boat a rest.
My positive mental calisthenics landed me the idea that I could indeed, succeed in winning the heart of my wife again before I made the 600 steps to our house. I tucked a positive note in my wife's lunch bag before she headed off to her job.
I still had a headache, but I didn't have a mental or emotional headache. At least not this day.
You see, my decision not to swim down Negativity River was a 24 hour one.
I won't complain or tell bad things to myself until tomorrow morning... when my alarm goes off and I again make a decision whether or not to avoid Negativity River.
So far, it looks like I'm outta those murky waters for another 24 hours minimum.
Before I got to my alarm, I decided not to jump into "Negativity River" again.
Like the subject of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" I decided to take the road less traveled by (by me, anyway) and give my well worn negativity boat a rest.
My positive mental calisthenics landed me the idea that I could indeed, succeed in winning the heart of my wife again before I made the 600 steps to our house. I tucked a positive note in my wife's lunch bag before she headed off to her job.
I still had a headache, but I didn't have a mental or emotional headache. At least not this day.
You see, my decision not to swim down Negativity River was a 24 hour one.
I won't complain or tell bad things to myself until tomorrow morning... when my alarm goes off and I again make a decision whether or not to avoid Negativity River.
So far, it looks like I'm outta those murky waters for another 24 hours minimum.
Robert Frost (1874–1963). Mountain Interval. 1920. |
1. The Road Not Taken |
Friday, January 21, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
New Leaf, New Life
It’s not easy being a Christian, but it’s worth it. My wife doesn’t want anything to do with me at times. She thinks it’s safer to avoid me because of all the pain I’ve inflicted on her over the years.
I’ll admit, I have shattered her trust for over a decade. So, the scars aren’t expected to heal quickly.
However, as my new life emerges and the old one fades, I do anticipate being able to protect and nurture her the way God intended for me to. I won’t shirk my responsibility to take care of her emotionally, financially, physically and in so many other ways.
But at this point in time, she is too crushed to care. And so, I wait.
And while I wait, I rely on the author of the universe to pick me up, dust me off, and put me on the straight and narrow. I must set a godly example for my four young sons, and I must embrace my wife for who she is. I must not react negatively to her just because I want things to be better. I will wait on the Lord and seek His wisdom and trust Him for the outcome.
In 2004, I lost our dream home due to foreclosure as a result of my poor choices. Now, in 2011, it appears I am about to lose my marriage, also due to my poor choices. However, God restored my home, debt free, in 2008. But I didn’t have that assurance in 2004. On April 7, 2004, I prayed, “God, I give my house to you. Whatever the outcome, even if I never come back to it, may you get the glory for the outcome. May others see how you provided for me and my family despite the circumstances.”
And with that prayer, my wife and I released our home with a peace in our hearts.
On January 13, 2011, my wife told me she wanted a divorce. And on that day, with a peace that passes understanding, I released my marriage to God, just as I had done my home years ago.
I don’t know if God will restore my marriage as He has my home. But I believe He can, and He will, if I continue in obedience. But even if not, I will faithfully serve Him and serve the woman I married and continue to nurture her and love and raise our children even more fervently than before.
It’s like turning over a new leaf and starting a new life. Sure, there will be problems, but God is bigger than anything people and circumstances can dish out. So I rest in that.
My Narnia Trip
I’ve never been a die hard fantasy fan. I mean, I like my movies realistic. Makes it more… “real” for me.
So naturally, fantasy, sci-fi, and the outlandish movies don’t normally trip my trigger. Until Friday, when I took a trip to Narnia.
I know, I’m supposed to just watch the movie and admire the special effects and snicker at the absurdity of another Disney fantasy.
But I was transported there by the plot and characterization. If you’re familiar with the C.S. Lewis book “Voyage of the Dawn Treader,” you may be intrigued by the current movie with the same title.
A third in the Narnia series, I admit I like them all. But this one was especially meaningful to me. Perhaps the reason is because the characters battle their thoughts, which become real and more powerful than anything else. They are forced to confront their temptations and weaknesses in vivid depictions of the struggle for moral life and death.
Two things unique about the voyage: Edmund is the protagonist, yet still finds himself at odds with himself. Ditto for the protagonist, an impudent intelligent brat of a cousin to Edmund named Eustace Scrubb.
Eustace becomes the thing he fears most, as he caves in to greed and is turned into a fire breathing dragon. The climax for me was when Eustace realized he couldn’t free himself of his “dragonhood”. He had to rely on the Lion Aslan to save him and transform him miraculously back into a boy. But in so doing, fire burned away the dragon, causing Eustace great anguish. I found myself, like Edmund and Eustace, in a virtual battle of the mind. My thoughts controlled me. At least, I allowed them to. Every selfish, self-indulgent whim that came my way, I caved in and justified my behavior, telling myself I’d just pray for forgiveness from God and my wife.
The convoluted thinking turned me into a duplicitous doppelganger of my real self. No longer was God in control. No longer was I in control. I was fighting thoughts the size of the bigger-than-the-boat sea serpent, just like Edmund.
My thoughts of lust and pride were strangling me. I was at their mercy.
Until, like Eustace, I succumbed to the almighty power of the Lion of the tribe of Judah
I know Him. You know Him. He is the most powerful being ever. And today, January 16, 2011, during a Sunday morning service, it all came crystal clear.
The preacher was talking about how unrighteousness kept many Christians from holy living and peace. My life is a shambles. My wife asked for a divorce. I have no money, no income, and no hope.
But I have everything when I let the Lion, Jesus Christ, roar away my own selfishness and greed. And in His mighty blast, all is revealed.
Tears welled up as the preacher gave the invitation to come forward. I was sitting out in the foyer, watching the sermon on the screen. I reflected how close I’d come to not attending services. In a last minute fluke, I went.
And I’m so glad I did.
I got up from the foyer seat, said to my wife, “please buy the CD of this sermon, and bolted for the sanctuary back door. I was the first one down to commit my life in rededication to Jesus Christ. My friend from college, who is the executive pastor, met me at the end of that isle. I told him I was there to rededicate my life to Christ.
Tears coursed down my cheeks as the final song ended and a group of us went to a side room to pray. A man who’d led a group for people with life controlling issues I’d attended in the past was the one who prayed with me.
I poured out my heart, telling him how messed up my life is and how much I’d tried to fix things on my own. “But I’m not ready to do that anymore,” I said. “My wife may divorce me, but I still want God’s outcome and I’m not going to leave Him and try to do things on my own ever again.”
I signed several prayer request cards. One, for my marriage, another, for a job or an income source, and third, for me as a person to conquer the life controlling issues that have plagued me most of my marriage.
It’s time to turn around. It’s time to stop running. It’s time to leave Narnia and enter the real world of trust and absolute faith in God.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Ice scraper
I'd scoped out my seating arrangement, nestled in with my laptop, and took a long sip of my latte. Time for me.
I felt a breeze, then the breeze stopped and walked back to my table, plunking itself down. I looked up into the face of the monopolizer.
Greeting me like a long lost friend, she plunged into her verbal stream and paddled furiously through her words.
The first splash of words hit my ears like this: "So, I know it's been snowy and cold and icy and everything and the weather man called for another zero temperature tonight."
Hello to you, too!
"And anyway, did you know it's gonna be ten below wind chill? My dog came in and stayed in my bedroom with the door closed and the space heater on. That's the only way the two of us could even begin to stay warm; I had to let the water drip in the kitchen so it wouldn't freeze like last time and I had to call the plumber but Harold said I didn't need to call anyone as he could come and fix it since he still has all his tools but then, (she took a breath here) he would have to drive all the way from home and I told him not to bother since it would be more than 20 minutes one way out of his way and so I just told him not to."
She blinked twice here and swallowed as I fished for a response. Thankfully, I didn't need one as her "ramblogue" continued:
"And I left the water running, but stupid me, I didn't think about the electric bill and let the water run hot all night and it ran out in the middle of the night, I'm sure, and that was the reason my shower was ice cold this morning and it was the worst way to start a cold day so I couldn't get warm all day."
She sighed, inducing me to wear a half sympathetic glance, a slight nod, and swallow, wondering if I should speak. Again, no need.
"And so I really am gonna need to get an ice scraper. I mean, I had one for the longest time; kept it in my driver's side car door, ya know? It's a blue one from Green Valley Bank, they give 'em out every Christmas. They're not the best, but they don't do half bad. I know I had it during the ice storms last year and the year before that.
"I sure wish I could park in a real garage. The carport is starting to lean and Harold says he can come fix it because he still has all his tools."
Sure sounds convincing the second time.
But anyway, it keeps the snow off but not the frost. I looked and looked for that ice scraper this morning. Of course, I had to pry the door open and start the engine. It barely wanted to crank. I was so scared I wouldn't get it to start..."
She paused, for no explainable reason. I made a sound like a dog after dinner, a satisfied "hmmm" from deep in my throat.
Apparently this sound was enough to kick start the next onslaught of words:
"But it started up, thank goodness, and then I realized it was nearly empty. I didn't wanna keep it running and run outta gas. So I shut it off and looked around for the ice scraper.
"I looked under the seat, in the passenger door, the back seat, even in the trunk around by the spare tire underneath the back floorboards of the trunk. Nothing. So, I turned on the car again and waited to see if the defrost would thaw it out. I heated some water on the stove since I didn't have any hot tap water," she stopped to laugh at the irony, continuing a strained chuckle through her nose until I was forced to emit a fake giggle that didn't even convince me.
"And so, I got some hot water and poured it on the windshield. Of course, it only got the driver's side but that was enough to look through until I had to get to work and thankfully, I didn't run out of gas.
"But do you know what?" (She waited; apparently, this was the punch line. Perhaps the flood of words was drying up...)
"I got to work and there was that stupid ice scraper, right there on the passenger seat under my hat the entire time!"
Reasonably good punch line, albeit a long wait.
"Well, I gotta go, so good to talk to you again!"
The breeze was off and blowing towards the exit. I watched after her, mind whirling from the wordy assault. I took a sip of my latte. It was cool.
I felt a breeze, then the breeze stopped and walked back to my table, plunking itself down. I looked up into the face of the monopolizer.
Greeting me like a long lost friend, she plunged into her verbal stream and paddled furiously through her words.
The first splash of words hit my ears like this: "So, I know it's been snowy and cold and icy and everything and the weather man called for another zero temperature tonight."
Hello to you, too!
"And anyway, did you know it's gonna be ten below wind chill? My dog came in and stayed in my bedroom with the door closed and the space heater on. That's the only way the two of us could even begin to stay warm; I had to let the water drip in the kitchen so it wouldn't freeze like last time and I had to call the plumber but Harold said I didn't need to call anyone as he could come and fix it since he still has all his tools but then, (she took a breath here) he would have to drive all the way from home and I told him not to bother since it would be more than 20 minutes one way out of his way and so I just told him not to."
She blinked twice here and swallowed as I fished for a response. Thankfully, I didn't need one as her "ramblogue" continued:
"And I left the water running, but stupid me, I didn't think about the electric bill and let the water run hot all night and it ran out in the middle of the night, I'm sure, and that was the reason my shower was ice cold this morning and it was the worst way to start a cold day so I couldn't get warm all day."
She sighed, inducing me to wear a half sympathetic glance, a slight nod, and swallow, wondering if I should speak. Again, no need.
"I sure wish I could park in a real garage. The carport is starting to lean and Harold says he can come fix it because he still has all his tools."
Sure sounds convincing the second time.
But anyway, it keeps the snow off but not the frost. I looked and looked for that ice scraper this morning. Of course, I had to pry the door open and start the engine. It barely wanted to crank. I was so scared I wouldn't get it to start..."
She paused, for no explainable reason. I made a sound like a dog after dinner, a satisfied "hmmm" from deep in my throat.
Apparently this sound was enough to kick start the next onslaught of words:
"But it started up, thank goodness, and then I realized it was nearly empty. I didn't wanna keep it running and run outta gas. So I shut it off and looked around for the ice scraper.
"I looked under the seat, in the passenger door, the back seat, even in the trunk around by the spare tire underneath the back floorboards of the trunk. Nothing. So, I turned on the car again and waited to see if the defrost would thaw it out. I heated some water on the stove since I didn't have any hot tap water," she stopped to laugh at the irony, continuing a strained chuckle through her nose until I was forced to emit a fake giggle that didn't even convince me.
"And so, I got some hot water and poured it on the windshield. Of course, it only got the driver's side but that was enough to look through until I had to get to work and thankfully, I didn't run out of gas.
"But do you know what?" (She waited; apparently, this was the punch line. Perhaps the flood of words was drying up...)
"I got to work and there was that stupid ice scraper, right there on the passenger seat under my hat the entire time!"
Reasonably good punch line, albeit a long wait.
"Well, I gotta go, so good to talk to you again!"
The breeze was off and blowing towards the exit. I watched after her, mind whirling from the wordy assault. I took a sip of my latte. It was cool.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Closed door policy
He stood for a long time at the doorway, waiting.
Should he go in?
He shifted his weight, raised his hand deliberately to knock. His hand froze.
Coward!
He thought he heard someone inside, and instinctively put his hand back down and took a step back.
He smiled, waiting for the door to open. He didn't want the "deer in the headlights" look if it did.
He'd be ready, smiling and agreeable.
But the door didn't open and his smile soon faded.
There is was again. He was sure she was inside, listening on the other side of the door. He was glad there wasn't a peep hole. No evidence he was being watched, just a nagging suspicion he was being listened for.
He cleared his throat, loudly, and tried to make noises to see if the insider would open the door on hearing.
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and knocked a few short raps before he could talk himself out of it.
The door remained closed.
She was hiding, waiting it out, he decided. She didn't want to give him the pleasure of finding her.
Two could play this game. He leaned against the porch railing. Should he whistle? He wasn't going to fall for this one. In fact, he'd wait a few minutes, then knock again.
He waited, but only a few seconds. Time ticked by painfully, no matter how nonchalant he wanted to be.
His hand banged on the door impatiently. How he wanted to see her!
"I know you're in there," his voice rose. Why did shout that? He was going to play it so cool. Now he was losing his cool, and quickly.
"Open up, I know you're home!"
Nothing.
Only the sound of the telephone ringing inside. Hey, she'd answer it, and give away her position.
Three rings. Four. Five.
Oh, no, the answering machine. Her voice greeting.
A male voice coming on. He couldn't distinguish the words.
Hmm.
He felt foolish. What if the voice belonged to her new boyfriend? What if he was on his way here and she wanted nothing more than to run out the back door and into his waiting arms?
He turned to leave.
No, he would not leave. He had every right to be here.
She was his wife. This was his house. He had every right to be here.
Should he go in?
He shifted his weight, raised his hand deliberately to knock. His hand froze.
Coward!
He thought he heard someone inside, and instinctively put his hand back down and took a step back.
He smiled, waiting for the door to open. He didn't want the "deer in the headlights" look if it did.
He'd be ready, smiling and agreeable.
But the door didn't open and his smile soon faded.
There is was again. He was sure she was inside, listening on the other side of the door. He was glad there wasn't a peep hole. No evidence he was being watched, just a nagging suspicion he was being listened for.
He cleared his throat, loudly, and tried to make noises to see if the insider would open the door on hearing.
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and knocked a few short raps before he could talk himself out of it.
The door remained closed.
Two could play this game. He leaned against the porch railing. Should he whistle? He wasn't going to fall for this one. In fact, he'd wait a few minutes, then knock again.
He waited, but only a few seconds. Time ticked by painfully, no matter how nonchalant he wanted to be.
His hand banged on the door impatiently. How he wanted to see her!
"I know you're in there," his voice rose. Why did shout that? He was going to play it so cool. Now he was losing his cool, and quickly.
"Open up, I know you're home!"
Nothing.
Only the sound of the telephone ringing inside. Hey, she'd answer it, and give away her position.
Three rings. Four. Five.
Oh, no, the answering machine. Her voice greeting.
A male voice coming on. He couldn't distinguish the words.
Hmm.
He felt foolish. What if the voice belonged to her new boyfriend? What if he was on his way here and she wanted nothing more than to run out the back door and into his waiting arms?
He turned to leave.
No, he would not leave. He had every right to be here.
She was his wife. This was his house. He had every right to be here.
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