Testimony of a Wretched Soul

Spirituality is a strange thing. Once you fully commit your selfish will to God’s Holy Plan, life starts to look a little different. Complete trust in the LORD requires daily death to yourself and your ego. For example, I wasn’t sure what I was going to write about today, but I had a gentle nudge from God whispering in my soul: “Write about Me.” And for any Christian, especially one who has tried to fit into this world and follow Christ at the same time, there is a moment’s hesitation. “What will people think? How will this make me look?” But I have recently given my whole self to God, meaning that it no longer matters what people think or how I look to them. I no longer live for this world, but for His glorious Kingdom. While this brings a certain kind of freedom and hefty weight lifted from your shoulders, it also kind of feels a little like lunacy.

And that’s okay.

I have been raised in the church since I was 3-years-old. My dad would take me to our little Foursquare church every Sundaymorning and Wednesday night. Like anyone who was brought up in the church, you learn your key Bible verses and songs and take everything you hear as Gospel (is that a pun?). Eventually, you accept Jesus as your Savior (sometimes multiple times because you are an anxious child and just want to make sure your spot in Heaven is secure). For myself, I accepted Christ as my LORD and Savior when I was 8-years-old. And I continued to go to church, learn my verses, went to church camp. I even elected to be baptized when I was 14. I remember having this clean feeling when I came out of the water. I was elated!

 

Like most teenagers, though, I slipped up. When a youth leader I looked up to (a lot) suddenly left and went against everything I had been taught and believed in, I stopped going to church regularly. I had plenty of excuses too: play rehearsal, work, friends to hang out with, and being plain “too tired.” I reassured myself that it was okay because my mom was a Christian and she didn’t go to church. So I was fine too, right?

Well, when you don’t go to church and you lead a rather tumultuous home life, combined with depression, anxiety, and OCD, AND you aren’t praying, reading the Bible, or really doing anything related to God, He kind of slips into the background. And you leave Him there, thinking that you’ve handled it “okay” so far. You’ve been Saved and baptized – it’s all good. 

God loves you anyway.

Plus, when you keep God in the background of your heart and mind, you can feel less guilty about the “bad” stuff you do. I was a pretty good kid (in my opinion), though. Didn’t party all the time, didn’t do drugs, or smoke. I went to school, was in the “gifted” program, involved in theatre, had a job. I made it home by curfew, but I still snuck out at 2 in the morning to hang out with friends. But even then, we just went to parks to chat or went on walks. But then things fall apart.

I’ve written before about my breakdown when I was 19, and you better believe that I brought God back to the forefront of my mind as I thought I was losing it. I needed Him to help me, and I begged Him to everyday. And then as things slowly got better, I went back to how I lived before… I talked to Him less and less, didn’t read my Bible as much. I focused on work and friends and trying to be “normal.”

Then my mom died.

Mom passed away suddenly and tragically. And I was mad. How come God got to have her instead of me? I was only 21! I still needed my mom! I leaned on God to get me through, but I still did not yield to Him completely. So for the next 6 years, I ran from Him. I turned to Him occasionally, going through phases of re-dedicating my life to Him, but it never lasted. I still had so much anger and sadness and trusting God seemed like an impossible task. I could barely trust other human beings, let alone the God who let all these people in my life die, including my mom.

I still considered myself a believer. At the end of the day, I still believed that Christ lived in me and that I had a home in Heaven. I just didn’t know what to do with myself until I got there. I didn’t want to bend, to give up that control of my life to Him. But I was smart, I could figure this “life” stuff out. Who cared if I was miserable? As long as I did what people expected of me and I made it look like I was “okay” then everything would be just fine, right?

 

(My mother and I the day I was baptized a second time)

Wrong.

I went down the wrong path. I lost my way. I spent six months living a sinful and Godless life. But I had a job people assumed was perfect for me that paid well. I lost a little weight. I appeared to be “okay” but I was spinning out of control. This led me to getting into trouble and I found myself in complete and utter despair. I had put myself in a situation that resulted in my arrest. 

Me! How had I let things get so out of control? How had I fallen so far?

I always knew that God sometimes took drastic measures to get the attention of the person He is desperate to reach. I just didn’t think my situation was so drastic… apparently it was. I was forced to depend solely on God, literally brought to my knees by my mistakes and despair. I begged Him for forgiveness and laid my whole life on the line. I prayed that God would use my life and my soul and all of my being. I prayed that He take control of the wheel because I couldn’t drive the car without crashing.

I needed my boyfriend to push me that extra step, though. We had both gotten in trouble and God brought him to his knees as well. And woah buddy, did God get a hold of Chris. He was a brand new Christian putting me to shame! While I picked up my prayer life and devotional reading, I still wasn’t completely letting go. But then Chris handed me a book that opened my eyes to what I had always known, but never fully accepted.

 

 (No, he did not keep the mustache)

Heaven is Real, But so is Hell, by Vassula Ryden, changed everything for me. Vassula is a woman who receives messages directly from God, angels, Mother Mary.... and when you read them, as well as her experiences with spiritual warfare, you know she is telling the truth and that God is yearning for you just as He yearned for Vassula. For the first time in a long time, the words of Jesus came alive to me. I woke up one morning and wanted to read the Bible. I had to read my devotional. And I needed to pray.

www.tlig.org (Vassula's Website)

I gave it all to Him. I surrendered it all to Him. He has been trying to show me His love and grace for so long and I just kept turning my back to Him, thinking He couldn’t possibly still want the broken mess I had become. But that’s exactly how He wanted me! God works best in our weaknesses. And if I hadn’t screwed everything up as badly as I had, I would have continued to think that I could “do it all” on my own. I needed to mess up so that He could put me back together. I needed to make room for Him to fully encompass my soul. Once I did? Peace.

I heard Jesus for the first time in a long time. He reassured me of His love and told me He wanted to fill me with His joy. He told me how happy He was that I had stepped back onto the path of righteousness. And I was so happy! I am so happy! I know what my purpose is and I know that I have Christ right by my side, helping me glorify Him. He used Chris to help bend my will, as well. Chris could tell that I was still holding back something and that I hadn’t fully trusted God yet. But His passion and love for God is almost infectious. You can’t help but see how Jesus changed his whole life for the greater good.

When I stopped talking and started listening, that’s when He swooped in and reminded me of all the love He has for us through His messages to Vassula as well as His words to Chris and myself. Surrendering completely to God has also made it clear that Chris and I are partners and a team on this journey. We work well together and we intend on completing our goals and mission from God. It’ll be a long one, but it’s not anything we can’t do without Christ.

I pray for those who read this. Don’t run from Him. You can’t. If God has his sights on you, He WILL grasp a hold of you and He won’t let go. Let Him open your eyes and hearts. Don’t wait until it takes drastic measures to get your attention. It’s much easier if you just let Him in. God is all love and mercy, and He will never turn away the one who knocks on His door. This world isn’t forever, but thankfully God is.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, 

the first and the last,

the beginning and the end.” 

– Revelation 22:13

Phoebe-doodle

I couldn’t stop myself. 

She looked just like her, she needed a new home, and she was free.

When I was 18-years-old, my mom gave away our labradoodle, Stella, without telling me. She was 6 and I adored her. I was away at my freshman year of college when my mom got rid of her. Stella needed a surgery on one of her ears that my parents couldn’t afford (I could, but no one bothered to ask me) so my mother gave her to a vet technician at our vet so that Stella could have the surgery – on the condition we never tried to have contact with her again. So I left for school and never saw Stella again. 

So in October 2015, when I saw an ad on a Facebook page for a labradoodle named Remi who needed a new home, I jumped at the chance. Did I already have two dogs? Yes. Did I care? Absolutely not. I was unstoppable when it came to getting her. 

My friend Emily came with me to pick her up, just like she did with Luna. When we arrived at the house (in some small town I don’t remember the name of) she greeted us at the door, jumping and happy to see us like we were old friends. The woman I had been corresponding with had let me know she would be gone with her three kids and her soon to be ex husband would be waiting with the dog. I saw quickly that Remi had not been properly taken care of. I could smell that her ears hadn’t been cleaned and were most likely infected. All her belongings consisted of a ¼ bag of dog food, a leash, two bowls, and one toy that had clearly never been played with as it looked brand new.

We opened the door to the car and she jumped in without provocation, like she was ready to go for a ride with her new friend. The man didn’t really seem to care that Remi was leaving. He didn’t even say goodbye. I was never more sure of how right my decision had been right then. 

 

The whole way home, Remi was trying to climb up into the front seat just to be closer to us. We were laughing the whole way home because she was so strong and hard to get to stay in the backseat. We had also both decided Remi was not the right name for this 2 ½ -year-old wild animal, so we tried to brainstorm names. Gracie? No… that was my friend’s dog’s name. Rosey? Onyx? No... none of them fit.

Once we got her home and saw her running like a crazy woman around the yard, we decided on Phoebe (Like from the Friends episode where Phoebe runs crazy?)as her name. We let out Juliet and Luna to meet their new sister. Phoebe loved them immediately, and Luna found a new friend right away. 

 

Juliet was more tentative at first. She was used to being the biggest and the oldest, now. While Phoebe was still younger, she was a lot bigger. And all muscle.

Getting Jules and Phoebe to get along took longer than I thought. They fought over dominance twice, and when Phoebe drew blood and left a scar on Juliet’s nose, I set Phoebe straight and Juliet both straight: I was Alpha, neither of them were. Juliet still asserts her dominance, but now Phoebe steps aside. She knows when to back down and when it’s play time.

I was afraid to tell my dad about bringing her home, so I waited two whole weeks before I called and told him (he was in California at the time). At first, I just sent him a picture of Phoebe. He responded with a sad face because he automatically assumed it was a picture of our dog Stella. When I replied it wasn’t Stella, I got no response. So I called and told him about Phoebe and how I got her. He wasn’t upset, didn’t lecture me about the three dogs. He simply marveled at how much they look alike and asked if I had some closure about Stella now. And to my surprise, I did. I didn’t have that little lingering spark of anger at my mom for taking her from me without letting me say goodbye.

 

(Stella on the left, Phoebe on the right)

Phoebe was right at home from the start. She slept with me every night, sometimes even sharing the same pillow as me because she likes to lay right next to you. When you pet her and stop, she paws at you to get you to keep going because she will let you know when you’re done, not you! ;) 

When my dad came back from California, he fell in love with Phoebe as well. She loves to snuggle and nap with him in his recliner. Luna and Phoebe will cuddle with him in his bed too.

 

Phoebe is 4-years-old now and still living happily with Juliet and Luna. She still has ear issues, but that comes with her specific breed. We just have to keep them clean.

Phoebe has truly fallen in love with my boyfriend Chris. She listens to him more than anyone else and loves to be by his side. He loves her just as much, making sure she gets her walks, plenty of bones, and treats. Oh, and peanut butter.

A friend once told me that rescue dogs just love so much, and that is so true with Phoebe. She just wants to be with people and other dogs. She loves her snuggle time with all of us, including Luna. Their newest thing is lying next to one another back to back on the bed or when they are taking a break outside from running and playing.

Three dogs is a lot. I don’t know if I will ever have three dogs again, who knows. It’s a lot of work. But all three of them are worth every  minute and I would never change them for anything in the world. They bring me joy when I am down and show me such unconditional love. No one quite loves like a dog. 

And my three girls love. 

Emma Tess

It’s hard to lose your childhood dog. 

Emma was our beloved miniture schnauzer that we had for 14 years. She was a Christmas present for me when I was 10-years-old. I remember waiting for my brother and sister-in-law to come over so we could all start opening presents. At ten, that was a long wait when you woke up at like 6:00 AM because you were so excited.

I came out of the guest bedroom where I had been trying to take a nap to pass the time. Everyone was looking at me expectantly. “What?” I asked. My brother, still in his coat and standing, motioned toward a small box in the middle of the floor. I recognized it immediately as a Beanie Baby box, as I was a collector. But why would they all be looking at me to open it like it was something huge?

I made my way to the box and kneeled down next to it, gently opening the top. The box was no bigger than 6 inches tall, so it was pretty small. As I looked into the box, I saw a small, dark gray Beanie Baby dog.

Then it’s head moved. 

My mouth dropped. I had been begging for a puppy! And they got me one! I gingerly scooped her up and held her to my chest as I thanked everyone. I don’t remember much else that morning other than taking pictures with a new camera, playing with my new little puppy, and debating on a name for Emma. Dad wanted to call her Tess but mom thought Emma was a good name. I decided that her name would be Emma Tess, then.

 

At 10-years-old, you don’t know the responsibility of taking care of a dog. You’re just a kid. Playing and school and sports took up my time. So while Emma was my Christmas present, she really became my mom’s dog as mom stayed home during the day. 

Mom had Emma well trained. All she had to do when Emma was outside alone and starting to walk through  mom’s garden, mom would just started banging on the window until Emma looked at her. Mom would say through the window, “no” and Emma would just walk out of the garden and back onto the grass. Mom would give her her haircuts too, making Emma look pristine. She brushed her every day and cleaned and combed her little beard. They were inseperable. Even shortly before my mom passed, she’d lay in bed in the mornings and drink coffee while Emma slept behind her, squished between mom’s 800 pillows and the headboard of their bed. You’d know where she was because you could look into the little opening see her little beard and nose sticking out. It was her favorite napping place. 

 

When mom died, Emma wasn’t the same. You could tell she was just melancholy. And I had no idea how to care for her the way mom did. During Emma’s remaining 4 years of life, her health steadily, and then rapidly, declined. I couldn’t keep her as clean as mom could, not with jobs and school. Dad couldn’t either. 

By the summer of 2014, Emma was blind and deaf. She couldn’t eat solid food anymore, just canned. Or, we would even soak her food in hot water to make it soft. Then she just stopped eating.

Truth be told, we should have put Emma down after mom died. She just was never the same and her quality of life declined. She didn’t have the same amount of attention that my mom would give her every day. But we didn’t want to let go of her. She was a part of my mom, and letting her go meant letting another piece of mom go too.

It was the beginning of June when I took her to the vet to be put down. One of our lifelong neighbors came with me as I had planned on going alone since dad had to work. She insisted and I’m glad she did.

The night before, I stayed up late. Got Emma to eat some eggs with milk and then just held her while I cried in the living room recliner. She was wheezing because it had become hard for her to breathe. It would get easier for her after she coughed, but it would come back in a few minutes. I realized that night that she was coughing up dried blood from her lungs.

I put her in bed with me, trying to keep one hand on her to keep her from falling off the bed when she would get up to cough. By 2 in the morning, I had to put her back in her kennel because she had spit up so much on my comforter. I cried as I put her in there, knowing that I couldn’t even sleep with her in my bed one last time.

My neighbor came over earlier in the morning, around 9 or 10. I had Emma wrapped up in a blanket and handed her to my neighbor to hold while I drove to the vet. She gently stroked her head and cooed into her ear that she was going to be with my mom now. Silent tears fell down my cheeks as I drove. 

When we arrived, I took Emma from my neighbor and the gravity of what was about to happen started to kick in. My stomach was tight and I could barely talk. My neighbor was kind enough to talk to the receptionist for me, telling them what I was there for. They were all so very kind and started to offer Emma treats and little pats on her head, telling her she was “a good girl.”

They immediately got us in a room. I elected to go in alone so I could say my goodbyes and be with her when she passed. I couldn’t be with my mom when she died, so I sure as hell would hold her dog when she did.

I sat in a chair with Emma sitting in my lap. She began yelping loudly, screaming almost, which just made everything worse. Because of her lack of sigh and sound, she could smell other animals and people but had no idea where they all were. I struggled to get her to stop, soothing her and trying to comfort her, but she just kept going. The vet came in and gave Emma the sedative to calm her down.

Emma immediately stopped crying, and went limp. Her breathing drastically slowed and she urinated all down my jeans. I knew she was close to being gone just with the sedative in her system. I wept as I held her and stroked her now light gray fur (a stark contrast to the black she was when she was little). I started talking to her through hushed sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” I wept. “I wasn’t a good dog mom to you… not like mom. But now, you get to go home to be with mom and I know she’s waiting for you.”

She continued to breathe shallowly as I cried. 

“We should have let you go so much sooner,” I bawled. “We were selfish and I’m so sorry you’re in this pain. And even though I wasn’t a good enough dog mom to you, I will make sure you aren’t alone when you go see mom.”

The vet came back in with the big shot and asked me to put her on the table. I laid her fragile little body down on the table and pet her side as they inserted the needle. The vet had a stethescope to her heart. They hadn’t even finished injecting the clear fluid into her leg when the vet said, “She’s already gone.” 

She and the technician left the room to give me a little more time. I completely lost it in the privacy of the small room. My little Beanie Baby puppy lay still on the table, no more pain or suffering. But I felt, in that instant, like I had lost my mom all over again. I ran my hands over her body while I wept, trying not to scream. At one point I actually had to pull on my hair to keep from wailing out loud, lowering my head as I did so.

I pulled myself together by the time they came back in, along with my neighbor. I paid the receptionist and had them explain when we would get Emma’s ashes back. I drove home in silence, dropping my neighbor off before going to my own house.

I was greeted by Juliet and Luna. Juliet could sense something was wrong and Luna seemed pretty much unphased. I crawled into the recliner I held Emma in the night before and wailed. Juliet sat by the chair, dutifully waiting for me to hug her if I needed. Luna stared at me in confusion. 

Juliet went through a grieving period even though she and Emma weren’t exactly best buds. She wouldn’t greet dad and I at the door when we came home, didn’t play with Luna, and pretty much just curled up on the couch for a week. I didn’t blame her. 

We still have Emma’s ashes sitting in the dining room in the box they gave them to us in. Dad and I have talked about taking some her ashes to mom’s grave, but haven’t done it just yet. We might still spread them in the yard she loved as well. Or both. We’ve taken our time with it as life has gone on without Emma. 

She will always be my little Beanie Baby puppy, though. I wasn’t there for her when mom died, but I was there for her when it was her time. That, along with knowing she’s with my mom again, makes the pain of letting her go just a little bit easier. 

 

 

  

WBE and Me

I have been through quite a lot in my 27-years of life. A lot of death, a lot of trauma. I lost my grandma when I was 9 as well as my pastor within a month, my great grandpa at 12, great grandma at 13. My 10-year-old cousin died of cancer when I was 15, followed shortly by her little brother ten months later when I was 16. There were a few others in there as well, but these were the ones that had the greatest impact. I actually had a “funeral” section in my closet by my late teens. At that point, I figured I had grief figured out. I’d lost so many people at that point that I didn’t think it got much harder.

I was dead wrong. 

Nothing prepared me for the sudden loss of my grandpa on my dad’s side when I was 18. During that summer, I had been visiting him every Tuesday. We would have coffee, run errands, go through the paper and ads together. It was simple and sweet and my favorite time with grandpa. 

One particular Monday, I realized we hadn’t finalized a time for me to come over the next day, so I called him. He didn’t answer, but it was after 8 when I called, so I knew he might be sleeping. I left a message for him to call me. Tuesday morning came and I had no call from grandpa. As the morning got later, I started panicking. With all the death in my life, I was terrified whenever someone didn’t call me back or answer the phone. I decided to call him and see what was going on. Relief flooded over me as I heard the busy signal from his line. “Good,” I thought. “If the phone’s busy, that means he’s alive.” Right after I hung up, the phone rang and it was his number. Finally! But when I answered, it was a woman’s voice that I heard on the other end. “Who is this?” I asked, panic rising in my chest. It was my great aunt, my grandpa’s sister. One of the neighbors had called her because grandpa’s paper was in front of his door, and he always grabbed it in the morning. She had the landlord let her into the apartment where she found my grandpa’s body, in his recliner, holding the sports section from the day before. All she said was “he’s gone.”

I burst into tears as I screamed “no” through the phone, over and over again. “No! That’s not possible!” I screamed at her. She suddenly gasped realizing who I was. “Oh my goodness, is this Bailey?” she asked. “Yes,” I sobbed. “I thought you were your mom, sweetie! I’m so sorry!” I kept crying. It was common knowledge that my grandfather and I were very close, so she knew that she had made a mistake. I continued to cry as she asked for my dad’s work phone number. “No,” I said. “I’ll call him.”

Once I hung up, a guttural scream came from me as I threw the phone across the living room and I fell to my knees and wept. I had to go get the phone and call my mom to tell her. I don’t know how she understood me through the tears, but she did and came right home. Then I had to call my dad and tell him that his father had just died. He handled it better than I had on the phone. He came right home as well.

My mom held me when she came home. I couldn’t stop crying. When I saw my dad’s car pull up out front, I went out to meet him. I was devastated, so I knew it had to be worse for him. I gave him a hug and told him how sorry I was. We met mom at the door and he told us how he had had to call his brothers and tell them. He changed and went over to my grandpa’s apartment. I guess his body was still there so I elected to not go. My cousins and uncles went, I believe, but I didn’t want to see him like that. 

This was the first time I had been asked to help plan a funeral. I even wrote his obituary. Dad and I talked about songs to play at the funeral. There were some from when they were kids that my grandpa would have liked, songs that my grandparents used to dance to. I had never told my dad this, but there was a song that always reminded me of my grandpa, though I had heard it in a movie years before. But it had always stuck with me. It’s called “Once Upon a Time” by Jay McShann. My dad listened to it and agreed that it was a good song for the funeral, probably would play it during the recessional past the open casket.

When the day of the funeral came, I cried and cried. Sat with my mom as I looked at the shell of the man who had once been my favorite human being. My cousins consoled me, knowing how close I was with my grandpa. As the funeral came to a close, people began filing down the aisle up to the casket to say goodbye. I went up with my parents and only briefly looked at him. He wasn’t grandpa anymore. And I didn’t get to say goodbye when I still could.

As I started to walk away, my dad stopped me. My grandfather had promised me as a little girl that when he passed, I would get his and grandma’s wedding bands. All of grandma’s jewelry too, actually, which was all costume save for her wedding ring, band, and one other ring. My cousins all agreed to this as well. So while I went to the car with my mom, my dad removed my grandfather’s wedding band and glasses to give to me.

When dad got to the car he asked, “Did you see your uncles at the end of the service?” “I didn’t really look, I guess,” I replied. I had been too focused on the casket. “Sweetie,” he began. “When the song you picked out, ‘Once Upon a Time,’ started playing, your uncles started bawling.”

“Really?” I asked, wondering why. “Yeah,” he said. “They asked me if I remembered the song. I didn’t, but they did. You picked out a song that grandma and grandpa used to dance to.” I felt goose bumps all over my arms. Somehow, I connected this song to them with no knowledge that it was a special song for them all along. I had no clue.

“Wow,” was all I could say. I was still pretty numb. 

I have posted before about my mental break down after my grandfather’s death. Well, that happened about two months later, just after my 19^th birthday. After I left school and went home, I had a dream one night.

My dad and I, as well as a few other nameless faces, were at an outdoor burial of my grandpa. I was sobbing in the dream, looking at my grandpa’s lifeless form in the ground. He was in a suit and they had just covered him up to his head with a blanket. People began to shovel dirt onto him, beginning the actual burial. I remember watching him closely in the dream… and I noticed something. As people began to drift away from the burial, including my dad, I saw that whenever pieces of dirt landed on his face, he was blowing them away from his mouth. And then when a whole shovelful landed on him, he swiftly moved the blanket to cover his face from the falling dirt.

“Stop!” I screamed at the people shoveling dirt on him. “Stop! He’s alive! He’s breathing and moving! Stop!” I could see my grandpa’s form stir under the blanket. The nameless faces shoveling dirt backed away as I leaned in to speak to my grandfather. He pulled the blanket from his face, and his eyes were open. “Grandpa, what are you doing? Why are you letting them do this to you? You’re still alive!” I remember, very clearly, the words he spoke to me next, as though he was really right next to me. “Because it doesn’t matter, punkin’(his pet name for me),” he said with warmth mixed with sadness. “I know it’s hard, but it’s my time to go. And when it’s your time, it’s your time.”

I started crying again. “But I don’t want you to go,” I cried. “I know, punkin’,” he said. “But it will be okay. And I’ll see you again.”

“Okay, grandpa,” I sobbed. “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too, punkin’,” he said. 

That’s the first and only time in my life that I have awoken crying from a dream. It was as real as the day of his funeral, and I had lost him all over again. But I was able to say goodbye this time. Tell him I love him. It was nowhere near good enough compared to having him alive, but it was better than nothing. 

I spoke to my therapist about the dream. She helped me realize that the dream was real, in a way. In that my grandfather did speak to me through the only channel he could, to let me know that it was his time when he died. And that he was okay with it.

I still firmly believe that the dream was real. And I have prayed to have one like it but with my mom. That dream gave me closure, something I’m not sure I will ever get from losing my mom. But it would be something.

I’ve had more dreams with him in them, equally as real, but never as intense. One time we were walking on a roof of a building in the rain with umbrellas over our heads. I remember telling him that I had wanted to talk to my mom (no offense). He simply replied, “Yeah, but you got me instead.” 

The dreams have lessened over the years, and I still haven’t had a dream where I could talk to my mom. At least not one that has been meaningful and real.

I’m grateful for the dreams I had with my grandfather though. It reminds me that I’m not alone, and that he’s still up there watching out for me, along with all the others I’ve lost.

Someday we will be together again in God’s heavenly kingdom. And until that day arrives, until it becomes “my time,” I will wait.

I think I’m okay with that. What’s a lifetime compared to eternity?

 

 

Awakening

There comes a time in everyone’s life that they begin to see their family for who they really are. The people you’ve trusted your whole life and you rely on for support and encouragement. It’s heartbreaking when they start to show their true colors and you realize that all they want from you is to play the game by their rules, and when you don’t, they take the ball and go home because you don’t “play” the way they want – because that’s the only way they can control you.

For my boyfriend, his family likes to use him has the proverbial whipping boy. He can’t do anything right, even when he does. And when he reaches out to them, he is met with barrages of harassing texts filled with lies, false accusations, and psychological abuse.

For my family, they like to cover their pain and misery with money (not so different from my boyfriend’s family, actually). My mother was a victim of sexual abuse from a very young age by her father. This led to a lifetime of depression, anxiety, and substance abuse. While she did finally change her life, the majority of it was stolen from her by what her dad did.

A few years ago, my brother approached me with a letter from my mom. It was written the day before my brother’s 16^th birthday and it was a detailed account of the incest abuse she went through and a call to my brother to protect me and love me because that’s what siblings are supposed to do.

My brother claims that when she gave him the letter (at 16-years-old), he never read it. I didn’t question him about it. But red flags started popping up when he asked me to not tell my dad about the letter, or anyone else for that matter. Why? Because he read it and kept it secret and only deigned to share it with me three years after she died?

My mother’s dad passed away earlier this year. I had no relationship with him due to his molestation and raping of young girls. My mother broke that cycle of incest abuse that was generations long with my brother and I, and for that I am eternally grateful. My aunts did the same. However…

Shortly before they returned for his funeral, I spoke to one of my aunts about the letter, finally. Telling her about what was in it and how my brother had insisted that we keep it secret from them. She expressed interest in reading the letter when she came. Little did I know, I was walking into an ambush.

My aunts invited me to lunch, and proceeded to tell me how I was a product of chaos, how I had no real parents because of my mom’s alcoholism and my dad’s lack of responsibility (they didn’t say this last part in so many words, but it was the point they wanted to get across). When I mentioned the letter, they both told me to burn it. No! This was from my mother to me and to my brother. I’m not going to set my mom’s words on fire! I’m not going to hide the truth of what happened.

Because the truth is, they don’t want to deal with it. They don’t want to deal with me. To quote one of my aunts, in an email they once “accidentally” copied my mom into, it’s due to my mother and father that my “brother and I are “so f***ed up.” They judged my mother for how she spent money and blamed my father for her years of substance abuse. What about their father? Why did he get off scot-free for his crimes against his children and nieces?

Shortly after the ambush, I got into some trouble. While it has ultimately turned out to be the biggest blessing for my boyfriend and myself, they were pissed. I had shamed the family by being with him. And to “repair the damage I caused” I needed to do “a lot of work to regain their trust.” I played their game for a week.

While Chris was stuck in jail, I refused to speak with him for the first few days. And while Chris’s transformation into the amazing man he is today didn’t happen overnight, I witnessed it happen when I started taking his phone calls. We encouraged each other, loved each other, and supported one another. I had to lie to my brother (who was now the sole communication officer to report to my family on how I was doing) about speaking with Chris because I knew he wouldn’t understand or even try to. Chris needed me and I needed him. Somehow (riddle me this, please), he found out we had been speaking and knew the content of our conversations. He called me and told me I had “deceived them all” by my lies and that they would be “stepping back” from me. Just as an explanation, “Stepping back” in my family equates being fully cut off from communicating with them.

I have been blocked by my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents, my cousins, and my brother and his family for almost two months now. No phone calls or texts or emails. No more cards or wishes of love and strength. Completely cut out because I stood by the person I chose to be with.

My father’s family, on the other hand… they have embraced me and Chris with open arms. They were forgiving of the trouble I caused in their lives, the worry and strife. And they continued to check in with me and make sure we were doing everything we were supposed to to get back on track. And we have.

I’ve told my friends and pretty much anyone else who will listen: I’m happy now. For the first time in a very long time, I’m happy. And I’m awake. I idly accepted any and all advice from my mom’s family because they were my link to her. I had never felt good enough for them, so I tried. I went back to college and got my degree, got jobs in my field and worked hours I hated… and I wore myself out. I was miserable and sad and lonely. But I wanted them to be pleased because I wanted their approval that I never felt I really had.

The blessing of “waking up” is that you see people for who they are. My aunts don’t want anyone to know about that letter because it shows that something could have been done to stop the monster that haunted my mother’s dreams. They cover their pain, infidelity, and false images with money, making sure to keep the appearance of a happy and successful life. Because then, no one has to know that they, just like millions of others, are broken. I don’t understand why… brokenness is a part of life. It’s why we call out to God and build the relationship we have with Him. He’s the ultimate physician and healer.

That brokenness is in our souls. It’s why it hurts so horribly and why it aches when it’s called to our attention after we’ve kept it buried in busyness or in the pursuit of building a “normal life.” There is no true “normal” because everyone experiences life differently. And that ache in our souls? That longing that we can’t quite explain? The Bible says it’s because God wants us to fill that longing with Him. That’s what I have done. That’s what Chris has done. That’s what my dad has done. That’s why we can live happily, knowing that we are doing what is right for us.

I’m sure there are more secrets and reasons as to why they have shamed me and cut me out. But the blessing of having Christ in my life is that I am free. I’m free from my lifelong quest of trying to earn approval and be who I thought I was “supposed” to be.

I live a simple life now. I am happy. I am loved.

But most of all? I’m awake.

I’m free.

Luna Belle

Sometimes, your puppy needs another puppy. 

In January of 2014, I was at my part-time job as a receptionist. I worked 2 hours every night and then 5 hours on Saturdays. No one came in Saturdays so I usually spent those hours on assignments from school. The evenings weren’t terribly busy either, so I had some free time on my hands some nights. 

This one particular night, I decided to browse Craigslist. Not for anything specific, just check and see if anything caught my eye. Out of curiosity, I checked out the dog section. Low and behold, a title did catch my eye, posted just minutes before: “Pure bred collie puppies for sale.” Before I  knew what I was doing, I had scrolled through the pictures and was already in love with the tiny little babies and dialing the number at the bottom of screen.

Juliet was still pretty rowdy at 3, and she needed a playmate. Emma was 14 and nearing the end of her time with us, so she wasn’t up for playing with Jules much. Since I had gone back to school and dad had remarried, retired, and started a new job, Juliet was home with just Emma quite a bit. Emma liked to sleep all day so Juliet didn’t have much to do.

The woman on the phone was very nice. I asked how many female puppies she had left. She told me that in the 15 minutes since she posted, 6 of the 10 puppies had already been reserved. I set up a time to come visit the remaining female puppies that weekend.

Just as a preface, I was living at home with my dad. I knew he wouldn’t want me to get another dog, but I was planning on caring for her just as I had Juliet. I also knew the financial responsibility I was getting into as well. But I knew that he wouldn’t want another one. So I played my cards carefully (sorry dad, but I really wanted her!)

When I went home that night I started just by showing him the pictures of the puppies. He said they were cute but didn’t say much else. I never directly asked him if I could get another dog – because I knew if he said no, I would be disobeying (was I 24, yes, but I was still living under his roof). I casually dropped the line that I was going out there to meet the girl puppies left, but that didn’t mean anything. “We don’t need another dog,” he said. “I know,” I paused. “I’m just looking, daddy.”

Yeah, no, I was going to get one of the puppies no matter what.

I drove out to Prole, Iowa, about 30 minutes away, to meet the young pups. They were all too young to be taken from their mother, so I really was just going to pick one out. The woman had even told me over the phone to bring a collar so they could put it on whatever puppy I chose to mark her as reserved. I had already been studying the Craiglist post daily, and one puppy stood out more than the others. Her markings were beautiful, and she was marbled in color, with the sable, white, brown, and black fur. 

When I arrived, I was stunned at the large house on an acreage with long circle drive going back to the house, where they told me to park. I could see the mom and dad in a little wooden paddock that had an opening to an extremely large yard. I went to say hi to the parents (they were both gorgeous dogs) when I got out of the car. They were standing on their back legs with their front paws over the gate. Hyper and excited, they showered me with kisses.

The woman’s husband came out of the house and asked if I was Bailey from on the phone. I said yes, and he led me towards a garage that was connect to the paddock with the puppies. When I showed the woman’s husband the picture, he knew which little girl I was talking about. “Yeah, she’s still available,” he said. “I’ll go get her.” I waited as he went through the connecting door to the paddock. He returned within a few minutes, holding the smallest puppy I had ever seen. She was only about 4 weeks old and just snuggled against me as I held her. 

“Yup,” I said without hesitation. “She’s the one.” After a few minutes of cuddling, I reluctantly gave her back along with the puppy collar I had purchased. He slid it loosely over her little neck. “Alright, then,” he said. “We are planning on having them all ready to go by Feburary 12^th or 13^th. Some people are giving the pups as Valentine’s Day gifts.” I smiled, but also knew I had to figure out a way to make a new puppy seem like a good idea to my dad without him outright telling me ‘no.’

“We will give you a call when you can come pick her up,” he said, returning her to her mom. “Sounds like a plan,” I said, already anxious and excited for my new little one for Juliet and I. I decided to spend the next two weeks getting ready for her and trying to think of a name. 

Two weeks took a long time, in my mind. I had almost settled on a name when I got the call I could pick her up on the 13^th. I had outright told my dad I was picking her up that night. Again, he never actually said no. So when I told him, he just said, “She’s gonna be your responsibility!” I reassured him that I could take care of her. He had to work that night so he left before I did to pick up our newest family member.

My friend Emily joined me on the ride to pick her up and bring her home. I was so excited the whole way there. I had already set up a small kennel for her in my room with a little squeaky toy waiting for her. Emily and I discussed names and I told her I was mostly set on the name Luna. She liked it. Wondered if I got the name from something like I had for Juliet. “No… it’s just been floating around my mind and I can’t shake it.”

When we arrived, there was a quick exchange in the garage of money for the puppy. She had doubled in size in the two weeks since I’d seen her last. She was still just as cuddly. I let Emily hold her on the drive home. I firmly decided on Luna for her name as we drove back to my house. Emily would groan every few minutes and laugh.

“What?” I would ask each time. “She keeps drooling on my hand!” she laughed. We figured it was just because she was sleeping on and off during the ride home (I later found out that Luna gets carsick… the drooling only happened around food and when we were in the car, shortly followed by puppy puke). 

We let her do her business in the cold air when we arrived home, and then took her in to meet her siblings. She was still so small. Smaller than Emma. Juliet had been 12 weeks when we brought her home. Luna was only 8 weeks.

 

We set her on the floor in the living room with Juliet. Jules was so excited to see Emily that she didn’t even notice Luna until she tripped over her. Then she was sniffing her all over and trying to figure out who this little new dog was. Emily and I giggled when Juliet lost interest and Luna just sat on the floor watching us. Emily scooped her up and we both jumped onto my bed to snuggle with Luna and let her play with her new little squeaky toy. That was when Juliet got jealous.

Juliet had never once jumped on my bed. Just like she never goes upstairs, she never jumps on anything higher than the couch cushions. But that night, she sprang onto my bed like she had been doing it her entire life just so she could check out Luna some more. Emily and I watched her with curiosity, as Jules had never been around a young puppy. She always was the young one. So when Luna reached for her little squeaky toy, Juliet growled. Emily and I both snapped at Juliet, telling her “no” and protecting Luna with our arms. Juliet jumped off the bed and went back in the living room to pout.

As the night went on and Emily went home, Luna fell asleep and I put her little self into her new kennel. She immediately woke up and began to cry. I figured I’d let her cry it out and fall back asleep. But she just kept crying! I broke and put her up in bed with me, where she snuggled up and immediately fell asleep. Of course.

Dad got home and peeked in to see her. I told him her name and how Juliet had reacted. He just nodded and all he said was, “She is a cute puppy” as he turned to go upstairs to bed.

The next morning I had my 5 hour shift at work, so I took Luna in her little kennel with me. She slept most of the time, ate a little food and drank a little water, but mainly slept. I let her play in the backyard with Juliet when we got home. Juliet was still unsure of Luna, but Luna was definitely not unsure of Jules – she followed her all around the backyard that was filled with snow. She loved her! Juliet had seemed to come to accept her over that afternoon, though she still maintained her dominance. The two were like mother and daughter after a few days, with Juliet bathing Luna like she was her own pup. She still cleans Luna’s face to this day, always making sure to get her eyes and ears clean while Luna closes her eyes and gets her face wash. 

 

 

As Luna got older, her personality came out. She was very vocal, preferring to howl whenever dad or I came home, making us laugh every time. Dad fell in love with her, which made me laugh since he didn’t even want her in the first place. She loves him too. So much so that whenever he comes back from California (where he currently lives part-time with his wife), Luna will pee with excitement when she sees him. Luna loved to run and be chased by Juliet, and visa versa. She was the perfect  playmate. She was wild, too. We joked that Luna was short for “Lunatic,” as she just wanted to chew on sticks and run.

Juliet became noticeably calmer after we had Luna for a time. She took on the roll of a mama and it seemed to age her by years. But the two were never far apart from one another.

Luna turned 3 this last December 28^th. She is still wild and crazy, still loves running like a mad dog and stripping the bark off of sticks and fallen tree branches. She cries when she can’t keep up with other dogs – which is astounding because she runs fast. Makes it horrible to catch her if she ever gets out. She’s still naughty as can be, too. She likes to test the boundaries with us when it comes to commands and rules. For a long time, she wouldn’t come in from the backyard unless you propped the door open and walked up the stairs to the kitchen (my boyfriend ended that REAL quick). But she’s still the same goofball who loves to run and stand on your chest in the morning to wake you up. And she still melts your heart with her goofy and sweet personality.

We figured out this winter that Luna is having seizures. She’s had three so far over several months, but we can’t seem to determine the trigger. She hasn’t had one in almost three months, though, so we are hopeful.

She’s still my baby and my naughty little puppy. And no, she never slept in her kennel again during the night. She’s either curled up on a couch with Jules in the living room or lying in bed with me these days, as she’s gotten much more snuggly… and she still hasn’t lost the softness of her puppy fur so she is a great snuggle buddyJ

Oh, and just an FYI? Do not get two collies if you hate dog fur. They literally lose fur in giant chunks during the summer months. I think it’s worth it, but then again, I’m their mama, so I might just be a touch biased ;)