Some Things Just Are


How can a bird expect not to fly,

Or a lion not to be feared?

How can a flower not expect to be plucked,

Or a dandelion, not be blown.

Cold is expected in the dead of winter,

And heat in the dead of summer.

A tear does not surprise a broken heart,

Nor does a smile a happy face.

And because of you,




Do not surprise me.

For how can a child of God not expect to be blessed?


Search and Never Yield…until it is secure within you



It can’t be explained because the understanding has to be earned.

Some things we have accepted as automatic, really aren’t. We must be grateful and never take God’s wisdom for granted.

Contentment belongs, and therefore, comes from God. The enemy tries to pawn it off as personality traits but it’s far more than that.

Contentment is a treasure we find while reading His word,
Searching for his guidance on bended knees,
Reverencing his presence in song.

It is as if foraging through an old treasure chest and coming upon the rarest of gems. It must not be belittled. Phil 4:11-12

I hope you find it, Oh do I ever.

My Mother, My Cross


You have not loved until you have loved the unlovable, the ugly, the undeserving,
like a mother strung out on drugs and drunk all of the time.

Every ounce of her; you know, the part that held me at night, read to me, bathed and fed me, is absorbed in this addict that reeks of booze.

I know my mother is in there somewhere, because this addict calls me by name and expects me to love her like I love my mom.

This addict plays nice at first.
She laughs where my mother would’ve cried; she does where my mother would’ve slept.

But with every drink…and, taken in secret, a pill here and there, this addict loses her like-ability and fast.

She does not care about me or my children, or even the woman she overtook and is now portraying.

With hatred and selfishness, using my mother’s mouth and body…she destroys everything valuable my mother holds dear, with the words she spews out, the way she moves my mother to stumble and fall.

The daughters she bore, no longer responsive to her need for them, the son disgusted in the mother that allows this to happen.

My mother became just another woman to me. I learned to acknowledge the addict in her, and no longer the mother that gave birth to me, in order to lessen the pain.

If she didn’t care enough to stop, why should I care to be there for her, to respect her and love her?

It just became easier to accept the addict and forget the mother that’s hardly ever there anymore.

Until I grew in my faith, until my views were made to align to my makers, I knew love by what I got from it.

I loved my children. I loved my husband. I loved friends and family. I loved books and music. I loved afternoon naps. I loved them because they gave me something in return.

Until God opened my eyes to my sins and showed me how He loved me in spite of them, I would have gone on in my ignorance.

I thought love was supposed to be easy, but love is hard. Love is dying on the cross…

I have since learned each of us have our own cross to bear, and mine so happens to be to love my mother through her addiction.

When she smells of booze…when she can’t stand…when she is sick from pancreatitis…when she is lonely…

I will allow her to hug me and I will focus only on her touch and not the smell.

I will hold her up and not allow her to fall, and if she falls I will help her up with no condemnation.

I will not run the other way; I will not ignore her and act like I don’t know her.

I will talk with her even though I can’t understand what she is saying.

And in my quest to carry my cross, I will have loved the way He first loved me.

I will have done it and not just spoken of it.




To have one person who will love me,
the beautiful me,
the ugly me,
the sweet me,
the mean me,
the sad me,
the happy me,
the skinny me,
the fat me,
the boring me,
the fun me…
The idea is beautiful.
Problem is, there is only the demand to be loved and none willing to.


Love in the Form of Dirt on the Kitchen Floor


Not long ago, his absence was what filled every minute of my day. I was forced to fight through obstacles of memories and incompleteness with each daily task, whether great or small. And with each obstacle there were promises made, promises to never go to sleep angry, never waste a minute arguing, never question his authority, never cut him with my words. When he got back home, I would take advantage of every moment given. The emptiness of him not being there was painful enough, but the regrets of taking him for granted, now that was what suffocated me at night when I would lay down to sleep, and when I woke for the day.

Only two short weeks later, his presence is no longer new. The shyness and over-pardoning that newness brought forth, is wearing off like the scent of a cheap perfume. As I wash the dishes I see him sweep from the corner of my eye, I want so badly to grab the broom from his hands and show him how to get under the fridge and stove, and up under the cabinets. We have had two weeks of falling asleep in each other’s arms, intertwined one to another, paying no mind to the pins and needles being jabbed in our limbs, hell-bent on not moving indefinitely. And when awake, oh the acts of love that have filled our days, living up to my many promises and I’m sure, his too. I, hanging up the dreaded wet towel left on the side of the bed instead of honoring it with an argument, for it has been one of my most coveted annoyances; he, replacing his short fuses and dominance with patience and gentleness, and I have made sure he knew I noticed with my no “no-s” behind shut doors. But now, the fact that there is dirt about to be left on the floor is threatening to take me back to the place I swore not to go, the place of ungratefulness, the place where I seize to honor and he seizes to be my head.

The interconnection that had been buried among the seven months of his absence lives among our yesterdays, and he sees me now, reads me like a familiar book and I him. Our seventeen long years of marriage birthed beautiful gems such as oneness, and I feed from this oneness as a babe to his mother’s breast. Being someone that felt much like an alien for the part of my life not being with him, does go far to honor such a rear gem as this. My heart is overwhelmed with gratefulness to have all my fears put to sleep once more, fears that he would not love me as he did before he left, that loving completely and generously would be a bygone, that we would have met the end of our love story. Yes, as wild and off the top as they are, these are my secret fears, each and every time he leaves. They are only hushed by his lustful gaze my way in midday, his obscured “need-to-have” grabs here and there, and his “I love you”s. When he is gone, I do not have this to hush my fears to sleep, and they wake, and they play, within my thoughts, like ill-mannered toddlers that never quiet.

He is home now, and he is not sweeping correctly, and I am struggling. The newness has been replaced with normalcy and I fight to not become complacent. Surprisingly, it is not the promises I made, nor my love for him, not even the pain of missing him that keeps my tongue tamed when voicing annoyances, it is the Holy Spirit. It is the Holy Spirit within me when I feel myself rise like a tide, ready to burst through the shoreline of demarcation, reminding me, simply, he is here. He’s not gone. He’s not in danger. He is here and it… it is just dirt.