Some Things Just Are

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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,

Peace,

Forgiveness,

Love,

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

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Contentment.

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

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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.

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Love Me or Not…I’m Still Mom

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Why does loving you have to be so hard?

It is as if you think, since I am a parent I lose the ability to hurt. I have stood in your line of fire for longer than I have wanted, in hopes you would either tire or notice the gaping hole in my heart and seize fire.

…hasn’t happened yet.

I watch you as you share your day with me. You tell me about the fun you’ve had with friends. I struggle to hear through the noise jealously creates. As you continue with your story, I scroll through memories on a projector that has spontaneously formed in my mind, memories of when you spent time with us, your family. You know the ones that love you, believe in you, and need you. I look for the smile I see on your face, the excitement I hear in your voice, but there is only sarcasm, frustration, and boredom. I feel my heart heavy with anger as you continue with your story.

We haven’t been what you have wanted for a long time now.

I still love you even though you aren’t what I want. My dream for you was not one of drugs and a fast food job, nor of a heart that is unwilling to love the God that made you. You are my son, and although I have three other children, you are my only “you”. You are a permanent fixture in my life I need there. Some things you can’t trade in or throw away at will. Some things are deserving of a place in your life simply because of what they are.

Kinda like me, you know, your Mom, the one that birthed you, protected you, loved and cared for you.

I listen and muster up as much interest as I can to hide the disgust and pain I feel. I know that to explain how much it hurts that you want nothing to do with us, or how all we want is for you to love us and want to be a part of us, will only push you further away. At least you are sharing something with me, and so I shake my head, smile, chuckle, throw in a couple of “wows” and try my hardest to see this as a special moment between you and me.

Maturity and experiences have a way of putting things into perspective, and so I dig in and wait, much like a soldier would to prepare for battle. He knows what he’s fighting for. He accepts the inevitable for the sole purpose of winning the battle.

Bring all you got son, I’m not going anywhere.

I’ll be Different

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I’ve failed you once.

I forced my views and when you didn’t conform, I piled on judgement in my need for you to be okay.

Most times, I was too busy keeping score to know when you needed help. I felt you spinning out of control and I wanted to protect you from your niave adolescent self. My expectations came before your hurt and pain, before your desires and interests. I leashed you with my domineering, mothering way, like you leash a dog to keep it from running away, and called that love.

But this time will be different.

Even though I can barely suppress my what ifs, locking them down tight, to keep them from feeding the fears of failing you again, still,  I know this time will be better. I know what it feels like to see you go. I know what it feels like to not know where you are, if you’re eating, if you’re warm, if you’re safe. 

It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen you, held you in my arms, kissed you until you were grossed out, smelled you, I know how much you hated that and secretly loved it at the same time. 

This time, I want so badly to love you with a love that leaves room for you. I want to be as quiet as a feather falling from a birds wing, so that your voice is heard loud and clear, no longer altered or muffled. I want to be as strong as Samson, so that you can make mistakes and not feel like the whole world will come down on you.

And I will, be different for you. This time, I’ll accept you without needing you to be anything more than who you are, ’cause that’s always been enough.

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Love You…always & no matter what

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I’ve loved you with my kisses and hugs, my good night sweet dreams, and lullaby songs.
I’ve loved you with midnight visits to the hospital, bandages and ice packs. I’ve loved you with hours of studying at the kitchen table, and cooked favorites like hot chicken sandwiches.
I’ve loved you on freezing cold bleachers and cheering from sidelines. I’ve loved you with cuddle time on the couch, watching poetry slam on YouTube and on icecream dates,
and tonight

at 2a.m.

I am loving you with a ten hour drive to pick you up, after receiving your phone call today saying,
“Mom,  I’m ready to come home”.

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