When Voice Matters

Counting Mutant and Girly asked me why I haven’t been writing.

I didn't have an answer.

Sure summer’s activities have kept me hopping. When I’m not running around, my body goes into shut-down-recovery mode.

I realized today, underneath it all is this soul sickening truth: voice.

Then I stopped by a dinner with the Parentals. My faux pas was simple enough. As usual it blindsided me. Three days later my ears still sting from the whispered correction.

Parental told about a notorious corner in their neighborhood: a blind intersection that all the residents ignore. As the story wove, it sounded as if Parental thought both the Sister at the table and I were in an accident there at one point in time. I asked Sister if she had.

She said no, but asked me about mine. Answering was my mistake.

Here is what I remember:

I was 15 and my friend freshly 16. A week previous my knee underwent the new endoscopic surgery. I only used crutches for a few days. Without crutches, Friend drove me home after some adventure. We cruised through that infamous blind intersection at about 20mph and met a 70ish Corvette.

Headlights clapped. My knee met Friend’s truck door. We were both a bit rattled, but nothing more. I hobbled the block to my house for Parentals. On the walk back and the rest of the evening Parentals went on and on about God’s miraculous protection that neither of us had a scratch from the accident.

Weeks later, Friend’s insurance company contacted my parents. After a few refusals, Parentals accepted their offer and praised God for the provision. Now they could get braces for me. The check came; shown to me and deposited; all with fan fair and glory.

After that, I never heard about it again. Years ago I determined the money must have absorbed into bills or something. Times were always tough.

Years later, Parentals found a different revenue stream and the braces plan moved forward. I protested; It was my senior year of high school and my desire for braces was simply cosmetic. My sisters needed them. I was put in my place with a lecture on ingratitude towards God. So, I quietly obeyed. In the middle of my senior year my mouth filled with metal.

Back to the dinner: I began to tell the story and within three sentences, Parental took over and added: “You had a gash on your forehead.”

I blinked. The glorious injury free, God’s protection haze began to dissipate. Foolishly I corrected.

The debate was on.

Not one thought completed before Parental’s correction put me back in place. A feeling of defensiveness began to build as Sister leaned over and whispered,

“It doesn't matter.”

And years worth of frustration flew out in a breathy whisper before the thought even hit my brain: “I don’t matter.”

Sister rolled her eyes and turned back to Parental.

I sat there as thoughts tumbled through:
My voice doesn't matter.
My story doesn't matter.
Don’t make Parentals upset.
Don’t antagonize Parentals.
It doesn't matter what stories they tell. It is their truth. That is what matters.

In Wonderland reality is relative to the one speaking. Truth can be a debated topic. As long as my voice agreed with those around me it was encouraged. If my voice disagreed then I either needed to defend it fiercely or shut my mouth.

And here I am. Filled with stories full of hope and healing still struggling with voice.

What Is In A Name?

My hands dripped with flour paste for the paper mache sculpture as I listened to Jayson Bradley's sermon What Is Your Name And Why Does It Matter. It is odd to think of one’s own name as a nemesis, but that is how I saw mine.


After my Dad left the Air Force, our transition into civilian life was challenging. Jobs were scarece and we had to move from Utah to California.  In third grade I went to three schools.  I saw myself as a burden. I knew my birth kept my Mom from attaining her degree. The moving and uncertainty was hardest on my Mom. She was pregnant and struggled to keep up with my three year old sister. I often felt in the way.

Once settled, civilian culture in a small town was very different than military life. Everyone was nice, but many found me odd. The friendships that were formed didn't last very long.

In fifth grade I came to a warped conclusion. The big thing in Sunday School the meaning of your name. The Bible said that what your name meant was who you were. Kids with biblical names were the coolest. It was easy to find an encouraging life verse to tack onto a Biblical hero.

My name fell into a gray area. Rebecca was the English spelling of Rebekah, so the coolness factor was minimal. Imagine my disappointment when I looked it up:

Bound

In my frailty it made sense:

Prisoners are bound.
Captives and kidnapped victims are bound.
An anchor is bound to a ship.
Bound was a prison.

My greatest fear confirmed; I was a burden. I was an entanglement. I was an impediment. Tearful cries began. Begging God to show me my secret name written on that white stone. I didn't want to be a burden. I wanted to be a blessing. As I grew up in Wonderland, that flawed reality only solidified.

Still praying that prayer and waiting patiently for an answer into adulthood. Then one day,  reading  the account of Isaac meeting Rebekah my point of view shifted
Isaac was walking in the field, still mourning the loss of his mother. He saw the camels…

Que sappy romantic music


Rebekah covered her face, dismounted the camel and met him. Isaac then took her into his home and he loved her, she comforted him. His grief and loneliness were bound up. She was not a burden to him. She was a gift. She captivated him.

The shift from a negative:bound to a positive: captivating began.

I am interesting.
People are curious about me.
I can help ease a burden.
I can comfort those in difficulty.
I am good at organizing in a crisis.

In reading Fearless Daughters of the Bible, J. Lee Grady points out when God changed Abram and Sari’s name to Abraham and Sarah, he wove in the Hebrew H “breath” sound: the same sound that is part of his own name.

I felt Holy Spirit’s breath seal my name. Rebekah has that same breath sound. How it is spelled is irrelevant. I am identified with Divine Love. That Holy Breath renews my soul. It frees me to grow. It redeems what I thought about myself and grants me vision of how God sees me.

Escape From Wonderland: Punk Grace

Friend knew a little about my life in Wonderland. Her intent was for me to simply have fun. One February holiday I spent the night at her house then she revealed her plan.

Her boyfriend had a friend who had horses. Friend knew how much I loved horses and arranged for us to go horseback riding. Friend assured me this was NOT a date. I didn’t even know the guy and he defiantly didn’t like me. Anyway; she had a plan to keep me safe from trouble in Wonderland.

So, not wanting to disappoint my friend or having to explain why I was home early to Wonderland; I went along.

Her boyfriend and friend picked us up after breakfast.

We were simply friends.
Riding horses.
Then having lunch.

My heart found bliss with the horses. The morning adventure complete, we stopped for a simple lunch of pizza was seasoned with laughter. All piled into her boyfriend’s car they decided to drive me home.

That is when everything fell apart.

The Parentals were in the front yard. I ran into the house to keep them all safe. Before my mouth even opened, the verdict:

It was a date.
I was in rebellion.
It was as bad to God as the sin of witchcraft.

The yelling and screaming became phone calls to validate their verdict. I was put into the car and driven over to Friend’s house to “confront” her Mom. I felt ashamed. My poor friend who tried to create a safe place for me to have fun watched it blow up in her face. I sat in her living room with a bruised cheek as a Parental’s voice railed on about lies, rebellion and inappropriate behavior.

My eyes barely lifted from the carpet.

Then the real discipline happened. I was grounded until the end of the school year-four months. No phone, friends, television and only church activities they approved of.

Within the church’s youth group-The Garden-were subgroups called Seeds Groups. For two years I participated in West Seeds. The group filled with upper middle class popular kids. Part of my punishment was to be sent to the newly formed South Seeds.

With a broken will, I moved to that group. Richard-the Seeds Pastor-led the small rag tag group on the furthest corner of the church campus, away from the youth building.

Then I saw grace.

Richard welcomed everyone. Most of the people in the group were high school dropouts, or at least in the continuation high school. Those Punks-with army surplus combat boots, mohawks, safety pins pierced through parts of their bodies-talked about the Dead Boys, Sex Pistols, Agent Orange and others. I sat and listened as they explained what the music meant to them. Richard simply loved them. He never asked them to wear something different to church. He laughed with them and through his example I saw Jesus.

We all gathered and sang worship songs. Paul, still to this day my favorite guitar player, led worship. He taught me to sing, listening between the notes to find the harmony. It didn't matter if the not was not perfect; dissonance could always be resolved.

We studied the Word and struggled to figure out how to apply it in our lives. In that Seeds group of Misfits I began to feel normal. I wasn't the only one living in a Wonderland.

There was a way of hope.
A way of peace.
A way of escape.

In our own CBGB we found hope and purpose. Our own Hilly opened a way of purpose and redemption. Those Punks taught me what grace looks like.

Gentle Lent: Wrestling in the Mud

Each time the Body of Christ gets into a tussle, I groan. It hurts my heart. I was grateful earlier this week when God lifted the burden of grief. 

Yet, I still wrestled with the scar it left behind. In Lenten service a few weeks ago Jacob wrestling with a Man on the shores of a river was the topic.

Jacob chased from what was comfortable and into uncertainty. He had cheated his brother and lied to his father. Alone, in the middle of wilderness, on that desperate night, with a stone for a pillow, God met him in a dream: on a ladder from heaven to earth, angels walked.

God spoke to Jacob the promise of Abraham and Isaac. Then God said something personal, “Look, I am with you. I will guard you wherever you go, and I will bring you back into this land, because I won't leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” Genesis 28:15

Jacob’s response is this: “Truly, ADONAI is in this place - and I didn't know it!... This place is fearsome! This has to be the house of God! This is the gate of heaven!...”

Jacob saw that small corner of the wilderness as something magical: a physical place where God was: Bethel-House of God.

Years later, Jacob sat on the banks of the lower Jordan. He was again on the run, the “victim” of deceit and cheating from his father in law. Then God showed up and Jacob wrestled with him. Jacob spent the entire night, grappling and struggling with a piece of God.

Then the Man touches Jacob and injures him. Jacob hangs on. The Man tells Jacob to let him go. Jacob says, “I won't let you go unless you bless me.”

As I sat in that Lent Service and Holy Spirit whispered to me: That’s what you do.

Since my 20s, I keep coming to that river-The Body of Christ. I keep showing up in either a church or bible study. As I sit on that bank sometimes my thirst is quenched.

Other times I dig through the mud for a handful of water for my dehydrated soul.

BUT each and every time it is to meet Jesus. To feel the breath of Holy Spirit. To experience that Perfect Parent, Creator and Divine Love.

I wrestle with Jesus and refuse to let go until I am blessed. It is not a platform for my political views, or to complete some kind of super hero agenda. I simply come to share what I have learned. The more I become acquainted with God’s love , the more I cannot resist giving Love and Grace to others.

As a child I saw the church as God’s place: a specific refuge for my battered and frightened mind, soul and spirit.

Now that I am an adult I see God has never left me. Divine Love has been with me as I wrestle in the mud.

So, I cannot walk away. I cannot abandon Christianity or the Church

No matter how dry the wilderness is
No matter how fierce the enemies
No matter how bitter the words of others might be

because Jesus hasn't.

I want to join Him as a table is set for us in the presence of enemies.

Gentle Lent: When Life Interrupts

It was going so well. With only one more day to complete Week One’s Lenten cleaning when…

WHAM. Tuesday took a hard left.

Not simply a fast left where the tires squeal a little. NOPE, a hard left with my two metaphorical tires spinning in the air, the other two leaving a trail of rubber.


It started with a text from Counting Mutant.

I am at the ER. Just to be safe. Testing me now.

He did mention that the area around his appendix hurt last night. But that was in passing.

Scrolling down, phone had four more texts, which finished with:

They are going to give me some pain med… Won’t be able to drive home. Maybe should come on down.

The fact I checked my phone upon waking up was an broke part of my Lent fast. It is on my no cheats list. I loved curling up under covers for a few more minutes of rest while checking what the world was doing, but the habit began to sabotage my morning's routine.

NOW.. Feet launched out of bed. I raced through the morning chores, set GirlyK up with her school for the day and off to the hospital I went.

33 hours later Mutant came home. The short of it was, his diverticulitis spread to the right side of his colon, next to his appendix. 24 hours of IV antibiotics for him while I shuffled GirlyK between her brothers so she could make her commitments and a night of fitful sleep for me. My Fibro so overtaxed that emotions blocked much of my logical thinking.  A few tearful meltdowns and a broken broom cleared the way for logic to function.

The rest of the week spent tending to Mutant’s need for quiet rest, GirlyK’s school and me staring blankly at a wall. I work hard to avoid unnecessary intensity, so I was ill prepared for it.

Monday-my favorite day of the week-meant a fresh start. But, I looked at the devotions I had missed. The moments of meditation I passed by. The list of Lenten cleaning days left unattended.

Overwhelming failure flooded my soul.
Monday’s devotion was on the Rugged Cross. That it is at the foot of this Cross, I can lay all my shortcomings and failures. As I walked the dogs after and pondered Gentle Lent, Holy Spirit whispered,

“The Cross is not a place of  Do-Overs. It is a place of beginning.”

Burdens are not put down only to be rearranged. Burdens are put there to stay. I can pick up where I left off. No catch-up is necessary. In Divine Love’s redemption, I can let go of last week’s To-Dos and start fresh. There is no hurry in my recovery and rest from last week. In peace I can heal. Achieve balance and renewed energy and on Thursday, move on in my Lenten Cleaning list.

Pattycake With A Bear

Originally posted November, 2001

“I know this is supposed to be a dream job but, this drama drives me crazy and I don’t know if I will ever fit in. It's just so inbred. AND I don’t get to see the kids because of the late hours." The Counting Mutant's shoes thudded against the back of the closet. Working at a ski resort had an unseen price.

I sat in a small stuffed chair wedged in a nook that held a narrow north facing window.  The outside chill seeped through the blinds and up my neck, it stung a little. It pained me to hear his dream drowning in a sea of monotony.

I studied his face, those creases between his eyebrows look like the Grand Canyon.

I followed Counting Mutant into the bathroom patiently listening. His mass filled the mirror as he brushed his teeth. I washed my face and ducked his elbows. I interrupted silence with a summary of my day: school for Ase and Zany was good. I made it to the gym with GirlyK.  Homework was a battle. The tedium was getting to me. I stopped talking when his eyes drooped from exhaustion. I lost him. The night’s window of conversation closed.

Counting Mutant opened the blinds on the western window to a full harvest moon and glittering stars. I turned off my light to welcome the pail liquid light. Escaping the cold, I nestled into bed. He rocked as he fell in and cuddled for warmth.

A growling, scratching, tumbling noise reverberated below the small northern window.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned.  He listened more attentively.  “It’s something.”

“I know that!" I paused, "Maybe coyotes?”

“Hmm?  Probably raccoons.”  Then a snore.

I was curious, but the bed was perfect warmth.

The boys’ door opened down the hall. I bristled to hear where the pair of feet would go. With a relief, I thought; Just the bathroom. He doesn't need a cuddle or a tuck in to go back to bed. I rolled over and sank into sleep.

Morning came too soon. The day beckoned: boys off to school, baby girl to feed, kiss husband good bye. I stumbled down the hallway, Counting Mutant's face washed in shock as he stood at the boys’ doorway. My heart jumped and I rushed into the room. Ase, six, listened to Zany, five, as they stood next to their window. Blinds pulled tight to its top.

Zany, continued acting out the story “…And then the Mama looked at me!  Her cubs were playing right over there, rolling around.  She walked to me, stood up and put her paws on the window!  So I put my hands on her paws.” He put his hands on the window. Big blue eyes turned to Austin, “We played Pattycake! Then she put her nose on the window and I kissed it.” He pressed his lips to the window, and turned toward us. His hands fell with satisfaction. “And then she dropped to the ground and walked away. Her cubs followed her. Then I closed the blinds and crawled back to bed.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“My dream! I played Pattycake with a Mama bear and her cubs were playing right, over there.”  Zany was breathless.

I looked at a Counting Mutant. I took a deep breath and gently said, “Zany, I don’t think it was a dream. I think it was real!  Dad and I heard something outside last night when we went to bed. We heard you wake up and go to the bathroom.”  I looked at Counting Mutant, eyes pleading for support, “The noise was the cubs playing.”

Counting Mutant stood silent.  Zany was emphatic, “No Mom. It was a dream!”

I looked at my son. His magical imagination often got him into trouble but, this time was different. He needed to know that.

Squaring myself I encouraged, “Honey, I believe you. I know you are telling the truth!  I think you really did see a bear and her cubs. It wasn’t your imagination.  It was real.”

Counting Mutant's “Spock” eye brow met my gaze.

“Remember? The noises we heard last night? It was bears!” His silence continued. I marched to the back door, “Fine! Let’s look.”

He cautiously followed.

Along the side of the house, pine needles rested on powdered dirt. I scoured while he surveyed. Puffs of dirt covered our shoes.

“Could be…” Counting Mutant's succinct answer.

"I found a paw print." I cheered.

He glanced at it. Moving on, the analytical review continued.   Probing the landscape, his face brightened. With a quickened step toward the Boys’ window he muttered, “She saw the trash can.”  Stepped closer for examination, “Filled with garden waste.  No food in the can. Undisturbed.”

With a satisfied nod, he strode to the back door. I scurried behind him.

“Zany,” Counting Mutant announced, walking through the door.  “Come here.”  They sat across from each other at the table.  Ase and I joined them wondering what the verdict would be.

A serious brow, looked into wonder-filled eyes, “Your dream could have been true.  The pine needles were disturbed.  There was a faint claw print in the dust.  It is fall; the Mama was looking for food to get ready for hibernating. She saw a trashcan by your room and became curious; she didn't smell any. When you opened your blinds, you surprised her.  She investigated through the window.  You did play Pat-a-Cake with a bear, Zany!”

Zany’s deep blue eyes sparkled with satisfaction. Self-doubt melted away.

A hope filled our hearts. Wonder happened in spite of monotony. With an awareness of magic, Counting Mutant and I faced the day looking for unlikely possibilities. 

The Unlovely Around My Heart

“Be angry, but don't sin - don't let the sun go down before you have dealt with the cause of your anger; otherwise you leave room for the Adversary.” Ephesians 4:26-27

I thought I was over it. But my brain has a mind of its own and every holiday season I am reminded of what is missing.

I want to be done.

More tears have been spent on making myself be peace about the circumstances. I have forgiven those who misrepresented me. In my own strength extended grace to those who choose to believe gossip. I understand that who I am will never be accepted. I don’t hold it against them. They have their own pain to deal with. I cannot judge them because I did have a part to play.

I have owned my part. Offered amends for my shortcomings and accepted that the damage is irreversible. No longer do I feel the need to be understood or validated. I only wish them well on their life journey.

Yet…something irritates.

I re-examine Forgiveness: analyze it from their point of view. Where were my expectations unrealistic? What life experience motivated the choices they made. I feel empathy. I understand. I check to see if I hold any expectations of justice or reconciliation with them. I almost feel peace.

Then… something burns under the surface of my soul.

Anger is checked and I filter through all its definitions:

Anger is a secondary emotion, find out the primary source and resolve it. Then anger will diffuse-check. Did that.

Anger is a messenger. Ask her what the question is, answer it and then anger will be satisfied- check. Did that.

Then GirlyK and I were watching Bones. Sweets interrogating someone said, “Anger is triggered by unmet expectations.”

A glowing hot spear stabs my heart. I missed my own feelings. I never allowed myself to simply feel. Every examination has focused on them. Empathy, sympathy, forgiveness and grace extended to them, but never for myself.

My brain recoils: that’s selfish. That’s not Christlike. Indulging my sin nature gives room to all kinds of evil. I am not supposed to think about me in this situation for it to be resolved. They were the ones wronged. Not me…

But I must. I must filter through it all again this time granting permission to feel. The tools of recovery have taught me only through truth in love can real healing occur.

I awaken at 3:00 with the realization of this unlovely truth: I feel resentful. As I try to fall back asleep, Holy Spirit gently unravels the thick black wire shield which encases my beautiful pink heart. Looking closer I see barbs which point outward, intending to protect my heart from harm. The Still Small Voice calls them resentment. On the inside of the wire are smaller, sharper spines. Still Small Voice calls them bitterness.

In the hands of Divine Love I understand that while I protected myself with frustrated resentment, each time my heart encountered those people, the shield pressed into my heart. Those little spines of bitterness added pain which triggered a landslide of anxiety. Longing for freedom I submit to the Healer. As I release my own feelings, a healthy prettypicket fence will surround my heart. With healthy boundaries I will have clarity.  True grace will I finally be able to extend

And the best gift of all: Shalom.

Singing In The Valley Of Trouble

It was heaven. Air Force Bases as the home of my early childhood. New friends every day mixed with an endless supply of playmates and giant lawns for epic adventures. Military aircraft played symphonies above, vibrating my window as they landed in their safe haven. My favorites were the Jolly Green Giants floating over, the gentle ripple of their blades a lulling heartbeat. No one could hurt me there.

It all changed when I turned 8. Dad’s service completed, we entered civilian life. At first, it was a new adventure. Living in a Grandparents’ house filled with light, I attended the school where my Mom went. I walked to school imagining myself in her shoes. Then famine hit.

November 1976, in the breath of a sentence my world changed forever. We had to move. We needed to go where opportunity was. Like Joseph moving his father Jacob and family to Egypt. I was moving to the Central Valley of California. Both started out as provision and ended with trouble.

I grew up quickly as the weight of change burdened my Mom. She fought Depression valiantly. Christianity told her if she was anointed with oil and prayed over healing would come. Read the Bible, pray more, get involved in a Bible Study; all of these helped, but never fully freed her to be the person she was in the land of plenty.

She obeyed. Depression always came back.

The wilderness introduced a new mother. She did the best with what she had, constantly battling to be free. All of life became a struggle. Four girls, financial woes and I as the oldest accepted the responsibility to fill in the gaps. In this new land, I didn't fit into the culture. Friendships were few and far between. The ability to serve my Mom and sisters eased my burden of loneliness. I learned the joy and importance of service.

The Counting Mutant and I met in college. The weekend after graduation, at 20, with song and dance, I packed my car and moved.  Central Coast was a land of new purpose. Creating a home, we trekked into adulthood. Our journey carried us from the Coast to LA.

Our fifth year of marriage brought us a beautiful baby, BoyA. A Master’s Degree introduced a new season. With breathless expectation we sought God for direction. Each interview ended with the same statement: If you only had a CPA…

It became clear we needed to start over. God had a promise and The Mutant knew the only place to find it was in the Central Valley. My heart groaned. The promise was for him, but not for me. I knew I was heading into another wilderness. 

As Sarah followed Abraham, I packed my house and prepared for the journey. It didn't take long to realize how much trouble filled the Central Valley for me. My family of origin in disarray making the best of their situation, I realized my loneliness. We welcomed a second son, BoyZ. The friends Father provided were few, but they were rich in love and grace. The next four years left lasting, aching scars. I learned to love God above everything else. He would always provide for me if I served and obeyed him first. He was a Master I trusted.

For The Mutant, the CPA was obtained. He sought God’s face: where next? He opened a window and we were released. I quickly packed the house. With singing and dancing I left this Valley of Trouble, eager to see what promise set before us.

Northern California was a balm to my wounds. Stability and a third baby, GirlyK, introduced a season of joy and peace. After 18 months, the dream job arrived. Another move and for two years California felt truly like home. A ski resort town, people from all over the world gathered to teach, explore and breathe airs of delight. Four seasons, complete with snow and Spring Green that glows with new life.

The dream job is still a job. God often gives us exactly what we have asked for in order to draw us toward him and reveal its emptiness. The Mutant became acutely aware. Famine was coming. It was time to go again to the Valley.

I imagined what Naomi must have felt when her husband decided to move to Moab. My soul ached. I cried out to my Master for mercy. He led me to this verse:

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her, Will bring her into the wilderness, And speak comfort to her. I will give her her vineyards from there, And the Valley of Achor (trouble) as a door of hope; She shall sing there, As in the days of her youth, As in the day when she came up from the land of Egypt.

And it shall be, in that day," Says the Lord, "That you will call Me 'My Husband,' And no longer call Me 'My Master,'” Hosea 2:14-16

I entered a season of Winter Sun. Light to guide me without warmth. As I meditated on Hosea-written on windows and mirrors with dry erase marker and placed on shelves in frames- my eyes were opened to small tender mercies.

Father’s Fingerprints: A blue bird that lingered on a branch outside my window, friends who helped carry an impossible burden and aided a way of escape. Once back in the Central Valley he provided home with aged trees and a lake. Provision came from unlikely sources. Former enemies gave us encouragement. Lessons about God’s love and grace taught by disenfranchised. The freshly healed scars on my heart were bumped and poked. Fresh wounds of abandonment appeared and my spirit sang;

“Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance.” Psalm 42:5

It has been a long ten years. I still stand in the Valley of Achor, yet God is now my Divine Love, no longer a master I serve out of duty. I sing with laughter and fulfillment because of the men BoyA and BoyZ have become. My husband’s soul is whole and healed with of the return of a lost son, BoyN. The Counting Mutant is pleased by fruitful labor. Divine Love uses GirlyK to renew and redeem childhood lost within me.

I confidently sing in this Valley of Trouble now. In the beginning of this third, Divine Love whispered tender words to me as he held me in seclusion. As time passed, rich vineyards of community flourished and flowed with friendship. He provided exactly what we needed when we needed it; from food to dance classes for the kids. Trouble was a door of hope, wounds allowed to heal created an ability to unconditionally love and build boundaries of wisdom.

Writing today, I overlook a backyard lake, trees dancing in the breeze and mountains shyly peak the distance. I am reminded of a childhood interrupted. The days of my youth; free to play in open spaces filled with green. I lay in rest by shores of flowing water. In my head, Miriam takes tambourine in hand, dances and sings: 

"Sing to the LORD, for he is highly exalted. The horse and its rider he has hurled into the sea." Genesis 15:21