Forgiven

When God calls, we often have a preconceived notion of a booming voice full of clarity. The voice will tell us our direction, purpose, and destination with certainty.

Isn't that the way we expect a calling to go? We don't expect God to whisper or send simple gestures. We expect powerful understanding because God's voice is always evident.  

So, why do I struggle with God's calling? He wants me to write. That is a certainty. Yet, I often criticize my writing. My critical voice tells me my words are strung together in meaningless, incoherent sentences. Even though I desire to pour a perpetual stream of beautiful words of hope and peace into every sentence, I often feel that is not what I achieve.

 I never want my readers to walk away feeling empty and disheartened. 

Yet, peace and hope often elude me. They play hide-and-seek with my thoughts. I have a bright idea; before it reaches my typing fingers, it's hidden in my brain's shadow.

Brain shadows come in many forms; sadness, anger, despair, and regret - to name a few. The shadows slip into gray-matter crevices and hide until the wee hours of the morning. Then, they slink out of hiding and snake into consciousness. Like a serpent, they strike. They spew shadowy brain-venom into the darkness causing restless wakefulness.  

 

Often, it's the "sadness" shadow that wakes me. The shadow slips into the night, shattering my stillness. Entirely awake, I reluctantly allow sadness to reach my fingertips. The "sadness" shadow tells my fingers to type because I must shine the light on gloom before hope and peace come out of hiding.

My son's story makes me sad. I'm compelled to tell his story from a mother's perspective, yet the tragic shadow screams that I cannot tell the story from the perspective of a mother! 

It shouts, "You weren't his mother!"

It's true. I wasn't Billy's "real" mother who gave birth to him. I didn't nurse him as an infant. I didn't even know him as an infant. I was his adoptive mother. I welcomed this strangely silent, petulant little boy into my home and told him I'd be his mother.  

I tried to be his mother. God knows I tried. I wanted to love him as my own. I wiped his nose. I nursed him when he was sick. I bandaged his knees, sang bedtime songs, and told him stories. I poured every ounce of mothering into him that I could. Our family gave him our name, and we gave him a room to call his own and a bed to sleep in. We got him a dog. We got him a cat. One day, I drew a picture of him in our home. He was pictured with our kids and pets, two parents, and a car in the driveway. I called him a son. He was mine!

No, he wasn't. He didn't belong to me. As much as I longed for him to be my son, a part of me knew he wasn't mine and never would be. There was the part of me that saw beyond the hopeful stick-figure picture with the sun shining through the clouds. I saw the boy, but I didn't see him. I didn't know the pain behind his eyes. I didn't understand the wretchedness of his life before he crossed my threshold. I chose not to see that because I would have to face the awful truth that he was never mine, even though he called me momma.  

Just now, in the quiet solitude of my office, his voice broke the stillness like he was standing right behind me, "Whatcha doin', Momma?" I even turned half, expecting to see my son grinning at me.

My tears are flowing now. God, I loved that boy!

In his heart, I think he always struggled with letting go of the mom he knew and loved before me. I never asked him about her. I never asked him to tell me, from his eight-year-old perspective, who she was. I bet there was a lot he would have told me. I bet there was a lot he wanted to say to me. Maybe he would have said that she was pretty. Perhaps he would have told me she made the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or called him snuggle-bunny. Maybe he would have cried, said she was mean, and didn't feed him. I don't know. I don't know because I never asked!

I wanted so much to be his mom that I blocked out the mom before, who did tuck him into bed and loved him before me. What was I afraid of? Was I scared the "real" mom would have been "more real" than me? Was I worried that she took up a place in his heart reserved for "real moms" that was under lock and key? I don't know. She was the ghost of someone who betrayed this little boy and left him broken and sad. I didn't want to know her. I didn't want to know what she did to him or why. Asking him about her would have made her real. In my mind, she was better left forgotten.  

I did my son a great disservice by not allowing him to tell us about his mom and share his love and grief over losing her. I believe that I am responsible for his wanting to escape the pain.  

I carry the heart burden of guilt. I'm guilty of not being the mother I should have been to my son.  

The heart burden has weighed me down and crushed my spirit. I didn't even realize it until I started telling Billy's story from a mother's perspective. A mother's perspective would require one to be a mother, and I was only his second mother!  

I should have accepted the second mother role – not tried to be his first and only mother.  

Yet, now, I'm begging my fingers to type the words my soul has longed to hear: Not Guilty.

Not guilty would mean that my son has forgiven me. Not guilty would mean that I've forgiven myself. Not guilty would imply that God has forgiven me. I want those two words to replace the grief, the sorrow, and the heavy burden of guilt. I want peace and hope to come out of the shadows.  

When my son grew up to be a man, he disconnected from us for about six years. Finally, after his daughter was born, he reached out to us, and we had a brief few years of a tenuous relationship. Something inside him wanted his child to have a better life, and he saw us as her lifeline. 

Unfortunately, so many demons were tormenting him that he couldn't outrun them. He gave up everything to chase the one monster that gave him a flickering moment of peace. It didn't matter how false or fleeting that peace was; he craved it over all else. I know he struggled every day of his life. I know this because, occasionally, he'd reach out to me and beg for help. Here's what he wrote to me six months before he died:

3/9/17, 8:08 AM

I'm really trying to be a better person. I never took my addiction seriously. But I don't want to end up dead or in prison. I love you, mom, no matter how ashamed I make you and how much I disappoint our family. I still want to be a part of it. Please go with me to my NA meetings. 

My response:

Please know that shame will only hurt you and destroy whatever we do have between us. As you know, it will be a long road of recovery, not "to" recovery. You will be recovering for the rest of your life. That's ok. What's not ok is us being on the sidelines while you struggle. I speak for myself. I can't speak for your dad when I say I want to attend your NA meetings with you. I'm sure your dad would like to go too. In any case, this is one way we can support you that makes sense. Trust must be earned back, but I am confident in you, Billy. I believed in you when you didn't believe in yourself. Isn't that what mothers do???

After that exchange, I wrote: 

September 9, 2017, @ 5:25 PM

You know, I always want to prove people wrong. I want to tell them that you WILL respond and tell us when your next NA meeting is. I tell your dad constantly that I expect to hear from you any day now. I wonder why he doesn't believe me. Hope springs eternal, I guess. I love you, Billy.

 

His very last words were written to me three days before he died:  

September 19, 2017

Yes ma'am. I love you too, momma.

I started this chapter by speaking about God's calling. I've learned that His calling is only sometimes noticed and often not acknowledged immediately. Sometimes, it takes hours; sometimes, it takes days, weeks, and even years. In this case, it took years. It took me reading those five words, "I love you too, momma." 

Perhaps I wanted to hear: "You are my one and only momma!" I wish I could have him back to tell him it's ok to love two moms. I wish I could have him back to say that having two moms is a beautiful gift. I wish I could hold my son in my arms, comfort him, and allow that comfort to spill over into my soul. Yet, he isn't behind me. He isn't here. His ashes are all I have.

God is here, though, and He is whispering: Not Guilty. As I write this, I can feel my soul hole healing. I can feel my soul becoming whole. It will take some time.  

I also know that the writing of this book is allowing me to heal. Writing allows me to step outside of my pain, shine a light on the addiction crisis in this country, and tell the stories of what it does to families and communities. No one emerges unscathed, but everyone can emerge forgiven.

Ask a Question

Hope the Clown

Ask a question; that’s what I say. Go ahead, ask away.

Ask your question here or there.  

Ask your question anywhere.

Ask, ask, ask, if you dare.

Can you think a think?

Can you drink a drink?

Yes, you can, man.

So, make a plan!

Ask that guy over there.

The guy with the white hair,

tripping up the stair.

I’m sure he’ll care!

You can ask him whether you are in or out of school.  

Asking him is cool.

Send your question, don’t be slow.

Send your question - GO GO GO!

Send it in a letter.

Or, maybe email would be better.

Send it by plane.

Send it by train.

Send that question that you thunk.

You can send it in a trunk.

Whatever you do, send it now!

Send it. Send it. You know how.

Ask the question and see if he answers you.

Or maybe Jen Psaki will answer too.

You’ll never know if you don’t try.

Send the question, don’t be shy.

The question of the day, I say.

Every every every day.  

The more you ask and try.

The more you question and ask why.

The more you’ll know about what’s going on.

Before your country is gone gone gone.

So, do it, my fellow American.

Do it so we can win!

Make him see!

We are still in charge of our country.

Ask him, ask him what they won’t.

Ask him, ask him what they don’t.

https://www.whitehouse.gov

This is the introduction to the new book I'm working on:  Sarah Pearl Patterson's Endless Summer.  I'm reading it since it's not published yet.  I'm asking kids to send me pictures to go with each chapter.  Something to do while home from school.  Anyway, if anyone want to send me a picture, send me an email at: hendersonbillandbetty@reagan.com

Lucy

Lucy is tall and statuesque. I don't think she'd look good in a bikini, though. I can remember Lucy when I was a little girl fifty years ago. Even back then, she would not have sported a bikini with style. Back then, she was tattered and torn and had lost some of her statuesque beauty that astonishes people today. 

I don't know why Lucy stayed around for so many years. God knows, there were times when Lucy looked like she would crumble and fall at any moment, but the old girl held on and was still there fifty years later when I decided to visit her.


I wonder if Lucy remembers me? I walked by her every summer day for years and often stopped to wonder about her. She'd look at me as if the wonderment went both ways. We'd stare at each other as time stood still, and my 7-year-old brain pondered Lucy's existence.  

Today, when I visited Lucy, it dawned on me that she's much older than I, but looks much better since her facelift. In some ways, I think Lucy kind of mirrors my own life. Well, maybe I don't weigh quite as much as Lucy, but I feel like I've weathered the storms as she has.  As we all can learn from our elders, I, too, learned a lot from Lucy.  

Lucy loves the beach. I, too, love the beach. I love the beach when it's bright and sunny with calm, soothing surf. I also love it when the storm clouds roll in and roil the powerful waves into crashing sand pulverizers.  The beach reminds me of my grandma. Thinking about grandma reminds me of Lucy.

Thus, I've come full circle to be reminded of grandma, the beach, and Lucy. When I first visited Lucy, grandma was holding my hand. Now, as a grandma, my age-spotted hand would be holding a young hand, and I'd explain like my grandma did, that Lucy is a great old girl who has weathered many storms.

I didn't have my grandma on this day. Well, maybe, I did. I think her spirit was with me as I gazed up at Lucy while the sun was shining so brightly that she practically glowed in the early morning hue. It brought tears to my eyes, reminiscing about Lucy and grandma. Two old gals who stood the test of time. I've joined the "old gals" club now. I'm glad I've made it this far. I'm just as happy to see that Lucy has too.

Lucy's story didn't start where she stands today. She took a long, tedious journey to end up where she is. Her journey required many helpers along the way. People stood by her and protected her as she made her arduous journey to where she stands now. Lucy's journey is how I think I am related to her. I've needed many people to stand by me on my often challenging trek through life. I, too, have stood by them.

My daughter and my sisters were with me on this day when we visited the old gal. My sisters and I drove down memory lane through all the towns that bordered Lucy's abode. We lived in many of them during our long hot summer romps back and forth to the beach with grandma. I told my daughter about how much Lucy was a part of our growing-up lives. It made me sad that my daughter, Jenn, could only look up at Lucy since using a wheelchair prevented her from enjoying all that Lucy had to offer.

Life's like that sometimes. Sometimes, we are participants, and sometimes we're spectators. Occasionally, we want to be participants when we can only be spectators. Often, we wait an entire lifetime to be a participant. Today, I could participate in the first time experience of touching this old gal who I could only gaze at as a child. Some fifty years ago, Lucy was protected behind a secure fence from curious children like myself.  

When I came home from visiting Lucy, I brought a magnet with her picture on it for my granddaughter.  

As I handed her the souvenir, she laughed at me. "Nana, she giggled, why did you bring me a picture of an elephant?"  

"Well, Devyn," I said as I put her on my lap, "She's not just any old elephant. She's Lucy, the Margate Elephant, and she is older than me!"

"Older than you!" The surprise on her face made me laugh.

"Yes, older than me." I said, "I used to walk by her every day when I was a little girl about your age, but she didn't look this good back then."

"Lucy was made new again," I said. "We'll all be made new again someday."  

"That's silly, Nana!" Laughed my granddaughter, "You can't be made new unless I paint you and get rid of the wrinkles."

I thought about that for a minute or two. Finally, I said, "No, Nana doesn't want to be painted, and I don't want to get rid of the wrinkles either."  

"Why not?" Asked my little inquisitor.

"Because the wrinkles are what let me be part of the Old Gal's club with Lucy. If you're in the Old Gal's club, it means you're wise."  

"Is Lucy wise?" My granddaughter's beautiful blue eyes pierced my heart at that moment.

"Yes, Devyn," I said, "Lucy is wise because she has weathered many storms, and she still stands tall and smiles because she was made new."  

"I don't get it, Nana.  You're not new like Lucy."

"That's right, Devyn, you don't get it yet," I answered, "but, you'll get it when you become a member of the Old Gal's club."

Someday When

Someday When

Needles dripping with false promises fill the emptiness of so many woebegone lives. The up-in-flames hopefulness of the four-year-old fireman answering the walkie-talkie's frantic cry for help. The erased dreams of the six-year-old teacher with her classroom full of unruly stuffed animals. The avid sticker collector, the aspiring artist, the talented musician, the creative inventor, and the earnest detective - all expectantly waiting to "grow up" to reach their "someday when." 

"Someday, when I'm a vet, I'll save all the horses in the world." 

"Someday, when I'm a great gymnast, I'll be in the Olympics!" 

"Someday, when I'm a baseball player, I'll be in the World Series!" 

The little would-be teachers and firefighters wait and listen to their parents talk about someday when they go off to college, and they wonder when that "someday" will be theirs. Meanwhile, the parents encourage the hopeful children to pursue the possibility rainbow full of color and joy. 

Never did any of the tots aspire to reach emptiness. Never did their parents wish for sleepless nights and sorrowful days. So, why did it come to this? Why did these confident strivers' "someday" become "no days?"

The somedays are long gone - replaced with a cruel vacuum that sucks the joy and depletes the soul. They once craved to feel again. Now, they strive not to feel the loss of someday when. They crave the tantalizing needle that seduces them into the deception of "not feeling," if only for a moment. 

There's no feeling, hope, ambition, or daydreams that may come true. The needle claims another someday when. It tumbles another dreamer into a soulless nightmare. 

And, again, we ask, "Why?" Why are so many young star-gazers slipping into oblivion and sliding into the abyss? Nirvana isn't found in a needle, we tell them. Yet, it still claims young hearts and minds with reckless abandon. 

The destroyer. The ransacker. The demolisher home-wrecker spreads its lies and sows its seeds in young hearts everywhere. We cannot fight the exterminator if we don't acknowledge the source of its roots. The roots have gained a strong foothold in our decaying, godless society.

A fractured bone cannot offer support, nor can a fractured society support its most vulnerable persons. We are a country on the brink, and the root system is deeply embedded in division, strife, and discord. Fatherless families, run-down neighborhoods, black vs. white, rich vs. poor, liberal vs. conservative, woman vs. man, gay vs. straight, MAGA hat vs. non-MAGA hat, god-fearing vs. godless, gun-owning vs. non-gun owning, hopeful vs. hopeless. 

Hopeful people look forward to the future, so they have children, love them, nurture them, and dream of someday. Hopeless people cry over a lost future. To the hopeless, the future is sown in tears. 

As a parent who has lost a child to the hopeless promise of a needle, I still want the future of this country to be full of "someday when" and not sown in tears. 

Gone Fishing

I just made a "gone fishing" sign to hang up in my house. The problem is, I don't even own a fishing pole or a tackle box. I don't have a fishing license.  A "gone fishing" sign would not pertain to anyone else in my family since no one in our household fishes.  Devyn and I had plans to fish in the lake behind our house, but the HOA won't allow it. So, making a "gone fishing" sign for my wall seems futile, but I'm still making it.

I'm making the sign for myself, and I'm making some signs for the other women who go fishing with me. The truth is, I would fish morning, noon, and night if I could. The problem is, it's dark and dingy where I fish, and I prefer sunny places with lots of fresh air. I don't think there is any fresh air where I fish. Where I fish, there is a lady named Ace, who is often fishing before I even arrive.  Ace is close to being a professional fisherman (or maybe it's fisherwoman). I don't know how Ace got her name, but she is an ace at fishing.

I, too, am becoming an ace at fishing. I catch big fish, little fish, medium fish, and even an occasional mermaid. Sometimes a bird flies by while I'm fishing and I kill it too! When people hear that I'm going fishing, they expect me to come home with dinner. I don't come back with dinner after fishing, but I usually come home with the money to buy dinner.

I don't fish in a lake. I don't fish in the gulf. I don't fish in a pond or stream. There is only bottled water where I fish. When I fish, my girlfriends often join me. I think they'd fish morning, noon, and night if they could. Jenn goes fishing with me, not because she likes to fish, but because I drag her along.  

Once, when I was fishing, a buffalo ran by. I'm not kidding. Me, Ace, Iris, and some of the other ladies all tried to kill it. We all failed. Sixty-something Iris lassoed the beast, but he got away!  Last night, me and two of my friends fished until after 11 pm. I never stay up past eight! However, I made an exception last night because all eight of us were singing Janis Joplin songs as we each went after the sharks, blow-fish, mermaid, and falcon.

 "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz…" Our voices enhanced the atmosphere of the dark, dingy place. I think everyone else that was there left very quickly when we got the stanza, "My friends all drive Porches…"

Everyone was drinking wine as we fished. I was the designated driver, so I didn't partake. Imagine, if you will, eight ladies drinking wine, fishing, and singing Kumbaya while doing the wave every time someone killed a fish!  

Luckily, for the fish, they never really die. They swim by every few minutes - even after they've been "killed." The mermaid laughs at us over and over again. I won't say what some of the women call the mermaid, but I'm not sure she'd laugh if she heard it. Besides the mermaid, there's the octopus, the crabs, the crocodile, the darkness monster, and the falcon that all have nick-names, which I can't repeat.  

One might wonder why so many women love to fish. An occasional man might wander over to us, but the men usually are outnumbered at our fishing hole, or should I say table?  

That's right; it's a fishing table. Our table is not for the faint of heart. We take our fishing seriously - even when we are drinking wine. Whenever we put our sights on a fish, mermaid, crab, octopus, darkness monster, or bird, it takes a lot to kill one of them! Five cents can quickly add up to five dollars or more. Of course, the amount you lose is directly related to the amount you bet. There can only be one big winner at a time at the fish table. Of course, everyone can shoot and kill the smaller fishes too, but to win the big bucks, you have to kill the larger images, such as the laughing mermaid. When she dies, she pays out big. It might take eight of us shooting her for five minutes, but eventually, she explodes for one lucky fisherwoman who can win more than thirty dollars on a five-cent bet.  

Sometimes my family tells me that I'm addicted to fishing, which is a form of gambling. That might be true, but I could stop if I wanted to.  For instance, I have gone three days in a row now without dragging poor Jenn to the fish table. 

True, my button-pushing hand is twitching a bit, but it is not because I miss killing the mermaid. What I do miss is the comradery of sitting around a table with a bunch of ladies singing and doing the wave to celebrate each victory. Wouldn't it be nice if the world was like our fish table? Wouldn't it be nice if everyone celebrated everyone else's victories even though their success means that you didn't win this time? The last time we fished, after signing Kumbaya, Vicki started crying. She was crying because she missed her mom, who had just passed away and would often join Vicki at the fishing table. My two friends, who accompanied me, are mother and daughter, and they both hugged and comforted Vicki. That's what gone fishing means to me. It means getting together with a bunch of friends and laughing, sharing, singing, and celebrating little victories.