The Chain

   "The paths of the Lord are true and right, and righteous people live by walking in them." Hosea 14:9

  My friend left a gold necklace on the table this morning. It had a knot in the chain. Untangling chains has been a task I derive great pleasure from and it's never been any trouble.

  Out came the curved, needle nose pliers and a tapestry needle that makes it easy to manipulate fine chain. A half hour later, the knot remained, stubborn and determined to be unfixable. I tried breaking it, knowing it was easy to fix a break, but it stubbornly remained a well made chain.

  Rather than get frustrated, I decided to take a break. Time was running short anyways because we were going to a celebration of life for a friend's mom. 

  The knotted chain was set down on an envelope so it wouldn't get misplaced. The pliers and needle were left on the table beside it so they would be handy for the next attempt.

  When I came out of the shower, my friend thanked me profusely for untangling the chain of one of her favorite necklaces. 

  Let's just say I was stunned. 

  I had not untangled the chain. The knot had been clearly visible against the white envelope when I had placed it there. 

  I had to look at the chain to make sure there wasn't some sort of mistake.

  It was in perfect condition.

  My eyes were as wide as saucers because I had to admit it hadn't been me. Not one bit.

  In a half joking manner, as my brain tried to make sense of it all, I said to her, "Maybe...just maybe...God sent His angels to look after it while I was showering."

  Maybe He did.

  There was a large gathering at the church for a woman who was clearly and dearly loved. While the pastor spoke, I heard another Voice.

  "What happened with the chain this morning is what it means to surrender."

  Tears came to my eyes because I finally understood a crucial part of my faith. As much as I have surrendered to God through the art and writing, it has always been about my need and drive to untangle the knotted chains of my life.

  Not that any of it has been a waste or wrong. The hours spent in His presence have built a foundation of trust in a God who has been with me, led me, and held me through it all. 

  But it's time to fully surrender to a love I cannot fathom; the kind of love that will repair a knotted chain.

  Because He can.

  He really and truly can.

  

Aftermath

   "Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty." Psalm 91:1

  Lord, I need Your rest. I need Your shadow. I got poked by the umbrella.

  Panic attacks are extremely unpleasant. The shaking, the tears, the gasping for air, the nerve ends firing like fireworks...Every single sense engages RED ALERT MODE. The smallest of noises are amplified a thousand fold. The tiniest of motions has you scanning the surroundings like a zebra looking out for lions. 

  It's primal. 

  

  I had to leave work. 

  One good thing about this is I finally understand what has been triggering these regularly occurring panic attacks.. 

  It's having to take part in a large, virtual meetings.

  It's not the meeting in and of itself. It's the constant motion on screen, the random changing of the image without doing it yourself and being prepared for the change. It's how it changes every time someone new speaks. It's watching a dozen or more people move about in a confined area.

  

  Part of PTSD is a constant monitoring of the environment. Everyone does it. It's part of our wiring but in my case, the wiring has been heightened. So every time the image changes or there's a movement, I do a full on, yet subconscious, threat assessment.

  Until the assessment system gets overloaded and simply sends out the signal to RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!! IT'S ALL LIONS OUT THERE! 

  And because there isn't really a threat, I end up a blubbering mess. 

  Primal brain can't understand logic.

  I am grateful to finally understand why these attacks have been happening on a regular basis. It means it's possible to come up with a strategy. 

  For now, I am home where it is safe, sipping a cup of Zen tea. Even though it happened a couple of hours ago, the nerves are still firing with a zinging feeling that travels up and down the ole body. It will take time to calm Primal down. Sometimes it takes a couple of days.

  

  A hot bath is in order.

  Writing helps, too.

  

Framework

   "I know the Lord is always with me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me. No wonder my heart is glad and I rejoice. My body rests in safety. For You will not leave my soul among the dead or allow Your holy one to rot in the grave. You will show me the way of life; granting me the joy of Your presence and the pleasures of living with You forever." Psalm 16:8-11

  Sometimes when you share things, other things rise up between the words, between the emotions, between the ideas. Good things. God things.

  I was sharing about the umbrella, the image of the bare ribs and handle I wrote about yesterday. I shared about how necessity taught me I had to make my own protection, my own comfort, my own safety. As I spoke of these things I realized there is far more to the framework than the grief it initially generated. 

  

  We also talked about the idea of being a victim, about living in the past and being trapped by it. I said that I don't live in the past, the past lives in me. It's why I need meds. It's why I live with CPTSD. It's why I get overwhelmed easily. It's why I retreat into smallness sometimes. Not by choice, but because it simply happens.

  It's all related to the framework of my life's experiences.

  But the Lord had more to say about it when the conversation was over. He made me smile.

  This same framework is also why I am the way I am...in good ways. In ways to be grateful for. 

  Fear of abandonment instilled a fearless curiosity to try new things, or learn new skills. Perhaps to prove my worth. Perhaps it was because I wanted to earn my keep. The why isn't important. The end result is unusual abilities that are far outside of the gender framework I was born into.

  It fills me with gratitude for not having the support I needed because of all the skills I now have. 

  In all the years of eggshell walking because of the need to anticipate, placate, or keep the peace, I learned to see the smallest sign when someone is hurting. It means being able to come alongside them so they don't feel so alone. I know what that feels like. I know what it looks like. I've seen it in the mirror often enough.

  In the Great Alone, I learned to create: to play music from the heart, to draw, to paint, to write, to knit, to sew, to build things. Most importantly, when I was literally on my own, I learned to pray using all of it. I learned to trust that God will get me through regardless of how painful the path might be.

  If I don't speak the language of relationship very well, it's good to feel assured that one day I will. 

  My life is being built around a new framework, a better one. Like any skill, it takes time to master. It takes practice and often a complete do-over.

  That's okay. 

  God has placed good people, trustworthy people in my life who will support my tentative efforts at living differently, living better. 

  To God be the glory! AMEN!

  

The Retreating

   "Now let Your unfailing love comfort me, just as You promised me, Your servant. Surround me with Your tender mercies so I may live, for Your instructions are my delight." Psalm 119:76-77

  There's this thing I do whenever my emotions run deep and high. I withdraw, retreat, into a profound silence that echoes with the memories of a solitary life. I don't always know what triggers the retreat. It could be something as simple as the scent of a man's aftershave, a touch, a look, that kicks this primal response into full gear.

  I guess it's a legacy of having to live small to survive.

  I don't speak the language of connection very well. How could I? I never learned how.

  While praying through art today, I came across the image of an umbrella. It was just the skeleton: bowed ribs and a handle. The protective fabric was missing. As far as its ability to protect you from the elements, it was utterly useless.

  As I pondered this, it helped me understand that my childhood had been lived within the framework of family and home that, based on all external appearances, was as it should be. I had a roof over my head, piano lessons, schooling, food on the table. But this framework was just a skeleton that required me to add my own layers of protection.

  The lessons learned in childhood were honed to perfection in a marriage that also was nothing but a skeleton of appearance. It was not safe. Not for me. Not for my children. I did my best to be the fabric of protection while wrapping myself in the fabric of smallness. Just to survive.

  In all of this there was no room for fears, or questions, or discussion. There was no room for emotions or needs or desires. To have any was a punishable offence.

  One spring morning on the farm, my ankle got pinned between the barn wall and a two hundred pound sow. It was because of my ex's careless handling of the animal. I thought it was broken.

  The hospital wrapped my ankle in white athletic tape so I could leave. The x-ray results weren't available until the next morning. When I found out I needed a cast, my ex's angry response was, "What am I supposed to do about it?" A cast meant I could not do barn chores.

  The sad but funny thing is I didn't know I was allergic to athletic tape. When the nurse peeled it off, I had a rash from mid calf to the ball of my foot. It had been driving me crazy with the itching but I never said a thing to anyone. It was bad enough being injured and not being able to fulfill my responsibilities.

  The nurse was horrified and told me I should have taken the tape off! 

  In the end, it was just a bone chip, albeit a very painful one. While a cast would have made me more comfortable, I opted to simply wrap my ankle with elastic because the chores were more important...appeasing my husband even more so.

  There's something terribly wrong with this picture. Part of me knew it then. I definitely know it now. I just wish these lessons would get unlearned because it impacts my ability to trust others with my needs. And the great retreat remains my first go to. 

  It will take time to break the habits of a lifetime and I am getting better at it. But it's awfully hard to over-ride the survival mechanisms that are so automatic, I don't even realize it's happening.

  Lord, help me do better. In Jesus name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

The Critic

   "The mouth of the godly person gives wise advice, but the tongue that deceives will be cut off." Proverbs 10:31

  It's time to cut a tongue off. More than one, actually. They are the tongues that sing the songs of destruction. Their lyrics mock and belittle. Discordant harmonies serve one purpose: to make you afraid.

  As I sat in church, I started drawing measuring tools. A ruler, triangles, a set square and anything else I could think of at the time. 

  A tape measure was drawn as though the case was far away. The metal measuring part stretched back across the page, growing smaller and smaller as the rules of perspective were honoured. It was as though time was also being measured.

  Then I realized the tape measure wasn't mine. It belongs to those who taught me I could never measure up or be good enough. It's the tape measure that taught me I could never measure up or be good enough as a child, a daughter, a teen, a wife, and a woman. 

  Perversely, it also taught me not to be too good at anything because why would I even try to be the best? It was never enough. 

  The voice of the destroyer has a familiar sound. How could it be otherwise? It's the compounded voice of the one who raised me, who was a sibling, who was a spouse, a teacher, a culture, a gender expectation. And sadly, it is also my own. How could it be otherwise? 

  I never knew anything better.

  Even when the Lord set me free, their voices continue to be at war with the truth God was trying to have me believe.

  Today is the day these voices will be cut off, their tongue silenced. The only way to do this is to choose to forgive the critics, the judges, the cruel tongues whose voices echo across the years. So I will choose to forgive them. 

  I can thank the Lord for helping me find compassion for them. Their world is an ugly place.

  Then there's the hard part. Lord forgive me for allowing the critic's voice to become my own.

  He reminded me of my once four year old son and a little girl I was babysitting. The two of them were squishing grapes into the carpet, utterly silent, utterly enthralled by it.

  I've realized watching grapes explode was exactly the same as my sugar melting cereal bowl. I reacted just as my mother had with a cross "What were you thinking?" Forgive me Lord, for that.

  But then, when this same son wrote, "Welcome home, mommy, I love you" on the wall by the front door, I didn't get mad about it. How could I? We did have a chat about the wall not being the best place to write notes on. 

  Thank You, Lord, for forgiving me, for Your patience.

 It's time to put the tape measure that was never Yours back in the box. 

  I want to do better. I want to celebrate the giftings You blessed me with without shame or guilt or deception. But most of all, I want to learn to protect and nurture them without shame or guilt or deception.

  I want to live as the woman You created me to be and celebrate all You have made.

  Lord, hear my prayer! AMEN!

  As for the critic. I know its voice now. It's been a companion for far too long. It no longer has a place in my heart, my mind or on my tongue. Lord, I give it to You to do as You see fit. AMEN!

  

  

  

More to the Story

   "Give thanks to Him who made the heavenly lights--His faithful love endures forever. the sun to rule the day, His faithful love endures forever, and the moon and stars to rule the night. His faithful love endures forever." Psalm 136:7-9

  I woke up early this morning with a sense of urgency filling my being. For decades I've felt the need to do this painting. For decades I have put it off. Until today. I might put a bit of varnish on it once the paint has cured for a couple of days. It will make the dark and somber colours come to life.

  Creating art is always an emotional thing. To create is to bare your soul.

  This is the view I wrote about a few days ago as being the birthplace of faith; of believing there was something, Someone, greater than I. Painting it transported me back in time and while my eyes and hands worked away I listened to the heart of a twenty year old.

  Pat Benatar sang. People were laughing. The aroma of smoke filled the cool, spring air. 

  Mixed in with the awe and wonder was a sense of being utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Big night skies can do that sometimes. But, I also felt puzzled. How on earth did I end up at a party where I really only knew the man I was dating?

  The great "Not Belonging" whispered. 

  In hindsight I've realized I was living under a blanket of severe depression. My dad had passed away suddenly just before Christmas. With his passing, I was left feeling truly alone in life. 

  Truthfully, I was alone. 

  How can words describe it? How can words describe the ache? The hollow emptiness that comes when loneliness inhabits your soul?

  Yet, in the night sky littered with a billion stars, a ghost of a hope that someday, someone would love me for who I am. That I would finally find the place where I belonged.

  Maybe it was my twenty year old heart praying to the great Someone. 

  He answered my wordless prayer by being by my side without me ever knowing He was there. For decades, He waited until I reached the end of myself. A woman who had no more strength to fight through the suffocating and lifelong Great Alone finally learned His name.

  I haven't done this painting before because I didn't believe in my abilities. The inner critic planted in my heart has left a legacy of self doubt and confusion. To finally see the memory manifested just as it has always been in my mind's eye is to be so incredibly thankful. 

  I have a God Who Never Fails. 

  The victory is His.

  The victory is ours.

  

PS. The related post was written on Feb. 14, 2026

  

   

The Secret Silence

   "Even Death and Destruction hold no secrets from the Lord. How much more does He know the human heart!" Proverbs 15:11

  I was given the task to begin looking at my childhood with the focus of finding Jesus. This is not an unfamiliar practice and has already brought great healing from some of the most traumatic events in my life. Finding Jesus in those memories has redeemed these things into places of great comfort.

  It doesn't erase them. It doesn't mean they don't still cause me pain but, now, interwoven with the darkness is a light beyond imagining. There's a joy, and a fathomless upwelling of gratitude in knowing I wasn't as alone as I believed at the time they happened.

  Come back in time with me to a holiday; the kind of holiday where a feast is prepared for company.  A padded table protector is placed on the formal dining table, hidden from sight with a tablecloth that only sees the light of day for such a feast.

  The good dishes are pulled out of the china cabinet. The special silverware is unwrapped from its protective felt storage bags. The crystal is set out according to the proper etiquette of table setting as passed down through generations of women.

  As soon as the table is set, a child sits down. Not because she is hungry. Not because she can't wait for the turkey to be carved. She sits there, still and quiet, utterly fascinated by the play of light and sparkle that only silver and crystal can generate under the light of a chandelier. 

  Everywhere she looks there are dancing prisms and rays of brilliance. She is utterly delighted and filled with a sense of awe and wonder at the beauty before her.

  She is chased away from the table, a critical comment made about her appetite and greed.

  She slinks away, silently, because she knew the chaser would not understand. Somehow the world was just a little duller, a little darker away from the table.

  Another table. Another meal only this time it was a solitary breakfast. A bowl of cereal floated in milk. The sugar bowl was on the table beside her. Left unattended, she put her allowed spoonful of sugar on the cereal. Grain by grain, the sugar melted as the milk seeped into the dry. The sparkle of the sugar vanished as milk drowned it. She couldn't resist repeating the experiment with spoonful after spoonful of sugar poured out with delighted anticipation.

  You can guess where this is going. The parent came into the kitchen, furious that I though I should eat that much sugar. The breakfast bowl was snatched away and the sugar crossly scraped into the sink. "Such a waste!"

  The magic vanished. And a shame that should not be moved into a heart that knew it could not share the world she saw in a bowl of cereal.

  I never minded the arduous task of polishing the good silver. Being able to release the light from beneath the choking tarnish made it a joy. 

  I think of all the times I've been utterly enthralled by the play of light and shadow. They were always secret moments, a place of being alone, being still, with the beauty I might find. Even if is in something as small as a pebble. 

  In these countless memories, the teeth and fangs of other, darker, secrets would vanish. 

  And that's where Jesus was. He was in the light. He was in the joy and peace I found in seeing the world in a way that I instinctively knew was different. And for those around me, unfathomable.

  In spite of everything that has tried to chase me away from the Light, this gift of seeing the world differently has never vanished, never been suffocated. Maybe that's because I kept such a treasure a closely guarded secret, just for me.

  Only now I can say, for us, for Jesus and me.