Cause and Effect

  "The Lord went ahead of them. He guided them during the day with a pillar of cloud, and he provided light at night with a pillar of fire. This allowed them to travel by day or by night. And the Lord did not remove the pillar of cloud or pillar of fire from its place in front of the people." Exodus 13:20-22

  Tracing paper is used to reproduce an image multiple times. It’s a trick learned in college. I have only traced the outline of the woman and dragon once since this art journey started with an initial drawing.  Tracing paper is thin. It’s surprising I’ve managed to get ten copies from it. It’s started tearing, though, along the lines I’ve gone over and over on.

  To transfer the image on the tracing paper to the painting surface (a heavy, multi-media paper in this case) a soft pencil is used to scribble all over the back. It’s wiped with a small piece of tissue to remove the excess crumbs of lead so the paper doesn’t get all dirty. Basically, a 4B pencil has been used to make homemade carbon paper. That small piece of pencil dust covered tissue is used to wipe the back each time I want to reuse the traced image. This freshens up the ability of the lines to transfer clearly.

  It’s not an exact science so there are small differences in each reproduction.

  While working on the paintings I realized I have a great deal of patience. Then out comes the hair dryer to dry the paint faster. Patience only goes so far. (Smile.)

  The water ripples in today’s image speaks to all that has been going on in my head. Every fresh and new idea God has placed in my heart has an outward reaching effect. What happened with Bruxy also created ripples…well, maybe more of tsunami. Ripples cannot be created without a catalyst. Change cannot begin without one, either.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiveness, too. At some point I scribbled down the idea that forgiving too quickly doesn’t allow any room to examine why we have been hurt. I finally understand, though, why Jesus says we need to forgive those who hurt us over and over. The take-a-way is our human forgiveness is never one and done. If we believe this, then all we have done is build a sea wall to prevent the next wave of hurt from hitting our hearts.

  I will say again, forgiveness is not an acceptance of the status quo.

  When a ripple hits something, it bounces back.

  “Just because someone gets upset with us saying, “No,” does not mean our “no” is wrong.” This was shared in yesterday’s staff training on Privacy and Security. Gotta love God’s timing!

  It’s hard for me. Oh, I can decline stuff like a second helping of peas, (smile) but when it comes to putting boundaries in place…the ripples that bounce back usually have me assuming a submissive posture. God is teaching me to sit up straight.

  This Easter journey to the Cross has had a profound effect. It has been one of deliverance and letting go. It's physical, too. My heart grows lighter.

  The greatest breakthrough is realizing someone who is compliant naturally gravitates to someone who is controlling and vice versa.

  That’s hard to swallow because the dynamics of such relationships only re-enforces both types of behaviours (the ripples bounce back and forth.) It’s why we compliant people end up trapped over and over in a cycle of abuse. The demands made of us make us more compliant in an effort to please.

  What is familiar blinds us and silences us. It’s not that we won’t see the unhealthy dynamics, it’s that we can’t. (There’s that old burden of false responsibility again.)

  The ripples bounce back.

  I am not stuck in the past; the past is stuck in me.

  There's been a prayerful exploration with God surrounding what is important to me in a relationship. I never thought I had the right to disclose my needs. Honestly? I didn’t. That’s the last thing Control wants to hear.

  Laughter. It’s such a small but significant thing. It’s being free to share my quirky, sometimes twisted, sense of humour. It’s being free to laugh at myself and with someone. Nothing scares away the shadows like a good dose of endorphins.

  The freedom of self expression. By all means, laugh away! And girl, part of this is having boundaries.

  Curiosity and having someone ask questions. It means there is an honest desire to understand and know me. If I am the only one asking…yah…something is terribly amiss.

  The ability to discuss perspectives, ideas, and thoughts. It’s just as important to be given the space to formulate and hold our unique perspectives and thoughts. It’s not important to agree on everything. Historically, I agreed with things I didn’t really agree with, another of Compliancy’s traits.

  Respect. Having my, “No.” mean something.

  Trust. Compliancy’s mother is Fear. Being trusted is also important. Maybe Control comes into being because those who control can’t trust anyone either. (That’s an interesting observation…thank You Lord, for dipping my toes in Grace.) I know it takes time to build trust in a relationship. Trust isn’t easy for me either.

  Vulnerability. That comes with building trust or is trust born out of vulnerability?

  Compromise. This absolutely cannot be one sided. If it is, than compromise is spelled C-o-m-p-l-i-a-n-t.

  Celebration. That’s huge! Having a community cheer me on during these last few weeks of hard slogging means more to me than you could possibly imagine. I’ve never had a cheerleader before. Having a whole squad is amazing!

  Affirmation. This is my love language. I never knew this before now. It’s like giving a box of chocolates to my soul. It’s why I experience such incredulous joy when God pops in an affirmation like the one about saying, “No,” during yesterday’s training. His timing is always perfect.

  Community. If there’s no place for other people in my life…I need to run away as quickly as I can. It’s Control evolving into Abuse.

  My relationship with God holds no fear. I give thanks that He has revealed how my compliant nature not only enabled the abuse but sent waves of non-verbal cues out to the world. While this makes me sad, this understanding is without shame or blame. It’s only natural that someone who needs to be in control would respond to my messages.

  Another layer of forgiveness has appeared. I can’t be angry at them for being who they are. I just don’t have to be in a relationship with these types of people any more. It’s not healthy for either of us.

  It’s my birthday on Easter Monday. The day of celebrating the resurrection of Jesus now holds a deep personal connection. God has raised me from the dead, too. It’s more than that. He has showed me what life is, what life can be as He helps me leave the past behind.

 

Fire

 

  “He will rescue the poor when they cry to him.” Psalm 72:12

 

  Today is a bit different. I needed to write to clear my head.

  There was a fire last night that has damaged the place where I work and pretty well gutted an adjacent building. For any new readers, I work at a peer support drop-in for anyone whose lives are touched by mental health or addictions. Covid has changed what we do a lot. Mostly we’ve been providing door service. We provide survival items to the alarming and growing number of homeless people in our town. Rent prices are through the roof and have left many people of all ages unable to put a roof over their head. 

  The drop-in was only for anyone wanting to access technology or a phone. Infection prevention protocol has this limited to one visitor at a time.

  I have missed the gathering together of people, the sharing, and the sense of community that is a fundamental part of who we are. It’s been over two years now.

  The tenants in the upstairs apartments of both buildings all got out safely, one barely escaped through a window. The cause of the fire hasn’t been determined. The fire investigators are still there so hopefully can provide answers. I just know the wiring in our building isn't great...vibrations from a neighbour's demolition tripped the breaker for the kitchen.

  I first heard about the fire through my friend who was a friend of a friend who posted a photo on FB as soon as they saw the flames. We raced over last night to see if it was my work building and were shocked and dismayed to realize it was. I called my boss last night. FB was how she heard about it, too.

  It’s funny what goes through your mind in times of crises. My first thought was to celebrate that the hated Covid RAT tests were most likely burned up. But then I realized what the damage really meant.

  I don’t know when we will be open again. This means all the people we serve won’t be able to access our critical services like a meal, or a pair of socks. The outdoor gear we have for those living homeless will be most likely be terribly smoke damaged. Blankets and such can be washed but the tents may be beyond redemption. Hmmm…I could bring them home and set them up if they aren’t water damaged. Maybe airing them out will be enough. The details have yet to be revealed.

  I hope we can find a temporary site to operate from. With all the shortages in building supplies and the shortages in construction workers, it might be a while before things are up and running.

  My co-worker shared her joy that our new electric snow thrower survived.

  That’s important, finding joy in the midst of devastation.

  I hope the art survived; three large paintings I did many years ago as a thank you entitled Hope, Support, and Recovery. These are three of the key concepts defining who we are and what we do. If they got wet, the MDF boards they were painted on will warp and swell. If they only got covered in smoke, chances are they can be cleaned. But then, they, too are replaceable.

  I wonder if the 4L jugs of alcohol based hand sanitizer and cases of wipes spread the flames in the building. These were stored with the RAT tests. It might be something to think about for the future, how to store them in a safer way.

  My church has reached out to some of the tenants. Some lost everything and probably don’t have content insurance. My co-worker is looking to find someone to take care of their pets until they get re-settled.

  We were closed tomorrow for a full day of staff training. It’s still on as planned. Looks like it will be a commute to the kitchen table.

  When all is said and done, I can only praise God. No one was killed. Stuff can be replaced. And that is the greatest joy of all.

Responsibility

  “Let the godly strike me! It will be a kindness! If they correct me, it is soothing medicine. Don’t let me refuse it.” Psalm 141:5

 

  Today’s four hour painting was difficult: the blackened eye of a woman…Oh, Lord, as I searched for a reference photo to paint from, there were pages and pages of them. Age or race was no barrier to this terrible photographic evidence of physical violence. Oh, God, help them, bring them into Your fold, help me learn the signs of domestic violence because it does a really good job of staying in the shadows.

  My hands shook through most of the painting. Emotions are running high and deep. (Oh, Lord, the women!!) Cricket stayed in the background, interjecting as needed, but respectful of the current situation I find myself facing.

 

  I can hear him as clear as if he was sitting at the table.  

  “I’m…not…hitting…you…your…arm…is…in…the…way…of…my…fist.” Each word was accompanied by a knuckle punch to the shoulder. No matter how hard I tried to avoid the next blow, it always found its mark.

 It was disconcerting to realize I knew the difference between a knuckle punch and a regular one. Legs and arms were targeted. My brother never hit me in the face. He must have known it was the one thing that would have landed him in very deep trouble instead of being reprimanded with, “Stop hitting your sister.”

  Not that this worked.

  I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Not just because he would beat on me all the time. He was two-and-a-half when I was adopted. There wasn’t any of the regular time to prepare a young child for the entrance of another. His reality changed overnight. His place of singleness and sole attention was taken away by this crying, squalling, all of a sudden appearing and demanding baby.

  So much of what shapes who we are happens long before we have the ability to talk. 

  I witnessed a young man being given charge of a baby. He was most dismayed with this sudden responsibility. It wasn’t long before the baby started crying.

  With a shadow in his eye, he held her out to me and said, “She doesn’t like me.”

  I smiled and said, “That’s not it. The baby is only reacting to the tension in you. She senses your fear and discomfort with her.”

  I’d forgotten how much children provide a reflection of what’s going on around them. I’d forgotten how sensitive and aware they are of non-verbal cues.

  But the baby was burdened with being responsible for the young man’s feelings of rejection. Was it unrealistic? Logically, yes. The baby isn’t anywhere near old enough to make the decision about liking him as a person or not. Those four words, “She doesn’t like me,” reveal a great deal. I had a glimpse of his heart and am deeply saddened by what I saw.

  I saw myself in him but I also saw myself in the crying baby. That’s why my brother came to mind and the thoughts about what it must have been like to have everything you know suddenly change at such a young age.

  I don’t know if he ever got over hating me for it. To be honest, there’s been far too much damage done to want to be in a relationship with him. There’s been far too many times where he hurt me and it was my fault.

  The decision to not have my brother in my life is not a measure of my ability to forgive him. Forgiveness is NOT an acceptance of the status quo nor does it give license for abuse to continue.

  It gets complicated. Having the blame for being hurt placed on the victim AND the blame for hurting the victim put on the victim absolves an abuser of personal responsibility. I think I need to throw in the idea that we are also made to feel responsible for our abuser's feelings of hurt. That's another reason they hurt us.

  These ideas are like zombies from some apocalyptic horror movie. The undead corpses rise and want to eat your brains. At least, that’s how it feels to me. I’ve heard these same messages time and again by those who felt they had the right to control me.

  I am finally saying, “Stop!”

  The zombies grrrr and ugh and drool in the background. They heartily object when changes are being made to the status quo.

  But so do people I called friend. This is why Cricket kept quiet.

  Oddly enough, the heartbreak around this has helped me discern the cruel nature of double standards. It’s helped me discern that sacrifice has been mostly one sided. (grr…ugh…drool)

  The recent conflict has also helped me see that boundaries were firmly in place, theirs, not mine.

  A toxic relationship doesn’t encourage or permit change. The inability to cheer on the successes of someone you claim to care about points to something being gravely wrong with the whole thing.

  “It hurts me that you are changing.” (Grr…ugh…drool.)

  The denial of self is far too high a price to pay for admission into any relationship. I’ve been doing this far too long; afraid to speak up, afraid to say anything that might hurt this friend. (Grrr….Ugh…drool.)

  Besides, I knew the moment I said something, there’d be a problem. It happened before but ended up resolved because I quickly backed down in the name of “friendship.”

  I once was blind. Now I see.

  I’ve learned a great deal from the other people in my life, the ones giving me Godly slaps upside the head which leave no bruises. I couldn’t have seen what was going on without them. I would have simply slipped back into the “way it has to be” to keep the peace and (deserve?) a friend.

  Deserve? Where did that come from? Hmmmm…looks like a zombie, smells like a zombie and sure sounds like one. Grrr…ugh…drool.

  I will be so glad to leave Compliancy in the dust.

  I also don't blame my friend for treating me the way I verbally and non-verbally allowed her to. I do not accept responsibility for her feeling hurt by my dire need to change the status quo. The changes are not being made with the intention of hurting anyone.

  The damage created by believing being compliant as the only way I am allowed to live has been hidden for a long time. That’s because the bruises were never on my face.

 

Ego

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” Jer 29:11

 

  Aaniin (Ah-nee) is an Ojibway greeting. The translation is, “I see your light.” When I first heard it on Wednesday, my heart filled with longing and desire: longing to be seen but desiring to be one who sees others’ lights.

  I had nightmares pretty much all night. Pursued by some very scary characters who were bound and determined to not let me get what I wanted, accusing me of doing things I hadn’t done. They were determined to remind me that any sense of self worth was not acceptable. They broke into my house. They chased me down the street, all because I wanted to embrace a sense of value.

  In grade 2, we were given an art project. We had to draw a picture using only straight lines. I drew a horse (I didn’t draw much else back then.) I used my ruler to create short lines. Consecutive short lines create a curve. It’s what was needed to draw the hair in the horse’s tail.

  When art period was over, the teacher held up my drawing and asked the class if I had used curved lines to draw the mane and tail. The consensus was a resounding and surprised, “No!”

  As soon as the teacher held up my drawing, I felt such shame. I didn’t know what to expect but assumed it’s because the project had been done badly. Once I realized it wasn’t, more shame kicked in…I’d made the other kid’s drawings look bad. I’d made them feel bad because mine was better.

  Mom told me that prior to grade two, my artistic skills were more advanced than my peers. But by the end of grade two, they were on par with everyone else.

  I held back because I didn’t want other kids feeling bad about their art. (This is from an adult understanding) I didn’t want to come across as conceited.

  Ego. Psychoanalysis defines it as the part of the mind that mediates between the conscious and the unconscious. Ego is responsible for reality testing and a sense of personal identity.

  A damaged sense of identity skews our reality.

  There’s a million miles between being able to appreciate and celebrate the fruits of our labours and arrogance.

  Putting the art in these blogs leaves me vulnerable. Grade two me still speaks rather loudly at times. Submission and Compliancy have a sister: Don’t be Proud.

  I joked with the therapist I saw for many years that I was getting a swelled head as God’s truth began to fill my soul. She smiled, rather sadly, and replied, “It probably feels that way. When you come from a place of zero self worth, the least hint of confidence is massive and unnerving. I don’t think you will ever have to worry about a swelled head.”

   It’s like learning a foreign language.

   The big, ugly, scary guys who pursued me last night were trying to stop me from becoming fluent.

  God is the great I AM to my little i am. He has filled the little i am with skills, abilities and talents which are a huge piece of my light. They are as much a part of me as breathing. Good stuff like this should never be kept under a basket.

  The basket’s name is Shame. (Even writing “good stuff” leaves me squirming.)

  There are a lot of baskets that need to come off.

  Some of these are gender and cultural ideologies. A man who is assertive and bold is admired. A woman who displays these same traits is deemed, “full of herself.”

  I am not. It’s God who is filling me.

  It's a terrible thing to not believe God. I am so glad He keeps telling me stuff over and over and over. Sometimes taking a peek under the basket is all I am able to do.

 

Rebel

  “His purpose was for the nations to seek after God and perhaps feel their way toward Him and find Him—although He is not far from any one of us. For in Him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17:27-28

 

  I commented to a friend yesterday how my kitchen table, the sketchbook and the laptop are my altar: a humble place to come before God. I gave thanks (what an inadequate word!) that He has provided a way to seek Him and share of His work in my language, the one He taught me right from the beginning of our journey together.

  There’s constant mental chatter going on while the lady is painted with a fine paintbrush. My dad called me “Cricket” when I was little because I would do the same out loud. My inner child is part of this journey, too. She needs to be.

  The thoughts range far and wide, travelling through history, visiting current events, asking questions-s-s-s-s-s, sharing the burdens that are weighing me down and celebrate the good things, too. I can hear His voice and He answers in ways I can understand: through the keyboard and through the art. Even though it’s been a difficult journey at times, my heart swells with awestruck, wide-eyed amazement for all of it.

  Inspiration for this image, number seven, came differently. During yesterday’s staff meeting, my thoughts drifted. You know how it is in long staff meetings; it’s hard to stay focused. As I stopped paying attention, the Spirit quietly inserted the word, “Rebel” into my heart. The accent was clearly on the first syllable.

  Cricket got me into trouble frequently, especially early on when the most important thing is to NOT TALK IN SCHOOL. There was a trip to the corner in grade one for telling the girl in front of me where her eraser had fallen. She couldn’t see it. I could. The teacher pounced on my disobedience. My attempts to explain fell on deaf ears. (The teacher’s name was Mrs. Hagar.) Facing that awful corner was mortifying, humiliating and gravely unjust. What had meant to be helpful was treated as out and out rebellion and disobedience. It wasn’t just my voice that was punished, it was my heart.

  Eventually, Cricket got the idea. One day she simply stopped talking.

  While painting yesterday, I pondered the idea of changing the image by replacing the dragon surrounding the woman. I wondered if having it there was an invitation to the forces that are extremely unhappy with all the change God is unlocking. The dragon ended up staying and will stay because, while it has teeth and claws, they don’t touch her. They can’t. She’s kneeling before God.

  That’s not saying it isn’t trying to take hold.

  Cricket has started talking again, tentatively, and with a great deal of fear. It’s hard. Very hard. Her voice is very rusty. She, I, have begun the difficult task of learning to set boundaries and voice our needs. It takes me (yah, I am Cricket) days to find the words and gather up the courage. Just thinking about it sets the butterflies loose in my stomach and my hands shake.

  There’s been terrible pushback. Nobody likes a rebel.

  But is it really rebellion?

  Nope.

  It is my right to change how I interact with others especially if the dynamics are unhealthy; especially if the relationship is one of control and subservience. Subservience is not serving. Subservience is a joy sucking vampire.

  Dear readers, you know well which role I wear. It doesn’t fit any more and I am trying to take it off.

  It’s sad that this is treated as a bad thing instead of being celebrated.

  But then, I’ve also read some of the comments aimed at the women who are also finding their voice. It’s brutal to see how angry people get at them.

  Compliancy’s voice is also rebelling against the changes. She goes on and on and on and on with the usual recital that fills me with guilt, shame, disbelief, and second guessing. She’s mostly unhappy with me having the nerve to even think about changing the status quo.

  Maybe I’ll send her to the corner for talking when there’s NO TALKING IN SCHOOL!!  (LOL…Boy, it’s good to laugh!)

 

  The painting of the woman’s face entitled “Courage” sits on the table, leaning up against the wall. I look at her frequently and give thanks that God drew her out of the shadows, literally and metaphorically. I give thanks for the women who came out of the shadows before me. Their courage overflowed and enabled me to do the same.

  I will end today by giving more thanks. It’s that sort of day. What better way to start and to wrap things up!

  God has placed people in my life who bolster my courage; who lovingly affirm the value of all that is being shared so publicly. They instill a deep resolve to continue along the path God has called me to walk, regardless of the resistance. They rebuild me when I fall apart after rebelling against the awful, life-long prison called A Comfort Zone. I do, you know, fall apart.

  I’ve never been a rebel before. (Smile, if only my hands would stop shaking….)

 

Victim

  “You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in Your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” Psalm 139:16

 

  I struggle to identify myself as a victim. It was difficult hearing the church overseers refer to the anonymous woman who came forward as, “THE VICTIM.” It is dehumanizing. It’s why she chose a name, Hagar.

  It would appear I hold some deep prejudices. Why?

  Is it simply another name for self pity?

  Does naming myself Victim imply I believe the world owes me? Am I selfish?

  Does it mean I am pointing fingers?

  Does being a victim mean I want other people to feel sorry for me?

  Is identifying as a victim fake?

  Huh…it would appear there’s a battle going on. What a load of crap!

 

  To be a victim means something bad happened, something hurt you, someone hurt you. It means admitting this.

  For the longest time I would share pieces of my story and call myself, A Woman Who These Things Happened To. I realize now it was a way of disconnecting my emotions and helped me minimalize the consequences of these experiences.

  (Smile.) God, obviously, has other ideas about it.

  Yesterday’s post surprised me. It felt like it came out of left field and was waaay off topic. God, again, knew what He was doing.

  It’s about needing permission or, should I say, giving myself permission to be okay with feeling the deep feels that come my way. It doesn’t have to be logical. It doesn’t have to be in any sort of consecutive order. There isn’t a time line, or a finish date. How could there be? When a start date comes, there’s nothing I can do but begin. (I admit to a certain degree of procrastination at times. A tough road requires a deep breath before setting out.)

 

  I think I can finally surrender feeling responsible for how other people feel. Pointing a finger means there’s three fingers pointing back at me. Those are the ones I am most concerned with.

  It’s not in me to intentionally hurt someone. While sometimes I imagine the worst things to inflict on those who abused me, it doesn’t last long. Honesty isn’t always pretty.

  But it’s also crucial that I don’t fear speaking up or sharing my perspective because it might cause someone else to feel hurt, especially if they are personally involved.

  I am a victim.

  I have experienced sexual, emotional, mental, and physical abuse. It has impacted me in ways I am still trying to understand. I know it has shaped how I think and act, in ways that can be, have been and still are detrimental to my personal well being.

  It’s time for a change.

  Lord, I surrender the clock to You. Let me be willing and able to follow where You lead, whenever and however that happens. AMEN!

 

Illegitimate

“His (my companion’s) words are as smooth as butter, but in his heart is war. His words are as soothing as lotion, but underneath are daggers!” Psalm 55:21

 

  The word, “illegitimacy” came through loud and clear during a quiet time of reflection in church.

  I have not experienced some of the horrific violence other children and women are faced with every day. It’s something I wrestle with on a regular basis…what’s the line? “Other people have it worse.”

  This is not a comforting thought.

  By thinking this and because of its dismissive and minimizing nature, it’s a nasty way to illegitimize my experiences. Sigh. It’s a battle.

  Perversely, comparing the responses I have to those of someone else who experienced similar things is just as nasty…”It doesn’t seem to affect them, why should it affect you?”

  Because it does.

  I am not them.

  Whenever a thought, a comment, or a conversation ends up with feeling the need to justify myself, it drives home the lifelong sense of not belonging anywhere.

  I wasn’t very old when I found out I was adopted. My brother was the one to break the news.

 “You’re not really my sister.”

  Mom and I talked about it. She confirmed this was true as I sat on her bed. I am positive she reassured me but I was in a place of being unable to hear any sort of affirmations of love. Black waters of confusion and emotion left me deaf and blind.

  I gave my mom the answer she was looking for when she asked how I was. Compliancy’s voice spoke up for the first time, “I am okay.”

  Now is the opportunity to use adult vocabulary and the insight needed to reflect on this pivotal moment in my childhood. As an adult, I can unravel, understand and vocalize what I was unable to in that moment.

  I wasn’t a real daughter or a real sister. The foundational aspects of my identity were “pretend-zies”…funny this childhood expression has come to mind now.

  I was illegitimate in ways that far surpassed the circumstances surrounding my conception and birth.

  Why did I lie and say I was okay? My compliant response came because I was afraid I’d be sent away if I hinted otherwise. It became a matter of survival to never rock the boat because I’d already been bad enough to be given away once. (It’s sad that a child’s logic actually makes sense. The fact I was only a few days old when I was adopted isn’t the point.)

  This is the first time this core belief has come to the surface. I can’t help but weep. I am not going to illegitimize this belief because an adult’s perspective recognizes it isn’t true. It is a child’s truth, my truth that has shaped a huge swath of who I am.

  The same compliancy I used to create feelings of safety left me extremely vulnerable to abuse.

  The abuse only deepened the need for constant compliancy.

  Compliancy is a liar and a thief.

  What a mess.

  The idea of illegitimacy seems to wrap its dark tentacles around many of my perceptions and has done so for a long, long time. It’s why I didn’t wear white at my wedding. It’s why I didn’t attend college graduation. It’s why I didn’t go to my high school prom. It’s why I had to step down from the church board. It’s why I struggle to respond when someone thanks me for doing the blog.

  It’s yet another reason I stayed silent for so long.

  Oh, Lord, this is so sad. Thank You for these life changing revelations. I am awfully tired of sitting in the chair today’s art portrays. These last four and a half hours of writing have taken a lot out of me, too. Do you mind if I curl up on Your lap for a while?