God and Popeye

There comes a time when all the upset-idd-ness (not a word, but the only thing I could come up with), passes and anger takes hold. I guess I'm finding out that the old Popeye standard: 'I've had all I can stands and I can't stands no more' is way too true.

Because if you love someone, you do not just let things sit. If you love someone, you risk obliterating that love in the name of true love. If you love someone, you realize that all the tears in the world mean nothing if they keep you from the correct path. If you love someone, you take chances, speak brutal truth, and be ready, always be ready to be cast aside . . because it's worth it, if you can make a difference. I don't care if this person ever talks to me again, but he'll have to hide under a rock to keep from me. Because I care too much.

That's what God did . . . right?

Is there really any kind of love that's real?

The Toe Cheese of Life (it's an ugly picture)

There's a lot of junk out there within our lives that demand attention. You wish you could just space it off, skip merrily along, but you know, when you grow up, you can't live with your head in the sand. La la land is a lie and there is no wizard on the other side of the rainbow. So what do you do with all the toe cheese this world balls up between your toes?

Our preacher always tells us to "just forge ahead, get to work, let the problems take care of themselves." (Jackie Hutton paraphrase). And I wonder constantly how in all that lives beneath the sky are you supposed to do that?

I get so tired of all the 'Christian' platitudes . . . "The Lord will provide a way of escape", "Jackie, you remember, you can do all things through Christ who strengthens you", "Now, Jackie, all you have to do is just pray . . " (or my favorite) "Just love them."

AAARRRRGGGHHHH!

Honestly, I would love to push all the neat 'Christian' responses down a disposal and turn that switch and run lots of water until they are less than mush.

. . . and then . . .

Then I look at things for what they are and realize that there is no way around it: All that stuff is true. The cliche's are just so convenient , , . can they really be an answer? Or is there some way to get past them and forge on to an answer that relates to me and really helps?

Or is it that my attitude is rotten? Or am I taking the whole thing too seriously? Or am I looking for trouble?

All I know is that I have one shot - - just one life to give for God. And you always worry that you'll blow it. And if you do blow it . . . what else is there? I mean, come on. Without Christ there really is no life. Whether you decide to believe it or not, it's truth - Christ is coming back, it's soon, and it's serious.

A Good Day

It was so cool today. I was in with Jarred, getting Julie out of her diaper ready for her bath when I heard Jaci and Jah burst out laughing. Not a chuckle, not a giggle, but a good belly laugh from both of them while Jaci gave Jah his bath. Julie looked toward the noise and smiled that amazing smile of hers and I looked to Jarred, who grinned and told me that Jaci had a funny laugh. Then we both started to laugh.

Jah succeeded in his first 'potty', Jaci and I watched a good movie, dinner was over, dishes done, kids fed, baths in progress and I'm smiling at my son.

I'm having a great time in Hawaii.

The Sounds of a Hawaiian Evening

So here Jah and I are . . just tripping around the playground tonight. The wind was blowing, the moon was amazing - it really looks different here - must be the tropic's thing. There were cool clouds, bright stars and we just took off outside, barefooted . . Jah was even in a diaper. We were just a couple of wild things, finding our fun whenever and where ever we could.

We walked through some grass that Jaci has kept watered - it was soft. And then through stuff other people haven't - it was hard, but it all was neat because I watched him and there were birds calling goodnight on a gentle Hawaiian breeze, while the majestic mountains towered to the east, commanding, yet oddly comforting. All was right, and good, and fine in the world. (Do you hear Julie Andrews yet?)

. . . and then . . .

The centipede that followed us in was about 6 inches long, red, black and yellow. With it's nasty antennas moving frantically, it's curving body snapping back and forth with disgusting grace and it's foot long pinchers (that aren't usually fatal) opeing and closing, it slithered down the hall, furious, I am sure that Jah and I had probably just missed it several times while we walked barefooted in Hawaii in August!!!! What? Are we on drugs? What kind of grandmother am I? Oh Jarred pinned it down with the broom and Jaci doused it with Raid, but . . man! Still . . . It was so big!

I'm going to bed. My stomach hurts.

It's Like this . . .

You know what it's like when you go about life, but there's this little tick in the back of your head, like you forgot to turn off the coffee pot or you forgot to give the dogs water? So you stop what you're doing to find out what that tick is trying to tell you and sometimes you can actually remember. That is not always a good thing. Sorta like; "Oh! Man, wish I'd left that thought alone." and so you push it away again, but you know, the tick never quite goes away.

I've always known things about this person. No, that's not right. I've always feared things about this person, but did not want to have anything to do with finding out the truth. By accident I have.

You can't leave it alone, because this is someone you love, and there's nothing you can do about that love. So you know the answer is to continue and build on that love (how hard is that??) and you pray for them (how easy is that??) and you keep a tight hold on your faith because this kind of agony is a part of life. Get over it, or not - - the fact remains: Life is one painful ride sometimes.

. . . and then . . . . .

Then I fall back when I realize this basic truth: What an absolutely amazing man was Christ. If I feel like this, over one person who's rejected me and stomped all my love into the ground, how in all the world can He bear up under the weight of the world? Oh my word . . . how?

It puts the loving, praying and faith thing into perspective.

What do you do with disappointment so intense, it's tangible? How do you handle being so completely ignorant of the deeds of someone you thought you knew, who you adored, who you admired, and who you would have bet your life would never, never be anything other than honest? I never wanted perfection, just honesty.

I feel stupid. And used. And laughable. And gut shot.

And I've never felt pain like this that was so bad I couldn't cry.

And how in the world do you deal with that?

The Trinity

I've often wondered how in the world the whole Father/Son/Spirit can be three different Beings called God, but still be one all at the same time. It kinda sorta blows me away that He can be in heaven, next to Himself in heaven and down here helping out. I mean, how can you begin to comphrehend that?

God is so cool. He figured out a way to illustrate it - - Marriage. Man, what in the world would I do without Robert? It's been almost 26 years and you would think I'd be tired of it all (ok, the constant leaving the gas tank at a quarter tank is getting mighty old), but so far, it only gets stronger. How weird is that? I've been in Hawaii for 5 days and if I don't get some rest, I'm going to drop. But when you sleep next to a man that many nights, it's hard to nod off without them. It's like a big ole' chunk of me is sweating and praying for rain back in Pleasanton. I'm only half. (I can just see the commets on that line.)

Maybe it's like that with the Trinity? Just a tiiny little bit? Maybe? Hey, don't get me wrong - -there is no way I can pretend to get a decent handle on this. Ain't possible.

. . . and then . . .

Then I think, if I could understand it, would they (Father/Son/Spirit)really be worthy of praise? It was Brad Stine that asked the question; 'Do I want a God down here on my level?'' Is that really what I want running the universe?

Let me think for a minte . . no. Let me think it over again . . uh, no. One more time? Okay . . .hummmm . . sorry. still no.
In fact, it's a resounding 'NO!'

Father /Son/ Spirit . . . . Don't understand it, but they sure work.

Lessons from Jah

My 18 month old grandson did something for me today that gave me more hope and faith and more positive outlook than any sermon I've heard in a long, long time.

I was getting out of the car. Jarred was unloading the back and Jaci had Julie headed for the house. Because of my surgery, I move a lot slower than anyone else. I was moving across the seat when I hear a '"Eh? Eh?" There, at the open door, was Jah, his tiny hand reaching for mine so he could help me out of the car as he'd seen his daddy do. Dumbfounded that a little guy, so young would think of that, I took his hand and allowed him to help me out. He opened his mouth and made an "Ahh" sound, leaning towards me. This is a kiss from Jah. He wanted to help me then kiss me just as Jarred does everytime we go anywhere.

And while I am smiling at the memory as I type, I am filled with honest humble thanks, because he learned that from my son. My baby, Jarred, actually heard what Robert and I pounded into him all those years. He has become the center of my grandsons world, a sort of hero that Jah strives to immitate. And that little 18 month old imitation helps, and kisses and seeks out ways to be kind.

Maybe I wasn't the dismal failure as a mom as I feared.

Power

Love is a merciless, violent thing that allows abuse of epic proportions to happen around and to it. Years of being kicked over and over and over and over buries ones feelings so deep, you actually think it has faded and finally, finally, you are safe. From it. From the pain it invited.

And a song or a phrase tickles, bringing the knowlege that it still lives. You still care. Love has become a kind of pergatory you never manage to escape. The utter desolation of that truth destroys you - again.

I've found that love invites roommates, supposedly incompadible, but living together in barbershop harmony; Bitterness, Resentment, and Revenge. At the center of all three lives tenatious love. I still search for a way to kill it.

But can love ever die? I have ached to be able to let go of it, and find peace from my tortured past, but it remains against my will. I don't know if it can ever be stopped. And if it can't . . . doesn't that explain the power behind the gospel of Christ?

The thing, the one thing I cannot manage to let go of is this; Does God ever feel like this? About me? About mankind?

Makes one begin to understand the horror of the word 'doomed'.

Long Flights

You know why I hate long flights?

It's because you didn't think and took your water pill before you boarded, then you always end up in the middle seat between a Samoyian and a Marine who loves to sleep, and you're crunched in there, trying to pretend that the smell that hangs over you is not from the hiney of the Samoyian, holding in your own intestinal demands while you eat peanuts that only add fuel to the fire, and then your seat belt gets tight because of all the pent up gas and then the pill kicks in, so you now have to wedge yourself out of that cubbie hole of a seat, and head for the bathroom where there's a line and people stare at you because there is nothing else to do, and you go in, where the water is a funky blue and finally get to have gas (because that's the only safe place to do that because you're a girl and you're not supposed to have gas - ever - it's a rule) and the sounds of it finally being able to escape after the wait is so loud that you're afraid it will override the sounds of the engine and so when you come out you are met with the snickers from the men and the careful averting of the gaze from the women.

So you head back to where they're offering juice or water and other compontents that aid you on the next trip to Flatulence Villa.

Jarred

So here I am, in Hawaii. I made it and ain't that the longest flight in the world? Got to thinking while I was up there - had plenty of time! - about the lengths I go to just to hold a little girl I've never met. I just don't want to hold her, I physically ache to. Julie. I have to admit, because I promised myself for better or worse that this would be truth all the way, that I have never been a very good parent. Too many obstacles, too much history that really destroyed the joy I should have felt as Rob and Jarred grew. Because they were amazing guys. Pictures of their daddy. and I was too young and too selfish and had such low self esteem. . I lost that part of their lives. I am swamped by the absolute waste of those years.

. . . and then . . .

and then I look at the amazing men they have become. Are there bounds for the pride I hold? In their accomplishments, in their choices for their wives, in their children, in their honorable lives? I don't think so. and while I ache to hold Julie and chase Jah, I came here mostly to see my son, Jarred. And to enjoy the little boy that is still there. Only with me.

Texas

What do you like the best about Texas? What could you do without about Texas?
We were at the Morlocks, just yaking while the youth group played kickball outside (yeah, 97degrees and they're out in it running. Youth is most definitely wasted on the young.), and started in the Bud Lite 'Real Men of genius' commercials . . the one about 'Mr Way too Proud of Texas Guy'. And sure enough, everyone in that room knew the flag, motto, song, bird, reptile (I kept saying "Armadillo!" . . Reptile? Hmmmm . . . Impressive intelligence, huh?) ,and just about everything that pertains to Texas. It was cool to be so 'in' to where you live.

But it hit me that there are definite disadvantages to living here. For one, the allergies. I always was a snotty sort when it came to people with allergies. I felt I was above that sort of thing . . Ha! And the heat - - - how do you explain it? Well, our first cousin, the Surface of the Sun, sends his regards. Stupid heat! 'Makes-you-wonder-what-the-Lord-is-thinking' heat. And the droughts. Storms part like the Red Sea in front of Moses here in Pleasanton - honest. Then form into mega storms on the other side. Unreal! Oh yeah, you hear about the floods - - right, like they happen often. People here in South Texas look forward to a cold front like most people look forward to Christmas.

And the good? Gotta be the people. The people make it worth every sneeze, every drop of sweat, every dry hour.

We had a chance to get out of here - head to Montana, build a log cabin and live a dream we've had since forever. Leave all this heat, all these oppressively dry days, be able to sing again because peanut dust hasn't ripped my throat to shreds. But we couldn't do it. The people here held us in place. Their love reminded us of our love. And so here we stay.

Anyone who knows me, really knows me, realizes what that cost me to give that up.

I think that states my feelings better than any prose.

Wah-Ha

Okay. There I was, 10am, 97 degrees and about 8000% humidity, sitting next to Betty Rachley, watching the Cowboy Homecoming parade, thinking of the kind of idiocy that would allow people to dress up and walk slowly on asphalt and waving on the third weekend of August in South Texas.

Hello! South Texas? Are these people mad? Sadistic? Gluttons? Trying to do penance for some horrific sin?

Whatever. There I sat, finding off the bees and thinking how wise I was to not be riding in this one this year. See, every year since 1997, Tesster and I have been in the parade, either with the Bluebonnet Trail Riders or with Hutton Ranch. Every year I sit in that saddle as Tess gasps for breath, and I pull a soaking shirt off my back. There I am, thinking: "Never! I will never do this again. EVER!"
And here I was, relatively comfortable compared to those poor saps on horseback. Yeah, let them youngsters take it from here on out.

. . and then . . .

Then I missed the work, and sweat and glory of it all. I missed waving at the little kids who think Tesster is cool and the ones who followed Hercules, the mini last year, chanting his name. I missed saddling up and untacking. I felt left out. In short, I wanted to play.

Maybe all that stuff about age being just in your head is kinda sort right. Although my body would disagree with impressive volume that I am not 19 anymore, still, I cannot accept the sidelines yet.

The trick is to find a way to balance the two.

Because, after all, how old was John Wayne?

Slap from the Past.

When I was a little kid, my dad used to make us kids work around the house/farm. If we weren't in school, we were working. It was always something, always sprung on us at the worst time (like when you got to see 'The Wizard of Oz' only once a year and it was on that day that dad decided to have us clean out the garage at 6pm.) And as we cleaned dad would stand and watch, smoking his pipe and making sure we didn't miss anything.

I always got in trouble because I learned early on that there was simply no way to get a 'Good job, Jack!' out of either of my parents. No,I'm not boo-hooing, just stating that if you don't get any encouragement, you tend to lose interest in the task done. Which I did. Of course, that didn't matter. I still had to do them. So I still got in trouble. As I grew, I began to worry that I was the lazy thing that my parents told me consistently that I was. I never wanted to be that way (let's face it . . being called lazy is not a positive thing), but I was never called anything but that . . So it must be true, right?

So I grow up, raise kids, go to work, buy a ranch, run a horse business and realize that I am anything BUT lazy. In fact, I have a problem chillin. My friends call me a work-a-holic. And I'm so busy goin 90 to nothin that I wonder why have a weight problem.

. . . And then . . .

And then my husband sells the ranch and I don't need to work anymore. In fact, he wants me home, just running the house, doing Church stuff, reading, drawing, painting . . whatever. It's entirely up to me now.

So why can't I get motivated to do anything? Why do I nap instead of pick up dishes?
Am I burned out and recuperating? Or am I that lazy thing from my childhood? I so much do not want to be considered lazy, most of all by myself, but still, I simply have no drive.

I'm not that person! I'm not, I'm not, I'm not!
Am I?

This really bothers me.

Well, I'm on a Sick Train of Thought Today.

Am getting ready for a long trip to see the grand babies. I've been looking forward to this for so long, I'm having trouble believing it's finally here.

But here it is and I'm flying during a bad time. The terrorist thing is in full swing and while I'm not headed overseas, I am headed for Hawaii. So, just in case, give Amy Brymer my horse Tesster, and Cheri gets Brymer and Nellie. The rest is up to Rob and Jarred. Amy Lamore knows where to find the songs for my funeral. If you want a good laugh, sing 'Mansions over the Hilltop', or 'In the Garden', or 'Just a Little Chocolate Jesus', or 'The Old Rugged Cross', or 'My God and I'. You can sing those and picture what I'd be doing while you were. And laugh about it. Don't forget to laugh.

Let's get off the morbid stuff for a sec. Robert told me about what this general did to Muslim terrorist during the 1st world war - - (I didn't know we had terrorist then, did ya'll?) He got a whole mess of them - 50 I think, and brought a pig out, slaughtering it in front of them. Then he took bullets and dipped them in the blood, shot the terrorists with the pigs blood bullets, then put them in a mass grave, covered them with pigs blood, carcass's and entrails. (Pretty gross, I know). He did this to all but one of the 50, then sent him on his way. There was no terrorist attacks for like 40 years after. Because of their beliefs, none of those 49 went to heaven, none of them got to meet a virgin . . nothin. The pigs blood made them unclean. And I thought, man! how cool is that?

... and then . . .

Then I thought, how barbaric. How disgusting! And how sad that we, the strongest country in the world, should use a peoples superstition against them. Right?

. . . and then again . . .

Where's that general?

Beulah

I got a new puppy on Saturday. She was one of 11 of a litter of Bassett hounds. Only 5 weeks old. I chose her because her face was all squished with wrinkles of extra skin and her eyes were so patiently resigned to the heat, to the battle for puppy chow against her siblings and to the lady who kept holding her and kissing her on each side of her skin endowed face. She made that soft grunting noise that only puppies make and I was lost.

My husband did not want another dog. Let me re state that so it is perfectly clear; Robert did not want another dog. Brymer and Nellie, the Pomeranians, were a perfect fit for our empty nest house. But one look at 'Beulah' and he was lost. Hey, everyone who's seen her are lost . . . she has that kind of face.

So this dog's been with us for like 4 days and she gets some loose poo poo going. The parvo light goes off and I rush her to the vet, where she's put on pedilite for a day and I am told to chill.

Chill? Crud, here's this young little thing that thinks I hung the moon, that Robert hung the sun, and Brymer and Nellie are responsible for the stars and I'm supposed to chill? Did I get her to let her face the world alone, take her chances, survival of the fittest? I am not a proponent of evolution; Mankind is not simply the top of the survival chain. And the think-ology that 'it's just a dog' makes me wanna . . . uh . . . discuss the matter with those who feel thus.

I think I'll change vets.

Evidence vs. Faith

One of the books I'm reading right now is by Josh McDowell and is on Christian Evidences. As I study it (and am totally blown away by the external and internal proof of our God, His Son and the Bible), I have found that I am put out with myself at my astonishment of this knowledge.

Haven't I always believed? Where is the faith I've always had? Did I need archeology and all that rot to back up God? Why is this such an important study to me . . why do I feel an honest need for it?

The answer, ironically, came today as I watched Star Wars. Seth Bauer (wadda sweetheart!) let me borrow the second and third chapter and I was hooked into re-watching the 4th, 5th and 6th. There was Luke going for the shaft opening with the torpedo at full speed. He turned off his targeting computer, going totally on blind faith in the voice of a dead man who told him to. He sank the torpedo on faith alone and saved the day (as anyone on this planet can tell you because we've all seen Star Wars!) This action was the basis for his devout love of the Force, that eventually became the force that saved his father. In short, it was the changing point in his life.

Because it was a miracle?

Maybe, but also because it was verification. He really needed to see that there was something out there bigger and more powerful than any death star, and darth vader. Only by the fact of it's existence could he learn of trust. And while the deed was miraculous, it was accomplished through him, by something bigger. It could not have been done without Luke's faith. He became part of it, not 'it'. Is there any way I'm making sense?

The rest of his life, he would see that moment as the moment he realized that. We are nothing, NOTHING without God. But we must let go according to knowledge.

Knowledge isn't a faith killer, it's a faith feeder. It can bolster a weak faith, it can bring tears of total joy to a strong faith - "I knew it, God! I knew You were real, and all the Bible is true! I knew it!"

So I'm taking myself off the hook here. Because I like tears of joy. They don't hurt at all.

Justice

You know, there is a great joy in the knowledge that God is just. The more I learn about terrorist and the way they think . . . how do you deal with that logically? How do you manage to talk intelligently with a guy who goes ballistic and purifies himself if you touch them after putting on your shoes - without washing your hands first? How do you reason with madness? How do you calmly discuss options/terms with wacko fanatics?

. . . and then . . .

Then I think, man, these guys don't get me either. They think I'm a wacko. And the fact that I'm a woman . . . man! (Makes me wanna take off my shoes, clean out toe jam and then touch their face---AFTER I pick my hiney! Unclean? I'll show you unclean.)

I think I'll go ahead and stretch the limits of being politically incorrect and state that they're wrong. And I'd love to be a fly on the wall when they pull that string, or push that button that blows them into space and out of this life and watch their faces when they are NOT met with 70 virgins, but rather by my God, who is a Consuming Fire.

You know, maybe I'd feel different if I didn't have 2 sons active duty navy.

Nope. I don't think so.

Terrible Hope

My husband and I have been plagued with infertility since 1991. Although we have two grown sons, still, as Christians, we wondered what it would be like to actually want a child - to love carrying a child , and all that stuff you take for granted when you're 18 and pregnant and stupid. We did the tests, the surgeries and the pills. But every month, like clockwork, we received God's answer: "No." Maybe this time? "No." And how does this month look, Lord? "No."

I could never let go of the chance . . Just the tiniest chance that next month might . . Oh, it just could very well be THE month . . . But, although I know it's not true, I feel as if I lose a child with every cycle. I 'cry for my children and refuse to be comorted because they are no more.'

Life, I have learned, is full of such terrible hope. I've watched my world spin out of control, at the mercy of a people who I love desperately, yet who consistently hurt me. And while they have no idea of what they do, they continue to casually destroy- what feels like, the very center of my soul. And while I know God is in control, God is the only one who will never hurt me like that, God is kneeling down, brushing the sweating hairs off my neck, still, we live in a physical world.
"They don't mean it." "If they only knew what they're doing to me, they would stop" - these have become the mantra of my life. They would change. They would love me if only . . If only they would open their eyes and see.

. . . And then . . .

Then I cry bitter tears - the kind that actually burn their way out of your eyes, because they haven't changed a thing, don't plan on changing a thing, and - "hey, why don't you get on the 'change' wagon, Jack?"
Still I cling to that hope. That terrible, wretched hope, that refuses to die, no matter who I hire to kill it. I don't like to be let down over and over and over and over. In fact, it has begun to dull my senses and is robbing me of my zeal.

In the parable of the soils, the dirt represents types of people. And I've always wondered if the soil had any choice in the matter. Could the rocky soil become good? Will the shallow soil always remain unable to nurture the seed? And most importantly, to me, will the good soil always be good, no matter how much it wants to just ditch the whole hope thing? You see, most of the time I desperately want to give up that belly tightening giggle of expectation. I don't want to hope and dream and always look to the good that must be over that hill . . Maybe that hill . . No, waitaminute, it is going to happen just over that one . .. uh . .. Well . . .


To have a baby. I'm smiling as I type that. For I still live with the month to month maddening hope. Even though every month another baby dies and every month I still mourn. I don't know how to let go of it. And the world and all it's disappointments? I still hold fast with a white knuckled grip on the hope of change in those around me.

I will not set it free. It is mine. Until I die, this I will not release.

And I'm not sure if that's a bad thing.

It Starts

I have no idea why I'm beginning a blog - I'm the least computer literate person I've ever come accross. It's just that everything in my life is new and it's not all good - some of it is absolutly devastating. So you pray and hope you understand what the Spirit is conveying, but it's so hard to articulate a need without articulating that need. Maybe I just need an outlet that no one cares about, save God. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of pretending emotions I don't have. So this would be the safe way to vent that part of me that never sees light.

I donno. Maybe.