Carole Smith

The back of our small SUV is packed with bags of outgrown and overused clothing.  Bags, as in four large garbage bags.  With my kids in the backseat, we head to the Women’s and Children’s Emergency Shelter to deposit our donations.  I have mixed emotions ranging from the good, bad and ugly running through my mind.  I process them unconsciously and simultaneously.  There is relief and a sense of accomplishment for going through our possessions and getting rid of the unused unwanted excess.      There is pride for giving my leftovers.      There is the feeling of leadership for teaching my kids to give to the poor and having them see the people who do not have what we have.   As we drive further away from our home and protections of the Home Owners Associations and manicured yards; as we travel deeper into the heart of the city, I find myself asking my children if their doors are locked.  We come to a stop light.  I look over my shoulder again and chant “Are your doors locked?”

Sunday came around again. ...Of coarse I knew it would. I had mixed emotions about going.  Part of me wanted to go; that side that finds itself with neck-craned, looking out the window at the car accident you drive by slower than called for.  The other part of me wanted to stay home and stage my own silent protest.   But instead, I went, with both attitudes firmly planted in my mind. Not the best heart-attitude for attending church. Not the best heart-attitude for anything good to come of it, for that matter. We choose the third pew from the front.   I obey, as the worship leader asks us to stand.   But then I freeze.   I can not sing.  Literally.  The words refuse to come forth.  And then my eyes refuse to make contact with the front.  My head drops.  Then the tears begin to flow.  My head stays down for the entire sermon.  I can not look any of these people in the eyes.  I feel betrayed.  I am confused.  I am lost and it hurts. Again.  Just like last Sunday. ...Sund

I made up with my Mom today. Sure, she is 78 years old, and she is struggling with her health.  She doesn't feel good right now. She has been a guest in my home for 8 days now.  Her last visit was over a year and a half ago. She is edgy.  She is crabby.  She is down-right mean. I had finally been shoved enough.  I have a threshold for undercutting, biting words.  I still have a childlike need for acceptance from her.  I have not been getting any of the later and more than my fair share of the other.  I lost my cool and my temper four days ago, and have struggled to find it.  I have looked everywhere in my home, but all I find is her.  And so I leave.  Seems to be an annoyingly hard pattern of mine to break.  When the tough gets going I fight first, then flight second. My mom's love language, I just realized today, is quality time. I discovered this when I took her out on a date... to Happy Hour. We left the kids and my husband at home, and we spent 2 hours t

I have become so thin because there is no more room in the room of me for me. In the shower the hot water washes over me. The steam loosens me and I discover an edge… On the inside and lift             and pry                         to see. What is this edge? What is under this edge? On the paper-thin             thinness of me. I see light. I sense freedom. I mercilously pull             with one tearing rip desparate to see. What I discover ...a dark shadow of an unheard child that lives deep inside of me. It fills me up and crowds my space and tries to become me. It has deceived me for so long. Has become me so well. That I didn’t even know and I couldn’t even see. That’s why I am so thin because there was no more room in the crowded room of me. With much curiosity and wonder I gaze at this thing before me and speak. “You have lived in here for SO long             and my you are SO b

Yesterday my 7 year old first grader excitedly announced as soon as she saw me after school “Mom!  We have to go shopping!  Tomorrow is Safari Day and I need to dress up!” My first thought:   Hmmmm…. True to form, she is definitely a girl!  Any excuse to go shopping and she is all over it! Second thought:  She is so cute!  She is totally into her school activities and you know, she would ROCK a Safari outfit.  OK!  Let’s go shopping! (I seriously heard the trumpet call in my mind!) So I respond, “Okay, we’ll go shopping later, let’s go look up on the Internet what kind of outfits people going on safari wear.  I bet we can find you some khaki shorts!    Oh!  And you already have that hat…” Later that evening we head to Target and find an outfit that will work for tomorrow's festivities; a hat, khaki shorts, denim vest.  She decided to use her brother’s hiking boots that he outgrew and our camping binoculars as an accessory.  She goes to bed that night with a

Sunday morning was full of tears.  Uncontrollable tears. The kind of sadness that makes you want to lie on the floor.  Down as low as you can get, in the dark and just lay. I haven’t felt that way for a while. I hate this feeling. …It reminds me of when my father died.  …It reminds me of when of my father left our family. …it reminds me of when my brother went to go live with my dad when I was in the fifth grade. …It reminds me of how my sister has turned her back on me. Sitting in the pew, behind the pastor’s wife and her three children… these dear people, whom over the last two years I have grown to love.  I have let myself trust these people.  I have let them into my heart.  I cannot look at them without tears streaming down my checks and raw emotions getting stuck in my throat. The whole service, as I sit trying to control my emotions, I know what is about to come.  It is a sickening anticipation.  Swelling inside my gut.  I try to focus on the Lor

Our assignment for June from my Poetry Scribes of Spokane group was to write a poem about the West. I am not a west-ern type of girl, by any stretch of the imagination.  I don't watch cowboy movies, or read western books, or even listen to country music... so this was going to be a particularly challenging piece of work for me.  But this is one of the main reasons I love my little group.  I am pushed to write on themes I would never choose for myself.  So I dug deep and used the remake of the movie True-Grit for my muse.  I actually loved this movie and was truly moved by it.  The last 1/4 of the movie was very powerful.  So, here it goes... *** Harsh lines etch his sun-stained face. Harsh binds his heart with delicate scars, like lace.  …Woven throughout from years of alone, his horse, the land, no comfort flows-forth what he calls home. She enters, unwanted, in a drunken dream. She binds her heart to fulfill her scheme. Justice for her father in