Only You

My Prayer... Only You

by Carole A. Smith

Lord,

Give me the will and purpose to keep my eyes only on you.
Show me the path, you have laid out for my life.
With your light, illuminate it… by day and by night.

Guide me.

Instruct me.
Call me…by my name.

Walk beside me

Hold my hand...
Carry me when I am weak.

Open my ears and my heart so that I may hear your voice, Lord

…speaking to me at all times.

When you correct me,

give me the strength to obey.
When you praise me,
allow my heart to receive.
When you command me,
give me the courage to follow your way.

All that I have in this world is a gift from you.

Let me hold it with open hands, facing upward …back to you.

Turn my thoughts away from myself

and from all the things of this world,

So that I may focus upon

And follow
...Only you.

What Does Your List Say?

On Sunday, Brett and I were snuggled-up on the couch talking. Haleigh, our 7-year-old first grader was sitting on the floor next to us with a notebook and pen in her hand. (She too has the burden of writing swelling inside her.) She loves to doodle and draw and write lists and letters and sentences and poems and stories.... and, and, and. We weren't really paying her any particular attention, but rather enjoying our time together in the same space, doing separate activities. That is when Haleigh asked if she could read us something she wrote. Of course we said “Of course!” She proceeded to read us a list of words that described her brother. I asked, "Do you know what those words are called?" And with a snappy response she said, "Yeah…, they are adjectives." in a tone that suggested Duh, who doesn't know that mom? Yes, I did say she was 7... Lord have mercy on me over these next 11 years!

Brett and I were amused.  We all shared a good chuckle about the words she choose and I was sitting there thinking how darn smart and intuitive my cute little daughter is all the while beaming with pride. Then she asked if we were ready to hear the list about me...

Um... ok... sure.

"Sure, sweetheart, go ahead."

Holding my breath, now.

  

This is what she wrote:

Crazy-Carole (She even gave it a title!)

• Talking
• Gossiping
• Spying
• Sleeping
• Reading
•  Romantic
• Make Fun
• Clueless

Ouch... some of that hurt.

Talking. Gossiping. Make Fun.

Wow.

It just so happens that the Session for my Bible Study, just two days prior, was Believing God's Word is Alive and Active in Me from Beth Moore's Believing God. One of the main points that resonated with me from the study was our words are potent. And that using our words (through our mouth or writing) inappropriately is an effective way to NOT BE used by the Lord to our fullest potential.

Now, lest you all think I was sitting on my couch, talking-smack about someone, right after church and in front of my child, I most assuredly was not.  Not this day anyway.  But I was talking to Brett about someone and I was laughing.  My child, who wasn’t specifically tuning into my exact words, interpreted that as Talking, Gossiping, Make Fun.

It is easy to go about our days-our lives, thinking we can say and do whatever we may, but people are watching us.  Our spouse, our children, our family, our friends, even complete strangers.  Oh yes, and how about this one… God! 

I don’t know about you, but I want my words to be potent.  I want my words to bless.  Imagine the powerful, mighty, persuasive force you can be to others with this kind of intention in what you allow to come forth from your lips or putting your pen to the page!

Do you know what your list would say today? 

 “Set a guard over my mouth, O Lord; keep watch over the door of my lips.” Psalm 141:3

An Unfamilar Road... cont.

She was a quiet and attentive listener, this passenger of mine.  She didn’t say much but when she did it was affirming and intuitive.  She had a gentle spirit that conveyed complete acceptance of everything I told her which encouraged me to open up more the longer I was with her.  I knew that everything I said to her would stay in the car, between us.  I knew that she had no preconceived judgments towards me or anyone I spoke of.  I knew that with her, on this new journey, I was safe. 

I told her a lot about my old road, starting back from as far as I could remember.  I discovered that at times in my past, I was driving through the desert and had experienced expanses of mirages brought on by drought and heat and fatigue.  I became aware of this as she guided me along parallel paths to my old road.  During these times she offered to drive so that I could look out the window and observe my old road as a passenger.  This allowed me to focus, reflect, and truly see my previous path and landscape for what it was; for its beauty; its pain; its truth.  We stayed parallel to my old road for many miles covering years of my past.

We went through new territory together, as she had never been on this exact road either.  But going through it together made it possible for me to continue on.  There were unexpected potholes along the way… big ones.  Potholes like exploding punches to the stomach that caused me to pull over to the nearest pit-stop so that I could simply regain breath.  I was always able to resume my course, sensing within myself that I was growing…changing.  Encouraged by feeling the pain, rather than the numbness I so often felt on my old road. 

With each new pothole, I found myself relating to a pothole from my old road.  With each passing mile I found myself reconciling with the pains and hurts from the past.  Eventually, to my surprise, I found myself beginning to enjoy the new road.  I found an unexpected peace in the unknown and a new excitement in forging ahead.  I was actively creating a new way for myself, rather than coasting along on cruise control on my old, too familiar road.

We finally came across a sign stating that a major intersection was ahead in two miles.  Feeling confident and proud, I looked over at my passenger and saw that she was smiling back at me.  As we approached the intersection I was at last able to see the sign with the name of this new road I had been traveling on.  It read The Road to Personal Discovery.  There also, alongside the new sign, was the exit to my old road.  I stopped just before the intersection and with a final nod of encouragement and confirmation, my passenger silently slipped out her door.  I knew that if I ever needed her, I could find her right at that exact spot.  This final choice of what road to take was mine to make, and mine alone. 

I looked down at the map that was placed where my passenger just sat.  This new road indeed wasn’t on the map, but I made the decision to pioneer ahead on this path that I once mistakenly found myself on.  This time was different.  I was conscious of my choice.  I was alive in spirit and embracing my life for what it had been and for all that I knew it would become.

An Unfamilar Road

The road wasn’t on the map, but…I can’t imagine one named Personal Discovery would be.  If it were, I wonder how many people would purposely take that road.  Most of us have a general idea of where we want to go in life, but few know the best possible route to get there.  The average person would say that entails the least amount of detours and the straightest, fastest path with the ultimate destination of “success”.  But just like trying to get to a home in a new development, sometimes the directions aren’t clear on how to get there.  Sometimes, the roads aren’t on the map yet.  So we find ourselves right smack in the middle of trying to figure out the way for ourselves.

     An unmarked, uncharted road can be a scary thing but a familiar road can become mundane.  You start to wonder if there is another way… another course that possibly could lead you to a more fulfilling existence.  Most of these contemplations occur when you are weary.  You know that just ahead lays a major intersection.  You have seen it many times on your journey through life, but you have always either been too tired or in too much of a hurry to notice what the name of the other road was.  You wonder, as you stand there refueling, if perhaps this time, you should take that other road.  Wonderment however, quickly turns into reason.  You reassure yourself that you are the navigator of your ultimate destination.  Success is found by taking your road and you know the way.  You don’t know the other way.  You don’t know its name.  You don’t know what the outcome of taking this new path would be.  You have never seen that road on a map.

Hundreds of times you have had this exact same conversation with yourself.  Hundreds of times your road has won.  But all it takes is one time to get you off course.  Maybe it was intentional.  You defied yourself beyond all your reasonable doubts.  Or maybe it was that your own way was so familiar you simply weren’t paying attention anymore.  You were texting while driving, or changing the radio station, and all of a sudden you look up and you are no longer on your road.

That is what happened to me.  I did not intentionally take the new road.  In fact, once I looked up and noticed the path was no longer familiar, I was mad.  Mad at the inconvenience this was going to cause my life.  Mad at the fact I now had no idea where I was going.   I was not paying enough attention to notice the name of the street.  I had mistakenly gotten myself onto a one-way course, with the only sign stating the next available exit was in an undisclosed number of miles.  What was I supposed to do now?  At first, I dug my heels in and out of pure stubbornness I pulled over to the side of the road and just sat there.  I couldn’t believe the nerve of the road department, the people responsible for this change in direction.  Who on earth puts a one-way road, with no predetermined exit available right along-side my personal life road?  Who gave them permission?  Was someone trying to sabotage my life?  I decided to take a personal survey.  In a classic case of denial I was able to come up with nothing of my own doing that had led me to this path that I was now on.  I was there simply because of someone else’s fault and I was determined to get through the detour as quickly as possible and get back onto my familiar road.  With resolve, I pulled back onto the road and began my journey to do just that.  Get through.

It took about a week of driving on my own for me to exhaust all of my out loud curses regarding my predicament, when I noticed a woman walking on the side of the road a short distance ahead.  She was the first person that I had come across and as I drew closer I recognized her to be a friend.  I had actually never met her before, but something deep inside me realized that she was on this road for me, that she would not hurt me and that she was there to help me get through this detour of my life.  I pulled over and asked her if she would ride with me and show me the way to the end of this road.  She responded by telling me she had been waiting for me…waiting…for me.

...to be continued!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Have you ever walked by someone’s house and had to simply stop dead in your tracks to admire the beauty of their yard?  Their flower beds, bunches of color straight from the rainbow.  Their grass neatly manicured... each blade of grass precisely the same length, the colors all so vivid and rich. 

...Then after that first thought of beauty and awe that stopped you, silently, from out of nowhere, it seems, the coveting slips in.  I wish I had a garden like that.  I wish my flowers were so gorgeous. 

...Then the feeling of disappointment at yourself that you don’t or that you could never do that, you could never have that. 

...And then the feeling of bitterness that leaves a slight sour taste in your mouth. 

...And then the emptiness that leaves you feeling a little hollow and alone. 

 All in a matter of seconds, all with no conscious thoughts of your own dragging you down that dirty back road of your mind.  And then you begin your walk again and let the fleeting moments pass.  Your thoughts drift back to the everyday distractions of life.

But what if after you first pause to admire that beauty, the very next thought you train yourself to have is to ponder, what did it take to get a garden like that, rather than immediately, I want that.  That first question, if properly considered, may just wash away the second altogether.

What does it take to have a splendid garden?

What does it take to have that great physical body of the woman casually passing you by in the grocery store?

What does it take to have a clean and organized home?

What does it take to be that mother laughing, head tossed back in joy as she pushes her child on the swing?

What does it take to be that published author?

What does it take to be that strong woman of faith that leads your bible study?

It takes hard work.  It takes discipline.  It takes dedication to the cause.  If you want to have a beautiful garden, guess what?  You have to get your hands dirty, in the mud, in the soil.  You have to get down on your knees and pull the weeds, which threaten to choke your hard work.  You have to bend over and till the earth until your back is sore.  You have to daily water and feed your tender charges so they will flourish and grow.  That person with the beautiful garden did not wish it into existence.  They worked it there.

So tell me, my friend… how does your garden grow?

"But as to this, he that sows sparingly will also reap sparingly; and he that sows bountifully will also reap bountifully."  2 Corinthians 9:6-7

Honey's Way Friday!

Honey turned 4 on Wednesday, April 11th.  Happy Birthday Honey!
She got to celebrate with the entire family circling around her, petting and rubbing her, and singing Happy Birthday to her, very loudly.  She seemed to like it!

Haleigh cut up 3 pieces of Beggin-Bacon to give to Honey which is quite a treat since she is allergic to practically everything, but what exactly, we have no idea.  We figured, she figured an allergic reaction would be worth 3 pieces of bacon.  I mean seriously, a girl has got to celebrate on her special day!

The picture above is Honey when her name was Fawn.  We adopted Honey... hmmmmm, sound familiar from any of my previous posts?  Fawn was to be a companion for her previous owner's prized and beloved Pug.  There was just one problem, the pug hated the bully.  And so, she was put up for adoption.  I had lost my first treasured bulldog Winnie a year and a half prior, at the ripe old age of 8.  We tried a lab puppy, a foster bulldog and two cats until Fawn made her way into our home.  After countless $$$ spent on adopting her, vet bills and extensive carpet cleaning, she has managed to last in our home.  Despite my bellyaching to friends about Honey and how much MULA she costs us, or how frustrated I get when she escapes out the front door to pilferage through the neighbors compost heap, I love that girl so much.  Without a doubt I know she is happy, she loves us from the bottom of her doggy heart and she knows her new home, new name and her new mama like it was all there was ever to know.  She may not have started her life with us, but she is ours now!

Happy Birthday Honey! 

The Irony of Perfectionism

All or nothing.

Black or white.

If it can not be done 100% perfectly than it will not be done.  Period.

I crave organization.  I need things to be tidy, in place, neat… clean.  But I am overwhelmed.  I am tired.  I am in over my head.

Sitting on the floor while my back is being warmed by the fire, I feel safe.  The heat from the flames envelopes me and gives me a sense of calm and peace as I write and the words effortlessly flow from my mind to the page.  At this moment, this sweet divine moment everything seems right… seems perfect.  But my eyes lift from the page and something small and white distracts me.  As my eyes focus more closely on the object I notice another and then another… tiny white delicate pieces of dog hair scattered randomly and haphazardly on the top of my dark pants like miniature needles threatening, jetting straight out into the air.  Soldiers standing at attention.  Flags of imperfection. 

I am a failure.

Small, tiny voice, somewhere inside of me.  I have yet to find the exact spot that this nameless, faceless, person in the first resides within me, but it is there.  It has a flat, toneless voice, void of expression, almost a whisper… but make no mistake, it is there.

Moving from the distraction of dog hair, my eyes scan the thick, plush, gray shag rug as they stop at the piles of books scattered in a semi-circle around me.  Yet another rim of unconsciensously built protection.  Fire to warm me from behind and books built into a stone-wall fortress, a barrier between me and the rest of my house… the rest of my life.

Various titles that promise to get my house organized and clean but also manage to appeal to my deeper sensabilities like “Cleaning and the Meaning of Life” irony… once again, that I have brought more stuff into my house, added more clutter to discover the elusive clean.  Clean=perfect, perfect=love.  How could anyone not love something, more importantly someone that is perfect.

Writing books, Bible studies, homework pages from the kids, two different calendars, a gym schedule, a book promising my kids will learn how to read better, faster in 100 easy lessons, smiley face and butterfly stickers for encouragement… all scattered about me.  Waiting for me, calling to me… to make me perfect.

Really?  You’re crazy and to top that off you are lazy, a bad mom and you are fat.

The voice.  Stronger this time.  Firmer.  Demanding attention.

Big sigh… you are probably right.  Resolved, however, to quiet the voice, as I have yet to find the path to complete silence, I move towards action.  I create neat little piles.  Eight piles, by subject, four on each side.  Nice balance.  Even.  Even is a form of perfect.  But still… not perfect.  All or nothing…

I am overwhelmed, in over my head and I am tired, so very tired. 

So for today…

I choose nothing.

If it can not be done 100% perfectly than it will not be done. Period.

... More to come! Excerpts taken from book I am writing:

After They Leave, Who Will Love Me?

A Memoir of struggle to find love after adoption, divorce and death

Flowers...For Me

Flowers... For Me

by Carole Smith

I have given them as I'm Sorry

have set them upon a grave.

Mother’s Day, Get Well Soon

Surprise on your door… its May!

 

I have written poems about them

arranged their pictures in the hall.

Smelled them and received them

…thrown them against a wall.

 

Planted them, watered them

tried to keep them alive.

Killed them or simply watched them

…slowly wither and die.

Hung them and dried them

pressed in pages for memories-sake.

Wore them around my wrist

...put on-top of a birthday cake.

Placed them in my hair

that was tied up neatly in a knot.

Made wishes upon them

…he loves me, he loves me not.

 

Hydrangea is my favorite

but anything purple in shade will do.

Can’t wait to see the first arrivals

...petals moist and full of dew.

 

I’ve drawn pictures and scratched doodles

even have a small, but tasteful tattoo.

Held them as I walked down the aisle

…to say to him I do.

 

Flowers, one of God’s greatest creations

…so beautiful, so wonderful to smell.

Flowers, I love to gaze upon you

for when I do, if only for a moment, all in life is well.

What sticks...

It wasn’t until I had children of my own that I begun reflecting about my dad leaving.  When they reached the tender ages of five and three-and-a-half, I started to wonder about what exactly happened to me as a child that fateful day.  Maybe it was the fact that my daughter had some striking physical and personality similarities to me, especially when she wore her hair in pigtails.  Maybe it was the way she and her brother loved their daddy.  They would rush to greet him in the evening when he got home from work with squeals of laughter and delight yelling, “Daddy, Daddy… Daaaaddyyyyy!”  If his schedule was a little off – perhaps from a business trip - they would question me relentlessly about where he was and when he would be home.  As I considered my past in contrast with my children’s lives I decided to call my mom to ask her what happened to me. 

After catching up with the current events of our lives, I dropped the bomb on my mom and asked “When dad left what did we do?  Did we cry a lot?  Did we ask you where he was… when he was coming home?”  Silence.  It was as though I was asking her the million dollar question and she was deciding if she needed to use a lifeline.  She actually said, “I don’t know.  I don’t remember… I think you were fine.”  Silence again, thick and heavy, remained on the line.        

What I do know, after the sudden disappearance of my dad from my daily life, I developed fear-induced stomach aches.  My mom could not leave the house without me.  If she did, it would trigger a severe panic attack.  I would cry, uncontrollably.  Bolts of sharp pain attacked my insides.  Desperately I’d grab onto her legs and beg her not to leave.  Questions raced in my mind; was she coming home?  Was she going to leave me too?  My determination to keep her from leaving me was as strong as the aches in my gut.  I would not let her leave me!    No one was going to leave me again.  

After the divorce, dad moved to Spokane, Washington which was about a 400-mile drive from our home.  The distance meant we didn’t get to see him often.  Usually visits consisted of a couple of weeks in the summer, some spring breaks and every other Christmas.  As an adult I was told by my sister that we talked on the phone with our dad, but I only remember one phone call to him when I was a junior in high school.

I remember the last time my dad was in our house.  It was on an afternoon that we were being picked-up for a visit.  He brought a gift - one of those dart boards with the sticky Velcro-covered balls.  I don’t remember any of the other gifts he brought.  But I will never forget this one.  It wasn’t the gift as much as it was my mother’s reaction that day.  She began screaming and crying and throwing the balls at my dad’s head -   she had just discovered the ring on his finger. 

... More to come! Excerpts taken from book I am writing:

After They Leave, Who Will Love Me?

A Memoir of struggle to find love after adoption, divorce and death

I see me up there!

 
I truly appreciate the fact that Jesus was not alone on Calvary that day. The imagery of it is something to behold. If I am to be absolutely honest, I have to break the Crucifixion of Christ way down... I'm talking down low, into my human terms that I can understand, down even lower into selfish terms about me.
 
It is my nature to put myself into another’s place and try to feel and understand what they are going through.  So when I see pictures of Jesus on the cross…alone…I immediately put myself there and the feeling of abandonment is overwhelming.  As a child abandoned, I know this feeling intimately.

The fact that Jesus was not alone that day helps me participate in the day.  I can picture myself there, rightly upon the cross, just as the criminal admitted, “We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve.  But this man has done nothing wrong.” Luke 23:41

And then, take it a step further… the blameless One, there with me, actually speaks to me, to give me comfort.  After I request of him to remember me, he says “I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise.”  Luke 23:43

What? 
So, now…I am sinner…upon a cross… and my Savior, whom I did not know until that day, is there with me. 
He speaks to me, to give me comfort. 
He tells me I will be with Him… in paradise, that very same day. 
He will not leave me. 
He will not forsake me. 
Even though, I do not deserve it. 
Even though I had forsaken Him.

Why, because I admitted I was a sinner.  I declared He was the King! (Luke 23:42)

For me, this is beyond Good News!  This was a very Good Day indeed!

RENEW...You Know You Want To!

I am preparing my thoughts and heart for the topic of Renewal as I plan for our church's Women's Retreat in a couple of weeks.  http://www.cornerstonespokane.com/Cornerstone_Community_Church/Home.html 

One of my favorite things to do lately when I get a particular word floating around in my head is to look up the definition of the word and to look up the biblical references to it. 

This particular word, RENEW… is packed full of great imagery and energy!

Synonyms: freshen, recharge, recreate, refresh, refreshen, regenerate, rejuvenate, repair, restore, resuscitate, revitalize, revive, revivify

Synonym Discussion of RENEW

renew, restore, refresh, renovate, rejuvenate mean to make like new. renew implies a restoration of what had become faded or disintegrated so that it seems like new <efforts to renew the splendor of the old castle>. restore implies a return to an original state after depletion or loss <restored a fine piece of furniture>. refresh implies the supplying of something necessary to restore lost strength, animation, or power <a refreshing drink>. renovate suggests a renewing by cleansing, repairing, or rebuilding <the apartment has been entirely renovated>. rejuvenate suggests the restoration of youthful vigor, powers, or appearance <the change in jobs rejuvenated her spirits>.

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/renew

Bible Verses on Renewal that I love:
Romans 12:2-3: “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is-his good, pleasing and perfect will.”
Isaiah 40:31: “But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

Every day.... EVERY DAY I long for renewal... to be recharged, recreated, refreshed, repaired, rejuvenated, restored, revitalized - resuscitated! And you know what my friend? I am betting, you do too!
How do I personally find renewal? Here are 4 simple ways!
1. Shutting out the noise, distraction and lies of the outside world.
Our family actually unplugged for a full year!  No TV, Cable, or Internet!
2.  Seeking Renewal daily, in quiet times with the Lord.
3.  Seeking Renewal in His community – with one another!
4.  Seeking first His Freedom, then His Hope allows you to find Renewal – each day, through every circumstance.

Ode to a Boy

I have my Poetry Scribes of Spokane meeting today and our monthly assignment is to write an Ode.

"Ode: (ohd) 1. A lyric poem characterized by lofty feeling, elaborate form, and dignified or elevated style; a form of stately and elaborate lyrical verse. 2. A lyric poem usually marked by exaltation of feeling and style, varying length of line, and complexity of stanza forms. 3. A lyrical poem praising or glorifying a person, place, or thing." http://www.poems-and-quotes.com/article.html?id=609

Lately I have been falling in love all over again with my soon to be 9 year old boy Zackary. We had a date last night which included Red Robin for dinner, warm chocolate cake and ice cream for dessert (for him) and then I took him to the Y to watch him swim. We played hangman at dinner and his first phrase-challenge for me was to solve 3 words... I LOVE YOU. Without asking me to watch, he dove into the deep end of the pool and swam his fastest laps up and down the pool. At each end, sending a silent glance my way to see if perhaps I was watching him... and you bet I WAS!

Ode to a Boy...

I have fallen in love with a boy...
The day I discovered his life, I held deep inside of mine
I knew I would never again be just I.
A new part of me, would come from one
and have me be... forever ...a part of my son.

I have fallen in love with a boy...
I finally meet him face to face - I give him a name.
He seeks life from my body and receives love from my arms.
His every move, every breath is cherished and reaps awe from my soul.
I did not know how incomplete I was, until this tiny creation had completely made me whole.

I have fallen in love with a boy...
Who is beginning to have a mind of his own.
He can sense my adoration and takes liberties with my newly learned role.
I do not know the rules of this motherhood, yet want for him that which was not mine.
He reaps rewards for his strong will and my heart breaks at my weakness of holding a line.

I have fallen in love with a boy...
He is a boy now - his ways are unknown, he can no longer be cradled in my arms, or can he?
Can I? He is my boy, but he is no longer my baby.
He seems angry now, there is not enough time
or patience or understanding between his world and mine.

I have fallen in love with a boy...
I watch him - watch me.
He wants me to see him, to know him, to be proud of him, to hear him, to love him.
And I do!
O, how I have fallen in love with my boy!

Daddy Leaves

~

One, my mother,

Two, my sister,

Three, my brother…

He left us…

He left me.

~

Time, I suppose, does have its own way of healing wounds.  Just like I have no recollection of being told I was adopted, or that my dad was leaving the family, I also have no specific memory of being told my parents were divorced. 

I don’t have a memory of my daddy leaving.  To my knowledge, he didn’t sit me down upon his lap.  He didn’t hold me in his arms. He didn’t crouch down on one knee and put his hands upon my shoulders and look me in the eyes to tell me he was leaving me.  As far as I know, one day when I was three-and –a-half years old, he left our house and never came home again.

... More to come! Excerpts taken from book I am writing:

After They Leave, Who Will Love Me?

A Memoir of struggle to find love after adoption, divorce and death

Before He Left Us

My mom and dad could not have children, according to Doctors.  After 16 years of marriage and no children of their own, they decided to adopt.  First came my sister born and adopted two and half years before me.  Then they adopted me.  Within the first month of being welcomed into my new family, my mom had a doctor’s appointment because she was not feeling well.  It turns out she did not feel well because she was almost five months pregnant.  Mom said that she was laughing and crying at the same time upon hearing the news.  Tears of disbelief and terror – how on earth was she pregnant?  The doctors had told her for over twenty years she would never be able to conceive children.  How was she going to manage three babies ages four and under?  Laughing for the sheer joy of being pregnant and the irony of the whole situation.  I have yet to laugh and cry at the same time in my life… and have found myself throughout life reflecting upon what it must be like to actually feel such intense emotions that elicit a dual physical response.    

My brother was born in April of 1972.  I was only six months older, practically twins I would imagine it felt like to my parents.  I have very few memories from this time period in my life from birth to three and a half years old.  Only one vivid memory of all of us together, my mom, dad, brother and sister, on a lazy weekend morning in my parents bed – laughing.  I question myself if this is even truth, or something I constructed so that I could have one cherished memory of our family together, all of us, in love with each other and together… before my dad left us.

... More to come! Excerpts taken from book I am writing:

After They Leave, Who Will Love Me?

A Memoir of struggle to find love after adoption, divorce and death