God doesn’t need you to be perfect.

For a while in my 20’s while I was figuring out who I was, I thought of myself as a ‘spiritual’ person who believed in a Higher Power: on the surface I didn’t call God by name, but He was still God.

“Religion” made me feel inferior when I was young. As a creative person, I enjoyed expressing myself. I felt like I would have to conform in order to live up to someone else’s religious standards.

In my teens and 20’s I liked wearing makeup, edgy clothes (it was the 80’s after all!), and the occasional swear word would slip. While I went to church in high school fairly regularly with a friend, I always felt awkward. Certainly not because of anyone at church, they were wonderful. I just felt like I didn’t belong.

I was extremely shy and introverted, and social situations with people I didn’t know well were awkward. To this day I would rather have a root canal than attend a large gathering filled with people I don’t know.

It became a circle of guilt: I felt guilty because I didn’t go to church, but then I was so uncomfortable when I did go that I felt guilt because I hated it. I finally just gave up.

I don’t respond very well to being TOLD what to do, and if someone told me I “needed to go to church”, I dug in my heels, more determined than ever not to go. (I’ve always said there’s a reason the Missouri State animal is a mule!)

It was a pamphlet dropped off at our house brought everything into perspective. Suddenly 30-year old memories that I’d blocked out came crashing back. They were so clear and profound that I had to sit down and just breathe. I felt the emotions all over again that I’d felt as a kid: terror and fear.

My grandmother, bless her, was a Primitive Baptist. They had a big picnic in the summer, and I went with my grandmother a couple of times. I don’t know how it is today, but back then the pastor was a traditional hell-and-damnation-bang-the-pulpit guy who quite frankly scared me to death.

I thumbed through the pamphlet in front of me to kill time during the sermon. I saw drawings of a man who was in the ground, practically the same drawing I’d seen in the pamphlet dropped off at my house. The book talked about the importance of being saved before you die so your soul could get to heaven.

My 6- or 7-year old self didn’t understand the meaning of the picture.

I thought he’d been buried alive. 

I was afraid to go to sleep for days afterward, afraid I’d be buried alive while I slept. It’s kind of funny now, but back then it was sure scary!

Eventually I forgot about this until the next year when I went to the picnic and the cycle repeated itself. I think that may have been the last church picnic I’ve ever attended. 😀

The moral of this story is that you don’t HAVE to go to church to know that God’s in your life. I think it’s WONDERFUL that folks worship together and find joy in church services and other activities. I wouldn’t rule that out for me at some point.

But for now, I’m still an introvert. I require a certain amount of time to myself to recharge my batteries in order to be my best self for others. I worship Him my way, and God is just fine with that. I can tell because I feel him in my life daily.

God doesn’t need you to be perfect. He just needs you to give it your best effort and to move forward.

Don’t be afraid to reach out to Him. There’s no right or wrong way to do it. At the end of the day, it’s what God thinks that matters, not anyone else.

Cheers, friends.

This post has been rattling around in my head for a few months, but I just wasn’t ready to write it. It needed to ‘marinate’, until I reached a point where I simply had to write it before I could move forward myself. I felt compelled to write this for YOU, dear reader, in hopes that sharing my journey will give you strength. Because if you’ve suffered a loss, you need the comfort of knowing that your journey to healing is yours, and yours alone. 

I’ve been thinking about grief a lot lately. Many people, some I know and some I don’t, have suffered significant loss in recent months.  My heart hurts for them.

As humans, we all share the suffering that comes with a loss, regardless of whether that loss is a human loss or a beloved pet. And we all share in the ability to comfort and lift up each other…or not.

I learned a long time ago that even when it’s expected  –  such as parent or someone who’s had an extended illness –  it may make it a little easier to bear. But even then, it’s still a shock when it happens.

And then there are the losses whose circumstances are so sudden and so tragic it leaves us struggling for answers and  wondering why and questioning our faith in God.

We all share in the cycle of life. The cycle of loss. The cycle of blessings and joy. The cycle of struggle.

I wonder if we would appreciate one without the other.

When my mother passed away, the loss was bittersweet. On the one hand, I was relieved that she no longer had to suffer or miss my dad. Yet, I missed my mother terribly. Part of the curse of being the baby of the family is having to say ‘goodbye’ to both of them well before my 50th birthday.

I was blessed to have enjoyed my parents as an adult, and to have had the wonderful opportunity to spend a lot of time with them. Before their health limited their activities, they were a lot of fun. And they had a lot of fun.

I had a great childhood. Growing up on the farm was a wonderful experience, and I miss it terribly.

I have no desire to go back, my life is the here and now. But that doesn’t mean I miss it any less.

My memories are full of my favorite things: listening to the whisper of the Chariton River as it moseyed downstream. The wonderful smell of the earth during spring planting after what seemed like a long winter. The smell of new-mown hay or fresh-cut silage.

Baby calves, baby pigs, and baby chickens.

The peace of the countryside, and the beauty of a peaceful sunrise over the Chariton River valley, or a quiet sunset over rolling green hills.

The roar of big power as the equipment rolled out to work the land. The controlled chaos of working cattle or moving them to another pasture. Counting cattle with my dad or brother from the two-seater 1946 Old Champ airplane, back in the cattle-rustling days.

The hours spent riding my bike or 3-wheeler among those hills. Lunches in the field (food never tastes as good as when it’s eaten outside), all the trees my mom planted, her flowers, picking berries, the large garden we had.

I said my first swear word on that farm. I was fourteen or fifteen, backing my parents car up to the barrel tank that held unleaded gas. I went to brake and my foot hit the accelerator instead. The car shot backwards into the tank, sliding the framework back into the chicken house, and the gas barrel fell down in between.

“DAMN”, I said. 😀

We chuckled for weeks remembering the panicked squawking erupting from the chickens following the “BANG” of the tank stand on the side of their house.

Picnics in the pasture with just my dog and Miracle Whip sandwiches. All these memories are so much a part of the tightly woven fabric that is me that it’s impossible to separate them. It’s part of the framework through which I see everything.

That is why I can’t go home again.

To drive down to the farm just makes the loss feel more significant.

My parents house is gone now. Nothing is the way it was.

Buildings and structures don’t live forever. But the pang of loss is so sharp, so painful, the loss of so much feels so deep that it hurts too much to go.

In recent weeks I attended my cousins’ sweet vow renewal and anniversary party in my hometown. It was really nice to see them, and I saw some people I hadn’t seen in years.

As I got in my car to leave, I thought about driving out by the farm or the cemetery. Instead, I turned around and headed back home. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to end it with happiness. Not the lonely feeling of loss.

In the almost six years since my parents passed away, I have only been to the cemetery 4 or 5 times. And two of those times were for my parents’ burials.

I know for a fact that there are those who judge me for this. Personally, I believe that the right to judge belongs in the courtroom or to God (or simply a Higher Power, depending upon your beliefs.)

But as we’ve all witnessed and been subjected to time and time again, there surely is no judge or jury harsher than the Court of Public Opinion.

My friend Dianne and I were talking recently. I don’t even remember the topic.

“I don’t go back to my mother’s grave,” she said. “She’s not there.”

And she’s right.

I feel my parents’ presence in a lot of the things I do, in the memories I carry with me. I feel my mother especially when I make her noodles or am cooking for the holidays. I feel my dad’s presence when Jimmy and I are talking business or about life in general. Sometimes random, funny thoughts will come up about my dad and silly songs he used to sing.

For instance, recently I took a silly quiz on Facebook which told me that I should live in El Paso, Texas. With great pleasure, I shared with Jimmy the story of a memory that had been long forgotten.

“He’s an a..hole from El Paso,” my dad might suddenly sing, straight-faced, in a melodious voice. Jimmy and I busted up with laughter, and I can still see my dad doing that. August 10th would have been his birthday.

These are the kinds of things that make me feel close to my parents and cherish their memory.

Rather than placing flowers on their graves, I choose other ways to memorialize them. This year, I gave money to the cemetery. There’s nothing prettier than a well-maintained cemetery, and my mom would be pleased that theirs looked nice.

I have plans to create a Serenity Garden at the cemetery behind their graves, but I’m just not ready yet. Someday.

Grief is a personal journey that has no timeline, no specific route, and no destination. We have become such a schedule-focused society built on get-it-done-yesterday deadlines, I think grief can be challenging. It’s easy to feel an unseen pressure to move on, squash it down, pretend it isn’t there and put on a happy face.

We can schedule nearly everything else, but you can’t schedule recovery from grief.  Time can work miracles, and healing happens sometimes almost without being noticed.

The best thing we can do for loved ones who are grieving is offer them quiet support and the freedom to grieve how they need to. The route and process is different for all of us.

Grieving requires patience. And support. And kindness. And forgiveness. Be patient with yourself. Reach out if you need it. Be kind to yourself. If you know someone who’s grieving, be patient with them. Be your best self, for however long it takes.

Forgive yourself if your journey to healing is different than someone else’s. And forgive those who judge. They do so out of reasons which are their own and have very little to do with you.

“The very things that held you down are going to carry you up.”  Dumbo

There were many dark days I read that quote over and over, because it gave me hope. It still does. And it’s true.

I leave you with this prayer ( I don’t know where it came from to give credit):

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

of quiet birds in circling flight;

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry

I am not there. I did not die.

Fourteen years ago today, I married the love of my life. Like everyone else, we’ve had our ups and downs, but looking back, we wouldn’t change a thing. We’ve had a lot of disagreements, discussions, and disappointments…but we’re also each other’s cheerleader, ‘go to’ person for advice, and at the end of the day, we’re best friends. Here’s the story of  how I knew it was the right move, and I never looked back.

When Jimmy and I met, we lived 1,4oo miles apart. We spent a week together, and I left Missouri knowing that I would be putting the wheels in order to move back.

I was tired of the heat, the traffic, and the bright lights of the Big City. I wanted to live in a small town again, where you ran into people you knew in the store,  life moved at a slower pace, and if you need help, people are there.

I had become de-sensitized: fatality accidents were huge inconveniences that snarled traffic; billboards with girls’ behinds were such a familiar part of the landscape that we didn’t even notice them anymore. A homeless man lived behind our dumpster where I worked; two strip clubs were on the same street, we regularly had lunch or dinner at the neighborhood casinos, and it was just all part of a normal day in a large tourist city.

I wanted to be offended again.

So to move back home, near where I grew up, solidly in the Bible belt, was a no-brainer.  I was already ready to leave. It was not a surprise to me.

Plus, it seemed that once Jimmy and I met, it was almost as if we had stepped on an escalator…things just kept falling into place. It was easy, and it was happening without any effort on our part.

Not everyone felt that way, however.

My friends and family were shocked. After all, I’d lived there for eleven years: at that time, it was a third of my lifetime.

What did I think I was doing, moving back home to be with someone I’d only just met?

Never mind that my parents basically did the same thing…this was different. I was their daughter. And the baby of the family.

The morning after one particularly painful discussion with my mother, I was on the freeway headed to work. I had about a 25-minute commute to the other side of town, plenty of time to think.

I was teary and fragile, struggling to keep myself together. Doubt had crept in.

I did the only thing I could do: I prayed.

“God, I really feel like this is the right thing to do, but everyone’s questioning me and I don’t know what to do. Please, help me! Give me a sign that what I’m doing is the right thing! I need a sign!”

(I’m a big believer in signs.You might have picked this up by now.)

No sooner than I finished speaking, it dawned on me that the silence in my car was oppressive. I had been listening to a local country radio station, but suddenly, there was no music. Like, for several seconds.

Just dead air space.

Seconds went by.

Suddenly a Leann Rimes song came on the radio that I’d never heard before:

My Mom’s Bowls

Last Saturday, when I was doing everything I could to avoid doing yard work, I had a sudden overwhelming urge to clean out my cabinets. Well, just one, actually.

This happens to me a lot. Both avoiding yard work and cleaning out something, that is.

I was making a dish for an event that night, and I suddenly realized how…unhandy…and unsightly..this overstuffed cabinet really was.

The problem was it was my mother’s serving ware and bowls that was taking up the space. Uh oh. I couldn’t get rid of those! Those were my MOTHER’S!!!!

I sat on the floor and looked at those dishes, wrestling with my conscience.

I examined my feelings.

Did I associate these dishes with any happy memories? No. Did looking at these dishes make me think lovingly of my mom and treasure my time with her? No, again.

This whole thought process took about 90 seconds.

My mom has been gone for almost 3 years, and these dishes have been living quietly in my cabinet.   They were leftover when all my parent’s belongings were distributed among family and friends or donated to charity. I brought them home because they were hers, they were in good shape, and I thought I might use them. I’ve used one of them once. Honestly, I don’t even really like them.

I kept a number of my mother’s things that do make me think of her.

I’ve kept her military uniform; the promissory note from the house they borrowed money to buy back in 1946; her wallet; and her funky jumpsuits she had made back in the 70’s, which I think I’ll wear for Halloween one day.

I’ve kept the basket that she painted when she was going through a basket-painting phase. It makes a great toy box! (Now if I could just teach them to put their toys away…)

I kept the really funky fondue or casserole dish that I never remember her using, but I always thought it was really neat. (I know, my photo skills could have been a little better.) But you get the picture. (Pun intended!)

The Funky Casserole Dish

And, I kept the little sticker that she had bought but never used just to remind my husband (or any other fellas who visit the Black Dog Saloon) that we’re glad they are around. 🙂

The Manly Sticker

But all these things have a memory associated with them, or they happen to be really cool or unique or meaningful in some way. And I kept a number of other things too, for one reason or another.

But the Corning Ware? Nah. The other serving bowls? Not really. They are just stuff, taking up space. Space that deserves to be filled with something either beautiful, meaningful, or functional.

So I took the picture above of them to have always and remind myself of what they looked like. I will bless someone else with them who may need them more, because that’s the way the world works.

And now, every time I open the cabinet door, my spirit lifts looking at the organized shelves that are pleasing to the eye. (Although my husband may tell you otherwise, my needs are pretty simple.)

And I hope the next person who ends up with her dishes will nourish her family with the enjoyment my mom did us for all those years. 🙂