My Little Gift

 My little gift, 

  I think of you often, and long to speak to you - but for some reason that only God knows, that may never be.   While I know it's silly to write to someone who isn't - yet - sometimes I think it's the only way to keep my heart from exploding. 

 You see, you've lived in my heart for such a long time. It's as if I know you - without ever having seen you.  In the eye of my heart I can see your dimpled hands reaching toward me, and the gentle breeze ruffling your wispy blonde hair. 

  It seems circumstances are keeping us apart, and there's no way of knowing if that will ever change. 

  There's always someone to tell me "it's not worth the risk", or "you can always adopt", as if that's somehow the same, or that it's an easy choice to make. 

  To them it's a simple surgery.  To me, it's choosing my life over yours. 

  So often your mischievous little grin gets between my eyes and my work, and I long to just scoop you up and hold your soft, chubby little self all day.   

  For years I've been collecting clothes and toys for you. 

  For years I've been building a library for you: children's books, fanciful stories, histories, grammars in several languages. So many books, on so many topics, because I don't know yet what your interests will be, so I'm trying to cover them all. 

  For years I've known your name. 

  Some months ago I gave in to the pressure, and signed the forms to get the surgery.  But ever since, all I see is your big, sad, grey/blue eyes looking at me, almost pleadingly.   I chickened out, and never scheduled, because it feels like killing you - and that's not something I can do. 

  I've struggled for so long, wondering why God has chosen to keep us apart? How does He get any glory from this? How do empty arms please Him? 

  I've heard so many stories of how God used some of the most broken people to bring Him glory - but where do I fit in that?  Isn't there enough brokenness in my life already, that He could use? Why do you have to be the sacrifice? 

  It's a grief, a loss, that feels wrong to have, because you're not real - you've only ever been in my heart. 

 

  But - if you're so deeply in my heart - could it be you're in God's heart too......? 

  If He let me love you for this long, He clearly had a reason for it, and maybe it was so I could love others better?  Maybe I needed to experience another loss, so I could better understand others when they are grieving? 

  It's so hard to let go of something/someone I've never held.   But you've been in my heart this long, and there you will always be.

  Others may never see your face, or hear your name - but I know it, and what it means: and you truly are a gift from God - even if only in my dreams. 

  I may never hold you in my arms, but as long as I'm alive, you'll live on inside my heart.  

  No one is truly gone as long as there is someone to remember them. 

  And don't worry baby, I've always felt you were real. And to me, you always will be. 

The Gift Never Given

  Christmas: A time of celebration - of new birth, redemption, salvation, family, the list goes on. 

 For some of us, it's a time of deep mourning.  

 Doing my shopping during the Christmas season has always been a bit of a drudgery, simply because the stores are packed, and people seem to have forgotten how to drive. 

 Last year was hard, because I had hoped to be making a special announcement over Christmas just like other people do - but instead, I was trying to accept the new reality of having cancer. 

 This year; after a whole year of fighting, and hoping for a good report - the day after Thanksgiving I was told it got slightly worse.  It's not life threatening. It's a simple fix - just cut it out. But it feels like what being cut out is my heart. 

 Most day it's fine. But the little things always get me. Like the "Baby's First Christmas" ornament hanging on the shelf at Walmart. The one I had sort of hoped to use as an announcement.  Or, the Cyber Monday deals on toys.   Seeing other people browsing the toy section trying to find the perfect gift for the toddler desperately trying to keep up with their larger steps.  Or the new baby announcements on Facebook. Tons of them. Everyone seems to be pregnant, or newly delivered. Everyone that is, except me. 

 There's the off hand remark about "You can always adopt", as if that were the same thing. Or, "It's better than losing your life" as if this doesn't feel like death. 

 Here's the thing about infertility.  It IS a death.   It's a dream that never comes true. It's a life that never was. 

 Sure, I need to have the cancer removed so that I don't die.  There's no chance of pregnancy with cancer anyway, so might as well have it out.   But to me - there is a baby. And getting it out is not just saving my life, but is choosing my life over theirs. It's removing any future possibility of children. Children that I can see every time I close my eyes. Every time I see someone else's child, I think of the child that only I can see. That only I know.  

 Just because there has never been a heartbeat, doesn't mean he/she isn't real - to me.   

 Infertility is the loss of a child that no one else recognizes.  A child that never existed, except to one person.  It's a miscarriage that never happened, but feels like it did.  It's a loss that isn't socially acceptable to mourn. 

 An orphan is a parentless child.  Infertility is a childless parent. 

 It's a grief that can't be seen or felt unless you've walked the same path.  

 It's a depression so deep that life loses visible meaning. 

 It's a death with no closure, because you can't even give them a decent burial. 

 It's a hole in your heart that can never be filled. 

 It's feeling guilty for not being "happy" during a time of celebration, but not having anything in you that wants to celebrate. 

 It's feeling like nothing is right, and never can be. 

 Infertility is a silent grief that often gets ignored, or misunderstood.  

 It's a grief that is very real.  

 It needs time to heal, just like any other kind of grief. 

 It needs grace.

 It needs understanding.

 It needs space.

 It needs recognition. 

 It needs time. 

Wyatt's Accident

 I haven't written on this, partly because I haven't made the time for it, and partly because it's still too painful.

 It's been just over a year since our Wyatt went Home, and the pain hasn't gone away yet.  I thought these things were supposed to get better with time, but nobody ever said how much time....

 My brother lived well.  Not perfectly. He was far from perfect. I'm not trying to deify him, or revert to the old attitude of "never speak ill of the dead". He had many faults. Many annoying habits, and down right wrong ideas about things.  But he knew how important it is to love people, and he did.

 Last year; June 20th, 2018, I picked him up at the bus station.
 That day I worked short shift (6-10 AM) as an aid, then PM shift as cook - we had our resident/family picnic, so I didn't get off until closer to 8 instead of the usual 7 o'clock. After work I had to pick up my car in a neighboring town, 20 minutes away, so a friend picked me up at the house after work and took me to the mechanic, then I drove to Sioux Falls to get Wyatt from the bus station.  The bus got in at 7, and it was close to 10:30 when I finally got there - and it had been raining the whole time.
 When I got to where Wyatt was waiting - down the road from the station, under an awning - he never mentioned the long, wet, wait, he was just happy to see me.

 The next day I planned to drive to Alabama for a visit before going to my cousins wedding in Wisconsin.  He wanted to go along.  Sadly, by the time we knew if he could come, I'd already made plans/reservations, and they couldn't be changed on such short notice, so he didn't get to go on my two week road trip.

 For the whole 3 months he stayed with us, (my grandma and I) we didn't get much time to go do fun stuff.  He got to experience going to the theatre for the first time. We went to Sioux Falls frequently to visit my uncle in the hospital, and we would run errands together - which several times, meant getting lost in Menards for an hour *grins*.  We went for dinner with friends a couple times. Otherwise, he spent his time helping Oma (grandma) around the house, and fixing things.
 He didn't complain even once.   He reroofed two sheds, refinished the deck, and fixed countless things around the house, by himself.  There were so many little things he did without saying a word, that we never knew about until months after he was gone - we kept finding little things he'd done. Little bits of his work here and there - little tokens of his love, left for us to benefit from long after he left.

 Some time in July, one of my tires developed a slow leak, but with the hours I was working, I didn't have a chance to get it patched.  Wyatt would ride his bike to where I worked, every evening, just before I got off work, and air up my tire, then he'd ride home. I didn't know he'd been there until I went to go home, and the tire was full.   Even when I worked late - he'd ride all the way across town, in the dark, carrying an air tank, so I could get home.

 Every night when I got off work - didn't matter if it was 7, or 10 PM, he'd be standing just inside the breezeway door to jump out and spook me when I got home.

 We tried to go to Bible study at church each week. At first, I would pick him up at the house after I got off work, but that made us late, so he would ride his bike to the church and meet me there.  After Bible study was over, he would load his bike in the back of my car, and we would ride home together.
 Every week, when I would turn the corner towards the church, I'd see him park his bike behind the sign, and then jump behind the tree in an attempt to spook me when I pulled up - having no idea I'd seen the whole thing.
 It was at these Bible studies, and church on Sundays, that he taught the Pastor's daughter to shake hands, and every time she would see him, her little hand would come out for him to shake, and they'd both be grinning from ear to ear.

 We spent countless nights, sitting up in my room until the wee hours of the morning, just talking.

 He and I were never super close growing up. We both "marched to a different drummer".  As my beliefs began to change several years ago, his did too - but not in the same direction.   When I left home, he felt I had betrayed the family, and he said things that hurt me very deeply.  We tried to be friendly towards each other, but we couldn't talk very long before one of us would erupt. 
 But last summer, we really got to know each other, and work through our differences.  While we never came to an agreement on most things - we finally understood each other, and when he left - I can honestly say - we were best friends.

 Some nights I'd get off work and he'd still be working on the roof, or the deck, and we'd sit out there together and talk.
 Some nights he came up to my room and we checked out my book collection, laughed, cried, and dreamed.
 Some nights he'd be sitting in the recliner, snipping plastic strips into squares, preparing it for being melted and repurposed (I still can't throw away a shampoo bottle without thinking he'll come rescue it and chop into bits for recycling), and I'd sit in my chair crocheting and listening to music.   One late night yarn "doodle" turned into the start of an afghan because he thought it was really pretty. 
 There were times I'd forget I had earbuds in, and start humming the harmony to whatever I was listening to. He would start waving his hand in front of my face and demand to know what I was doing *laughs*, then I'd give him the earbuds, and in the middle of the song crank the volume up and watch him give me this slow, sideways glare that would gradually turn into a grin.     There's certain songs, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the "snip, snip" of his plastic, and think if I turn my head, I'll see him sitting there, staring at his work, mulling over some weighty matter, oblivious to world around him.

 Oma had certain shows she'd watch on TV every night. Now I can't hear the theme songs for Andy Griffith or Hogan's Heros without hearing him whistling along with it.

 I usually had Thursdays off, and once in a very great while, I would end up with a weekend off. If for some reason we didn't end up going to Sioux Falls or running errands (which only happened a handful of times), I would practice piano for church, and he'd get out his violin - we'd start at the front of the hymnal, and play every song we knew, every now and then switching instruments - he got the biggest kick out of the fact that mom had no idea we had switched. We weren't sure if we were that good, or that bad. *laughs*
 Now I can't hear a violin or any of those hymns without thinking of those days, and in my minds eye, seeing him standing beside and slightly behind me at the piano.

 September 8th, 2018. I got some news that was very hard for me to process. It was painful. I just wanted to get off by myself and think. So, after work I hopped on my bike and took off around the bike trail. Wyatt wanted to go along, I didn't want anyone along, but he did his puppy eyes, and I gave in.  We went halfway around at high speed (when I'm thinking hard, I set a really fast pace) before he, out of breath, caught up to me and asked if we could go a little slower.  I felt bad, because I forgot he was even there. 
 That was the last time we rode bike together. I couldn't even walk the trail again, because it didn't seem right to go without him.

 Saturday, September 15th, 2018.  Somehow, I had the weekend off. I was still trying to process things, and just wanted one day away from people.  For some reason I had to go to Sioux Falls that day, but thought at least I'd have the time in the car to myself.   Wyatt heard I was going, and asked if he could go along.  I protested, because that would mean I wouldn't have any alone time. But, he got such a sad look on his face, and said "I'll be going home soon, and don't know when I'll see you again. Can't I go along? It might be our last chance to spend time together."   How could I say no to that?
 We had a blast. All we did was run errands, but we took our time and had fun. The whole time in the car we giggled up a storm.  His quirky sense of humor got my mind off all the gloomies of the previous weeks.  We even let ourselves dream about a bright future, that both of us had trouble believing would ever happen.
 We somehow got on the subject of middle names, and he randomly asked "What is my middle name?" shocked that he had forgotten, I answered "Lynwood.......", and he said "I knew that, I mean, does it have one or two 'N's' in it?"   Just two weeks later I was remembering that conversation, and somehow it seemed like something that happened in another life time, or that I'd read in a book - how could it be, he had been in the ground a whole day, and it had only been two weeks since we'd had that conversation?

 Sunday, September 16th, 2018.  We went out to lunch with people from church, and then spent the afternoon playing piano and violin together again, that time, starting in the back of the book and working toward the front.

 Thursday, September 20th, 2018.  We (Mom, Oma and I) took Wyatt to the bus station.  We got there early, so sat in the car waiting for the bus to get there. It was a chilly, rainy day.   Wyatt kept hugging each of us, and saying he had to "get in as many as possible, because I don't know when I'll see you again, and there has to be enough to last until then".   His hugs were what my sister calls "sticky cheese hugs". He would drape himself on you, and if you tried to push him off, the minute you stopped pushing, he'd snap back. And, he usually decided we needed a hug right when we were in the middle of something, like washing dishes (and he'd about dunk you in the sink), or writing something, doing laundry, etc. Always when you weren't really in a position to be giving or receiving hugs, and he usually came from behind, so you couldn't hug back even if you wanted to.
 This time, he kept making the rounds, giving each of us a bunch of hugs. The bus pulled up, unloaded, and started reloading, and he was still making his rounds hugging each of us. I was concerned he was going to miss the bus (I only wish he had...) so pushed him off and told him to get going.
 As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked back toward the bus, and saw him standing in line, wearing his black Stetson, and carrying his violin case.  I waved, but he didn't see me.   The thought shot through my mind, "this is the last time you'll see him alive". I thought that was odd, and pushed it from my mind.   We then went on with our day.  Picked up some people that missed the connecting bus, and took them to Walmart for supplies to get through the night - while we were there Wyatt texted "Tell Mom Danny is picking me up at the bus station".  I'd been having trouble with limited memory on my phone, so deleted the message, and told Mom what he said.
 That night I went to Bible study alone. It felt weird not having Wyatt along. Everyone asked about him, and I told them he was on the bus heading home.

 Sunday, September 23rd, 2018.  I worked until close to 10:30 that night. It had been a very long, hard day at work, and I was glad it was over.  As I was about to head upstairs to get ready for bed, my sister called, frantic. All we could get out of what she was saying was that there had been an accident, and we didn't know who, but someone was hurt. At first I thought it was both Dad and Wyatt. Then she put Dad on and he said they were sleeping when a tree branch fell on the tent and hit Wyatt in the head. EMT's were taking him to the hospital, they'd call us when they got there. They didn't know how bad it was, only that he was still breathing, but wouldn't wake up.
 Mom said for me to go on to bed, she'd wake me up when they knew something.  I knew a head injury like that probably wasn't survivable, so I insisted we go out without waiting for a phone call.  I threw an overnight bag together for Mom and I, we jumped in the car, and drove all night. We made the 7 hour drive in 5 hours.

 We got to Rapid City Regional about 5:30 CST.   Dad and Amber gave us the story of what happened.  I talked to the nurse, asked how bad it was, and what his chances were.  She told me the end of the branch had cracked his left temple, and fractured the top of his jaw. His brain had been jarred, and disconnected enough that he wasn't getting enough blood/oxygen to his brain, so they needed to bring his blood pressure up in hopes of reaching the brain in time to avoid extensive damage. They had drilled a small hole in his head and put a monitor on his brain, to watch the pressure. They were giving him a drug to bring the pressure up, but his body was fighting it, so they were giving him a massive dose. They couldn't do any kind of operation until the pressure was normal. She said his chances of survival were very low, possibly around 30%. If he survived, he would essentially be a vegetable, and need years of therapy, and even then he probably wouldn't ever get back to normal.  I requested she not tell the rest of the family, we were already struggling to keep it together, that knowledge would just make it so much harder. I regret asking, because I feel like I kept focusing on that instead of believing for a miracle, and maybe I didn't believe hard enough.... (I know that's not right thinking, that God is sovereign and does as He pleases, whether we believe or not - but false beliefs still take root so easily).

 Mom and I sat with Wyatt for a while. The whole time, his legs kept half moving, half twitching. The nurse told me that was essentially the effect of nerves after trauma. Mom refused to leave Wyatt's side, so Dad sat with her, and I went with Amber to the waiting room, and we tried to rest.  About 7:30 CST Dad came in and said that blood had come out the hole where the monitor was. He hoped that meant the pressure had finally come up, and maybe he would start improving from then on. We all agreed, holding on to any hope we could see.  I realize now, that most likely was the moment he died, and his body stopped fighting the drug they were giving him, so his blood pressure shot way up, and caused it to come out the hole.
 We all went and stood around his bed, waiting for the doctor to come do a test to see if there was any brain activity. Wyatt's legs weren't moving anymore. When the doctor got there, everyone left the room, but I chose to stay. I didn't want to risk them pronouncing him "brain dead" if there was any chance something could be done.

 The doctor started the test.  He touched a cloth to Wyatt's eyes, to see if he would flinch. Then he shined a light directly in his eyes to see if they would dilate or if he would blink.    Wyatt used to put a flashlight to my eye, and if I blinked, I lost, and he would try it too. He always won.  We used to stand in the back yard and stare wide-eyed into the sun, and the first one to blink, lost.   As I stood watching the doctor shine a light in his eyes, I wanted to shout "This isn't a contest! Just blink already!" - but nothing happened.
 The doctor then said he had other tests to try, but needed a completely sterile environment, so I had to leave the room.

 About 11 AM CST the doctor came to us in the waiting room and said they declared him "Brain Dead", and they were going to unplug him.  We asked for more time, a second opinion, anything. The doctor agreed to give us until noon MDT. I said that, if it was God's will for Wyatt to go, no machine could keep him here, but if it was His will for him to stay, he would keep breathing without the machine.
 I knew he was gone. But I didn't want to admit it to myself. I watched them do the test. I knew what the monitors were saying - but I didn't want to believe it.  We were still hoping and praying for a miracle.
 I had asked how to read the monitor on the respirator.  When they came to unplug him, my eyes were glued on that monitor - any indicator that he was breathing on his own, I wasn't going to miss it. The doctor had agreed, if he took even one breath on his own, they put him back on it. At least once, I was sure it registered a breath, and I yelled that he was breathing - but my mind had tricked me, there was nothing.

 Once they unplugged him, everyone was all standing around praying over him. I was at the foot end of the bed, where I could see all of the monitors.  I stood there, holding his toes (Mom and Dad were holding his hands), watching his heart rate and blood pressure rapidly drop well below lethal levels - not sure if I was praying, or just wishing really hard, that they would go up... just frozen to the spot, not wanting to watch, but unable to move... flat line is the worst sound in the whole world.
 It was then that I regretted becoming a CNA. Because I knew enough to read the monitors and know what was going on - but not enough to be able to do anything. All I could do was watch my brother die.

 When it was all over, and we had to leave the room - I realized, I had been so focused on the monitors, and hoping for a miracle, that I hadn't told him that I love him, or said goodbye.   I turned back to say goodbye, and in my head I heard his voice, when he was getting on the bus "I hate goodbyes. It seems too final. I prefer 'see you later'."   He was right.  I couldn't say goodbye. It was too final.  I just gave him one last hug, and under my breath, said "see you later".

 When I think about it, I can still feel his coarse whiskers on my cheek.

 Leaving the hospital without him was one of the hardest things I've ever done. The only thing that was worse, was seeing him being lowered into a hole, and knowing we would never see his face again. Never hear him laugh or see him smile. We had hugged him for the last time.

 The first night without him - it didn't seem real. It was like a really bad dream, and we were hoping we'd wake up soon.  It felt so wrong - we were all crying harder than we knew was humanly possible, and for the first time - he wasn't there to hug us and make it better.   He was the comforter in the family.  Any time anyone was sad, he'd be draped over them with his sticky hugs, and comforting us. This time he wasn't there - and never would be again.  It just felt so wrong....

 Even though I firmly believe in God's sovereignty over all things. I know the Bible says it is "appointed unto man once to die...".  I still, at times, struggle with the thought that I essentially killed him, by not stopping them from unplugging him.
 I know better. But the thought still creeps in from time to time.

 While Wyatt was staying with us last summer, we would listen to various music, and he told me that one of his favorite songs was "Soar", by Buddy Davis.  That song was such an encouragement to him after all that the family had been through.  We decided to play that song at his funeral.
 The day of his accident, at work, I had Ron Hamilton's song "Wings as Eagles" stuck in my head.
 At the grave side, there were four eagles soaring over head.
 That's why there's an eagle on his headstone, Isaiah 40:31, and a line from Davis' song "When the storms of life awaken ~ Soar".

 Wyatt was such a caring, giving person.  He never had much - but what he had, he shared with, or gave to others. The most meaningful gift he ever gave us was his time.  

 I came across a song by Paul Brandt called "Give it Away" ~

Ready or not

Take your best shot 'cause here life comes

You use what you got, and you got it all when you've got love

But we hide it and we store it up, and there never seems to be enough.

This world is spinning so fast, ain't no slowing it down

And there ain't a lot that lasts

But I think I've found a way to make it stay

You've got to give it away.

Talk about time

And it's flown away before you're done.

And money is fine, but one day its here and next its gone.

So love is looking like a sure bet,

'cause the more you give, the more you get.

Oh this world is spinning so fast,

Ain't no slowing it down.

And there ain't a lot that lasts, 

But I think I've found a way to make love stay

Oh and someday everybody dies

But not everybody really lives.

And when it's my turn to say goodbye,

I don't want nothing left to give.

This world is spinning so fast

Ain't no slowing it down now,

And there ain't a lot that lasts,

But I think I've found it

Oh this world is spinning so fast

There ain't no slowing it down.

And there ain't a lot that lasts,

But I think I've found a way to make it stay -

You've got to give it away.

 When it was Wyatt's time to go - he loved us so well, he had "nothing left to give". 

 I alternate between mourning that he was "taken too early", and being thankful for the time he was given to us. 

 If there's one thing Wyatt left as his legacy, it would be his servants heart (along with his interesting sense of humor *grins*). 

 He was quick to serve. Always gave the benefit of the doubt. Rarely judged anyone for disagreeing, but tried to see their point of view. He had big ideas and outlandish dreams - but he payed close attention to detail, and nothing was too insignificant a task. He put the same care into sweeping a floor as he did designing a blueprint.  He made toddlers feel as important as the grown-ups.  He didn't think it was girly to cuddle a baby for hours, or cook for the family - but he wouldn't hesitate to patch your roof or mow your lawn. 

 He was a deep thinker - but could turn silly without warning. Even his silliness was deeply thought out. *laughs*   He could solve the toughest problems, and turn the littlest thing into a joke.  He loved to play with words. Whether it was rearranging them to be funny, or mangling the word itself. Nothing was off limits. Everything you said could, and would be twisted or taken a different direction than you intended - just to prove it could be done. 

 Since last summer, I've noticed my sense of humor has morphed into a form of his.  I don't want to see his sense of humor die.  If there's anything he did that rubs off - I want it to be his servants heart, and ruthless logic.  He was so logical it made me mad sometimes.  Not because he was wrong, but because it showed up how illogical I can be. 

 All growing up, he would get upset that I wanted to do the same things he was doing. After all, he was four years older, and he should get to do it first. 

 All last summer, he kept talking about wanting to go home. He wasn't anxious to die. He just wanted a place to call home. He wanted a proper house, that actually had running water and working plumbing. One that he didn't have to worry about how long he could stay - it would be his, and he could stay forever.  

 I know. He doesn't have to get anything ready there for us - but that's the kind of person he was. He'd want to go first, to make sure everything was ready for us. It's only fitting he should go first. After all, he's the oldest.

 I don't know how to write a proper tribute to him.  He was always mangling words - yet, I can't find the right ones to do him justice. 

 One thing is certain: when God invented biological brothers - He gave me the best one.  I have the two best brothers ever imagined. One biological, one "adopted".  Both are missed more than words can ever express. 

These two are mine. Always will be 💙💙

Dear Brothers - an apology

 There are many men I count as my brothers.  Many of whom I was close to at one time, but now we've gone our separate ways, whether through death, or just the circumstances of life.

 I've failed all of you. So badly, I've failed you.

 Years ago I made a special point to see to it you got regular, sound, encouragement.   I could see some of the things you were up against out in the world, and I wanted you to know that someone was praying, someone was there when you needed.

 As many of you began to drift off into a different path in life, and we gradually lost contact, I stopped trying to encourage you.  Oh, I kept praying. I'll never stop praying for you - but I failed to reach out and encourage you.

 Now I've experienced some of the things you face in the world, and even though God has sent dear friends along the way, I've faced a fair portion of it alone. It's a lot. And eventually, not at all meaning to, I began to give in to the pressure.

 I saw the great need for godly young women. There aren't many that are making a conscious effort any more, and now it seems the ones that were, are falling away.  I wanted to be the girl that kept the faith, kept fighting no matter what, and stayed true.  I haven't done that. 
 I've begun to compromise a lot... I'm not so staunch as I used to be.  And I'm not "there" like I used to be.

 There was a time when I viewed every trial as a gift from God as a means of drawing me closer to Himself.   Even the really hard stuff - like losing some of my dearest friends, and my family practically being homeless.
 The last several years, as the homelessness dragged on, tensions grew, our little guy was taken away, and finally, death came to our door - I did and do, feel so alone, I've neglected reaching out to others.  I used to reach through my pain to help others in theirs; now I hide in it.

 I've neglected reaching out to you because many have fallen out of contact, and I totally spaced off the fact that some of you may still read this. Even if it's not a personal note - maybe somehow you'll see it.

 I've talked much in the past about becoming a Proverbs 31 woman, and how that's the best way to encourage the men around me. I still believe that, probably more so now, than before.  But I've failed on that head.   I've allowed myself to become bitter and cynical, sarcastic and rude. Not speaking in love, not lending a listening ear, or a helping hand, but instead showing a hard heart and offering bitter words.
 I've become a hypocrite in the highest degree.

 I don't deserve forgiveness for falling short - which happened rather willfully, since I didn't hardly resist worth mentioning.  But if by some chance, I could have another go at it, with God's help, I mean not to let you down again.

 Brothers are so special.  Easily taken for granted until suddenly you don't have them anymore. 
 There are many sweet, godly women in my life who I am most grateful for - but up till now, I think some of the greatest lessons God ever taught me came through my brothers, real or "adopted". 

 I stumbled upon some old communications with "brothers", every one of them made me laugh and cry in turn.  Every one of them, whether a serious communication, or some silly joke, meant the world to me, and still does.   You men have no idea how much you are loved. You may never know.  Just, please, don't mistake silence for not caring.
 Please, never give up on what God has called you to. I don't care how hard or impossible it looks right now - never give up on God's call. He gave it to you for a purpose, now go out and do it how only you can do. Go out and own it.
 And always remember, even when you feel forgotten, there's at least one person praying for you daily.

 Joshua 1:9
     Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a god courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.

 Philippians 1:3-6
     I thank my God upon every remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine for you all making request with joy, for your fellowship in the gospel from the first day until now; being confident of this very thing, that He which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ:

Why I Left Home - And Other Things I Never Explained

 I grew up very Patriarchal, which I think is fairly clear from previous posts. 

 Much of what I've said on here in the past, I no longer hold to - not simply because I "don't like it anymore" or "changed my mind", but because a lot of it is wrong. Biblically.
 Since I started this blog, I've changed on a lot of things - and those changes have been very hard. They have opened a whole new world - and closed one. Much has been gained, but much has been lost.   The changes I made were a long time coming, and very hard to do - it wasn't a "snap decision" or done on a whim.  If that's all it was, it wouldn't have been worth it, and I never would have done it.

 I'm writing this because I feel I've cheated some of you.  In the past I've been very open about lessons God was teaching me, and freely published them on here.  When the big, hard(er) changes started, I didn't know how it would be taken, so I said nothing. Most of you didn't find out anything was in the works until after it was done, and even then, I never explained it to you, thus making it seem trivial when it's not.

 On September 7th, 2014 I left my fathers house, and struck out on my own.   Not because I wanted a change or was feeling restless.  By NO means was my Dad abusive or mean to me.

 In the fall of 2011 I began being introduced to ideas I had never heard before - ideas that went totally against what I had always been taught.  Things like Predestination. That was the main one. I had never heard of it before, and I set out to prove those people wrong.  In the process I proved myself wrong, and found scores of others things I had been wrong on, because they simply weren't in the Bible - at all, let alone how I had believed.

 Over the next few years I did a lot of in depth study, and had many conversations with family and friends, and as time went on, my views changed.  I had to change to be in agreement with Scripture.
 Many of the changes I had to make, my immediate family didn't agree with, and tensions began to grow. But being a staunch advocate for Patriarchy, I knew the answer was to keep still, "honor" my father by not arguing the matter, and don't say anything to let on that there was a problem. 

 Up until the end of July of 2014, that's what I did.  Tensions were continually mounting, but I couldn't say anything outside the family, because, of course, that would be dishonoring to my father, and I would be a rebellious daughter. Not to mention, it would go against just about everything I'd been talking about on my blog all that time.  Honestly, everything I had been saying on here about women's/daughters responsibility, was mainly trying to talk myself into it.  I fully believed that was right, but was finding it more and more difficult to do. Not because I didn't want to - nobody wanted it to work more than I did - but because doctrinal differences were making it next to impossible.

 For two years I had been verbally and emotionally beating myself over what I believed to be rebellion, and seriously thinking I was mentally unstable.   If I was reading my Bible right, how come I couldn't make them see it that way? If they were right, how come I couldn't find it in the Bible? Maybe I wasn't capable of understanding God's Word on my own. Maybe nobody could really know what the Bible said without others to interpret it for them.  I seriously thought I was losing my mind.

 Background: At this point in my life, we were living on a ranch 20 minutes from the nearest town. I played piano at the nearest church (ten miles away), but the sermons were very shallow, and often based on misconstrued facts.  There was no opportunity for growth or spiritual development there.

 Because of choices my Dad made, we were soon without transportation, relying on the kindness of friends who would drive two hours round trip to take us where we needed to go. That made it nearly impossible to attend church at all.
 We then moved to a different ranch which was 30 miles from the nearest town, and this time not only could we not travel legally, but we also seldom had a car that worked. Still totally reliant on our friends for transportation, but now further out than before, causing greater hardship on them.

 I wanted to get a job to help the family, but we all (although I was changing on it) believed women belong at home, and thus I was not the one to be getting a job - but at the same time, it was decided, by the other members of the family, that getting an outside job wasn't something any of us should do. That God would provide our needs with, or without a job, and thus having jobs would only be a waste, and take away time we needed for other things.

 God began convicting me on Hebrews 10:25, forsaking not the assembling of ourselves together.  When I brought that up to the family, the response I got was basically, "where two or three are gathered, there am I in the midst" (Matthew 18:20), which means every time we were together as a family, we were having church, and therefore didn't *need* to attend a church of any kind, although if one can, that's great. Nothing against going to church, it just isn't necessary. I couldn't go with that. That was a misinterpretation, and I couldn't reconcile it.

 Being isolated as we were out there, our family became very closed-circuited. There was very little outside influence, so any interpretation of scripture became a valid one, because no one was there to question or admonish.
 They began listening to preachers online that labeled themselves as "an expert in the mystic realms of God".  These guys were very deeply into spiritualism, and focused more on angels than they did on God Himself.    Whenever I questioned the sanity of listening to these people, I was met with the argument that, since I wasn't personally listening to every lecture, I couldn't possibly find fault with them.
 At that time, I began to pull inside. I didn't talk to my friends (all of whom were online, since I couldn't go anywhere) about any of this.  We continued to hash out what we believed and why, but I never mentioned this mental turmoil I was in, because I had convinced myself it was rebellion, and I had to kill it.

 In July of 2014 I rode to Iowa with some friends, and visited my Grandma and Uncle. During that visit, I saw just how much they needed someone there to help them. They both had various health issues that put them in a position of needing an extra hand once in a while, and it only made sense for one of us to move in with them, and be there full time. 
 With the growing tensions at home, I volunteered to be the one to move.  I saw it as a way to fulfil responsibility, and remove myself from the unpleasant situation at home.
 That was the first time I even thought about leaving home, and even then, the plan was to stay under Dad's authority, and in the event something should happen to relieve the responsibility in Iowa or other arrangements be made, I would return home.

 At the end of July I began posing the question to Dad if I could go be with my Grandma and Uncle, pointing out that someone needed to go, and I seemed to be the only one really in a position to be able to go. 
 What I thought was a simple question that would required a simple response turned into an unforeseen, and rapid escalation of tension.

 I had learned over the past few years leading up to this point, that it was best to avoid the topic of doctrine altogether, as it was a sore spot for all of us, and only caused fights. But Dad's stance on drivers license and insurance was also a sore spot, as I was the only one that didn't support it fully.  I didn't have a license, but they knew I had no problem with getting one, and that didn't sit well with the rest of the family.

 When I asked about moving to Iowa, even temporarily - I was suddenly accused of wanting to leave home because I thought they were all "heretics" and "breaking the law".  It got so bad, I would come in the house after taking a walk, not say a word, just start in with some chore, and one of them would start accusing - and eventually I would attempt to defend myself, and it would blow up from there.

 I have the best family in the world. I wouldn't trade them for anything. It was the hardest decision I ever made, to leave home. They are not bad people by any stretch.  Those of you who know them will agree with that.   But isolation and extreme tension does things to people, and we all reached our breaking point.
 At that time I still hadn't said anything to my friends. I still thought I wasn't capable of understanding scripture for myself, or there wouldn't be this kind of disagreement.
 After my mild, sweet brother began the accusations, I cracked.  He wasn't the kind to argue. He was the peacemaker in our house. Any time there was the slightest disagreement, he would try to see both sides, and help solve the differences.   When he began accusing instead of trying set things straight, I couldn't take any more.

 Up to this point, all the changes I had been making, were being blamed on my "online friends", because I agreed with the family until I had met those people.  They were seen as troublemakers, and often accused of causing our family problems. 
 One day I had had enough, and deleted my account.   One of the girls noticed, and began questioning me as to why I had done that. I finally broke down and told her what was going on.  This was the first of August 2014.
 She and I talked a great deal all that month. I was put in touch with various church leaders I could ask council of.   Council was asked, plans were made, and I still didn't want to move. I still thought it was rebellious for me to leave home.  One day she challenged me to show her where in scripture it says a girl can't leave home until she is married.  I couldn't find it anywhere. Not even in principle or the slightest hint.  It just isn't there.

 One day as I was still wrestling over if I should leave or not; we were having family Bible time. Someone made a comment on how I always interpret things differently than the rest of them, and that's why I wanted to leave home, and get away from the "heretics".  That hadn't been our topic of conversation, so I was rather surprised at it. As the conversation continued, Dad said something that indicated fathers are responsible for what their children believe. I said "no, fathers are responsible for what they teach their children, the children are responsible for their own beliefs."  Dad got kind of angry and said "I am responsible for what you believe. And you're believing wrong."
 That did it.

 I went straight to the computer, and told the guys that I had had on "standby" for a week that they needed to come as soon as possible.    There was never going to be any end to tension as long as it was believed I was not the master of my own conscience.

 I never left from the attitude of "Smash the Patriarchy" or "Women's Rights".  I left because I believe the Bible teaches each person is responsible to know what God's Word says, and to live life accordingly. If that is not allowed, then it's time to relocate to where it is possible.    No one can govern your conscience but you. No matter how dear a figure - such as a father - they have no say over your conscience, and cannot force you to live according to theirs.

 I did not leave because I hate my family or because they were abusive.
 I did not leave because I needed a change of scenery.
 I did not leave because I believed Patriarchy was to be abolished (although there is a ton wrong with it as a whole, and it's not being taught the way it's outlined in Scripture).

 I left because I believe I am the one that has to answer to God for my actions, not my father.
 I left for religious freedom.

 Since I left home, I never told many of my online bunch that I had, and I've explained my reasons to very few people, simply because I thought it would bring shame on my family if I did tell.  The only explanation I offered for a very long time, was that my Grandma and Uncle needed someone here with them, and I was the one most available to come.   Just in the last year I've started telling people the real reason.
 Not because I want to make my family look bad - but because I see other girls leaving home because "smash the patriarchy" and all that. I see others have a partial idea of what happened, and it's being misinterpreted.

 I don't want my story to be license for other girls to rush off and leave home foolishly.  If there is no problem with staying at home, by all means, do it.  There is nothing sweeter in your single years, than being a stay at home daughter.  I often wish I could go back to it. There's so much to be learned from it.  But being a stay at home daughter should never be something to hide behind in order to avoid personal responsibility - that's what it was for me.  As long as I believed a girl is *subject* to her father on all levels while she is home, I didn't *have* to take responsibility for my own beliefs and actions.  Never use your time at home as a cop-out. But don't throw it away just because you have the freedom to do what you want.   Choose wisely, seek council, and pray incessantly.  Freedom is a gift from God to be stewarded, not squandered.

 Hopefully that explains things sufficiently.

Faith... Looks Different Than I Thought

 We've all heard "faith steps out on the water": but what if it takes faith to stay in the boat.....?

 Peter was called out on the water - none of the others were.  We're not all a Peter. God didn't call the others out - because He had a reason for them to stay on the boat.
 What would have happened if when God called Peter to walk on the water, everyone stepped out?   They weren't called - they very possibly would have sunk.

 Could we sometimes be guilty of claiming someone else's calling, and wondering why it doesn't work for us....? 
 God is under no obligation to support us in something He's called someone else to do.  He calls each of us differently.

 Conversely; we see God on the "water", we know that's where we need to be, so just jump out before He calls.  Would we not sink then?  Not because it's not right to "step out", but because it's the wrong time.

 I get antsy. I want to move ahead with my life, and do what I know is my calling, and so I dive in - expecting God will pull me out if I sink. But it's not His timing. He hasn't said "come" yet.

 What if, instead of jumping out and running across the waves to Christ, faith means staying in the boat and trusting He won't let it sink. Serving Him quietly on the ship, trusting He put you there for a reason.

 Faith is hard: in, or out, of the boat.

Thoughts on Thoughts

 I've noticed lately, that I'm far more serious online, or in writing than I am in person.  In struggling over this inconsistency in my behaviour, I've been trying to really pin down the reason behind it.  I've finally found the answer.

 In writing, my words are just that. Words.  My thoughts are taken at face value, for what they are; even valued more. 

 In person: you can see my face. You can hear my voice. And that terrifies me - for one reason: In person, my thoughts aren't taken at face value - they are now run though the "Fat Filter". 

 The "Fat Filter" is simply preconceived notions about overweight people.  The (usually) unspoken idea that "fat people are lazy", "fat people are only concerned about food" - and therefore, we are seen as "abnormal" or less than desirable. 

 Before you go into the whole spiel on how "that's not true", "I don't think that way" - let me say this: I run into this mindset everywhere I go.  Many are not consciously aware they are doing it, but they are just the same. 

  I am far less serious in person because, even when the person being addressed is smiling, and agreeing with what is being said - their eyes are scanning up and down, head to toe; and you can see them begin to judge your words based on your shape and size. 

 Lately I've been hearing a lot of "You're always so calm, but you seem to have a lot going on", or "You're always smiling; I wouldn't deal with things so well if it was me."   

 Honestly.  It's a defense.  

 Fat people are seen as wimps. Cry-babies. Over sensitive.  I've been seen that way my whole life.  So, in a defense against that kind of thinking, I've learned to shut off all emotions that aren't "happy". 

 I've been told that because I'm "fat and ugly" no guy is ever going to want me. So, I've trained myself to "hate" anything remotely romantic.  I've trained myself to see all guys as brothers so that I can't be hurt when they marry someone prettier than me; so they won't be embarrassed by me liking them.   Because as a "fat person" I have no right to hope someone could love me like that. 

 In trying to seem disinterested, I've become very cynical.   My defense didn't keep me from getting hurt. It still hurts horribly when guys I like just walk out of my life for seemingly no reason.   All I've accomplished is annoying other people, and adding to my own hurt.

 I've shut off all emotions to the point where the only "emotion" I can show is "happy" or "cheerful".  I can't allow myself to be bothered by things, because that's being "weak" and "over sensitive", so I laugh everything off as if it's really no big deal. 

 I've been rejected so many times - because I'm fat (for all I know), that now I'm terrified of expressing my thoughts on anything serious - in person - because I'm afraid of further rejection. 

 Behind all the smiles and giggles is a finely shredded heart that quivers at every glance from other people: but fat people are seen as over sensitive, so I hide behind smiles in an effort to shake off the affects of such thinking.  

 I guess my point here is: let's get over stereotypes. Let's accept that All people are created equal: even fat ones.  

 Now that I've explained myself.  Rant over.