I experienced something today that I cannot explain. It was quite profound and deeply moving. Today, the United States opened its embassy in Jerusalem, Israel. As one who is pervasively ignorant regarding world history, if anyone had asked me about the significance of that occasion, I might easily have dismissed it as “no big deal.” However, as I sat with my morning coffee to surf the latest Facebook offerings, I happened to scroll upon the live feed of this embassy dedication, and for reasons I cannot explain and do not understand, I was immediately mesmerized by what was taking place, and couldn’t have scrolled past it if my life hung in the balance. I became emotional and tears began to flow. Despite not truly having a firm handle on the significance of this event, I had a sense that whatever was about to take place was of monumental, historical, and spiritual significance. I felt I was witnessing something so huge, so important that my attention could not be diverted even for a split second. I remained riveted, intently listening to every word spoken by each person as dignitary after dignitary approached the dais for their chance to speak. I cried continuously throughout the pomp and circumstance. I am teary even now, as I recall this morning’s event. Never in my life have I witnessed history of such biblical significance. I believe only the hand of God could have touched my heart so profoundly for me to have experienced such deep emotion regarding the event. With my limited knowledge of the Bible, even I know that the Israelites have always been God’s chosen people. I am very grateful that the USA has aligned with Israel. If God is for us, none shall stand against us!

First fishing day of 2015

I decided to carpe diem today, so I grabbed my gear and headed out to one of my favorite spots to get some fishing in before the predicted downpour began. "What did I catch?" you ask . . . . . Well, I actually had several great catches today! I caught a cool wind at my back; I caught God's artistry in action as I watched the overcast grayness give way to beautiful blue skies dotted with cumulus cotton balls; I caught some rays of sunshine on my face; I caught myself paying more attention to the different shades of green in the foliage than the dipping bobber, courtesy of some pesky crabs. Despite the absence of any fish at the end of my line, I caught myself smiling and enjoying the simple tranquility of being near the water. For a techno geek like me . . . well . . . I always did think of myself as being multifaceted, somewhat of an enigma.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . . .

I met a kindred spirit awhile back and I wanted to write about the experience. Being the analytical type, I wanted to first search myself in order to better understand why a chance meeting evoked within me such great emotion that I was reduced to an incoherent, rambling, puddle, unable to finish even a word or two without a fresh supply of waterworks as punctuation. I think I have a grasp on it now so here goes . . . First, a short back-story for those who do not know me. (Though why some perfect stranger would be reading this blog is beyond me, short of some Google search that would pick up a keyword or two, but I digress) At the tender age of 22, I found myself a widow with two small daughters, ages 6 months and 4 years old. Their father, my husband, was a Fort Bend County deputy sheriff who had been killed in the line of duty when his patrol car was struck by a train on a rural railroad crossing in Stafford, Texas in 1977. I must say there’s just not that many 22-year old widows out there-not then, not now. Talk about feeling all alone in the world. But “Time is the great healer,” “Life must go on,” “You have to think about the children,” and (insert any number of other tired but well intended clichés) you get the picture, right? Except . . . late at night . . . when the kids are asleep . . . or when the house is especially quiet . . . or at the end of the day just before slipping off into slumber, there were times when I would have given anything to have someone to talk to. I wanted someone who could understand my emotions; someone who could relate to my little insanities, those things that I did or said that I couldn’t do or say in front of anyone else because they would think I had gone off my rocker, or was losing it, or was just plain insane. It was the hamper full of dirty laundry that NEVER got washed because it SMELLED like him, oh sweet JESUS, YES it did! And I wrapped that sweaty T-shirt around me and laid my face on those tighty-whities and sobbed into those socks that were pleasantly malodorous because I could close my eyes tight and pretend, and make it real, even if it was only for a brief Nano second that he was lying right there beside me and that awful, terrible reality I existed in was just a cruel nightmare. How I lived for those Nano seconds! At some point I gave in to the pleading, “It’s time to move on, honey,” from a well meaning family member or friend and my treasured laundry hamper was removed from my grasp. Once, I went to the drugstore and discreetly bought a tiny bottle of British Sterling after shave and ran from the store as if someone might see me and, again, think I was nuts! I tried sprinkling some on the sheet on “his” side of the bed. It just wasn’t the same. Nothing was ever the same. I tried hanging out with “the guys” at the sheriff’s office but that didn’t last. All those friends that “we” had, were still couples and I became a “threat” so I couldn’t be hanging around them anymore. It was like being a member of some exclusive club and even though I was still me, I had somehow lost my qualifier for membership and had been ousted. I never did want to take anyone else’s husband, but just wanted to be around the people that so reminded me of him and even though nothing ever went on with any of those officers, rumor and innuendo was powerful. So, I had to stop going there for coffee. But enough about ancient history . . . Funny how you think you’ve filed things away; and you think you have dealt with them; and they are just there, kind of a part of you, but not really included in the current working version . . . Fast forward to 2014 when I attended a Memorial Service (as I do every year) honoring those officers who have given their lives in service to law enforcement agencies throughout Fort Bend County. I happened to meet a young lady and it was like looking into a mirror of the past. This lady was also the widow of a deputy who had lost his life in service to Fort Bend County and we were immediately connected somehow. She said she felt it the same as I did. It was such a phenomenal bonding moment. At once, I found someone who understood perfectly about the unwashed laundry, the loneliness, the nights spent with an address book flipping through the pages in search of anyone who might be willing to spare some conversation for one so desperately in need of it. She was me; I was her. All we could do was hug and cry. Life really does go on and time really does numb the pain that will never completely go away. I will never forget those times when I so desperately wanted to talk to someone who would understand. I gave her my cell number. I hope she knows how deeply and sincerely I meant it when I said “Call me anytime!” I hope she knows how often I think about her and pray for God to comfort her. I can’t help wondering though, which of us needs the comforting more.

My Nativity Set

I packed up my Nativity set just now to be stored until next Christmastime when it will be unpacked with a renewed joy and anticipation. I had packed it up several years ago, (just as I have done since the day it came home with me) and for a few years, I couldn’t find it. Rather than replace it, I just quietly and personally bemoaned its absence during those times and chalked it up to yet another of the things that I had “lost” in the many moves I’ve made in my life. It’s funny how such seemingly small and insignificant things can mean so incredibly much. I have no clue why I remember the details and history of this Nativity set so clearly, and yet have trouble remembering such things about other greatly significant possessions. Regardless, I have decided to write about this while I can remember. I don’t recall the date I acquired this beautiful symbol of Christian faith, only that it was sometime before Christmas, circa 1980’s. I had wanted a Nativity set but just could not afford the really nice ones. I do recall that my children were all young (or yet to be born) and it was during the time in my life when I was not attending church. I resolved that until I could find one that was beautiful and elegant, yet within my budget, I would do without. Oh, there were plenty of cheap ones to be had, but they looked exactly like their price tags: distorted, cartoon-like figures painted in bright colors and missing a Wiseman or two. I suppose I could have afforded the ones that only had Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus, but I wanted authenticity. They were not the only players, albeit the most important ones, but I needed them along with the shepherd, the three Wisemen, and a few animals. I could live without the stable, I supposed, but it just seemed sacrilegious and disrespectful to leave out any of the other folks. So, I was at the Garden Ridge store in Stafford, shopping for Christmas stuff when I went down the aisle with all the Nativity sets, thinking I would just look, since I was fairly certain I couldn’t afford any of them. About the middle of the aisle, I saw it. I was very excited to find it because it was so nearly perfect. The little figures were all less than 5 inches tall, and made of a cream colored ceramic. It included an oval-shaped, polished wooden platform upon which to display them. The set included Joseph, Mary, and Baby Jesus, three Wisemen, a shepherd, three animals (lamb, cow, and foal), and it even had an angel to overlook them all. The price was right, so I grabbed it since it was the last one they had. I looked to see if I could find one exactly like it, only a bit larger, and there was nothing even close. That year, I had received a gift that was contained in a beautiful oval-shaped keepsake box. The lid had an image of a Victorian Santa, with a little girl in her nightgown, surrounded by stuffed and live animals. As I was taking down the Nativity set that year, I noticed that pretty box. It was only slightly larger than the oval platform for my Nativity set so it was a perfect place for storing that set. It has maintained that purpose through these many years. From the very beginning, I was always very meticulous about how I wrapped and stored each piece. I had a couple of pieces of gold colored tissue paper that I used for wrapping some pieces, and white tissue for the others. Each year, I would very gingerly unwrap the figures, smooth out the tissue paper so it could be used again, fold it up, place it in the empty box, and place the keepsake box under the tree as a decoration. Through all the moves that I have made in my life, I have had to walk away from some possessions because I had no help to pack and move it all. There were times when I was so overwhelmed by depression that I was doing the best I could do, to just put one foot in front of the other. Somehow, my keepsake box, with its precious contents, managed to make it safely through all those moves. I am grateful for that miracle. My little Nativity set is very precious to me not only for what it obviously represents (the birth of Christ), but also for symbols known only to me. Its survival through the ages represents stability for remaining unchanged and unbroken through all the trials of life. Its endurance represents my tight grip on my faith. Its smallness represents my being poor and struggling to make ends meet over the years. Its understated elegance represents humility and reminds me to remain humble, remembering that one need not have wealth to be considered elegant. It further reminds me that true wealth is determined by counting my blessings instead of counting my money. I know that I am rich beyond my wildest dreams. This year, when I went to pack it up, the white tissue papers I had used for lo these many years, were a crumbling yellowed mess. It seemed disrespectful to wrap a Wiseman in yellowed tissue paper so, after searching through options in my Christmas wrapping supplies (which for an OCD’er like me is no small task) I found tissue paper worthy of wrapping my little figures for storage. The Wisemen were wrapped in the original gold tissue; the shepherd and animals in new white paper; Joseph and Mary in red paper with white snowflakes; and the angel and Baby Jesus in red paper with darker red words saying JOY, PEACE, NOEL, and MERRY CHRISTMAS. I have always known that this tiny little Nativity set has been especially meaningful for me, but I believe this is the first time I’ve realized the depth of my feelings about it. While I would still like to find a Nativity set that meets a certain set of my personal specs, I will always display this one as the first and best.

Come and Take It!

A very well intentioned member of my extended family contacted me the other day to tell me that she had "heard" (on Facebook) that there was a threat of harm to soldiers' families from our so very porous borders down south and that I might consider taking my stickers off my car, taking the sign down from my yard, and removing the flag from my front door that signifies that this home is the home of one with family on active duty with the military. This alleged threat had been corroborated by a friend of her coworker, whose daughter was in the military and had asked her parents to take the yellow ribbon down from the front of their house. I thanked her for her concern and said I would look into it and I followed through. What I could discern from the few credible resources I could find was that back in early September there had been "chatter" about a possible threat to Fort Bliss (in El Paso) from our southern border. I found nothing else to substantiate any threat (outside of the average everyday threat from so many illegals freely crossing our borders). I called this person on the phone and told her that I did not feel that there was any threat that would warrant the actions she recommended but I thanked her for her concern for my well being. I told her that a similar subject had come up in our Bible study group about how, in the last days, we will be required to take the mark of the beast or be slaughtered. The question was posed, would God be OK with someone taking the mark of the beast but rationalizing that, "God knows my heart and He knows that I am a believer. Surely He will understand it to be the better part of valor to survive and fight from within to destroy Satan and his armies." Uhhhh . . . . hmmmm . . . . yeah . . . NO!!! And just, NO!! The parallel notwithstanding, the more I thought about it, the madder I got. NO, hell NO, I will NOT take down my Proud Army Mom stickers, nor will I even consider removing all the outward and visible signs that I am proud to have my son serving in this United States Army. Not now, not ever. Not in this land of the free and home of the brave. If I die standing up to say I am proud of my son and his service to this country, so be it. Far too many have given their lives for the freedom we have in this country and I will never, EVER, allow myself to be intimidated by such threats. I will say it loud and say it proud. I am an American and I have the right to stand up and be proud of my son and proclaim the honor of his service. I know that my son’s family: natural, extended, steps, halves, in-laws, outlaws, and every other kind are ALL in support of his service, and as proud as they can possibly be of him, just as I am. I guess I am just rebel enough to not be so easily intimidated. That is all.

Come and take it!

Ok, I'm pissed off again so I shall employ this platform for my rant! Let me describe a scenario and I ask you, my dear readers, to keep an open mind. Person B is in the act of obeying the law. Person A comes along and wants to break the law. Why, oh please explain to me why, Person B should feel any obligation or duty to enable, facilitate, or otherwise assist Person A to break the very law that Person B is obeying. Logic would dictate that the premise is ludicrous at best! Ponder the scenario thusly: Person B and Person A are walking down the street, when A decides that he wants to knock off the liquor store on the corner. Given the parameters of the described scenario, B would be expected to be an accomplice, simply by virtue of his geographical placement near A. Seems silly right? Oh but apply that kind of twisted logic to a freeway, where law-abiding B is driving the posted speed limit in the left lane of the freeway because there are so many slower drivers in the other lanes. Here comes A (which clearly stands for asshole!) running right up on the bumper of B, flashing his brights and even honking his horn because, after all, the whole world should know how important A is, right? So please, by all that is holy, explain to me why I am expected to move over and allow the asshole to fly past me while I am driving at the posted speed limit. Why should I be inconvenienced by having to change lanes just so some jerk can exceed the speed limit? Lane changes are inherently more dangerous than driving within a single lane, so by expecting the law abiding driver to move out of the way exposes him/her to greater risk of a collision, while the speeder proceeds safely on his/her way. Logic? Out the window! Fairness? Non-existent! The only intelligent, logical conclusion is that if you are driving at the posted speed limit, and some asshole comes up behind you, let the asshole go around you if he wants to speed. A law-abiding driver should never be expected to make it easier for another driver to break the law. Period. End of story.

(I thought I had already posted this here but apparently it was overlooked. So, now, just because I wanted to, here it is.) I had completed a task at my job yesterday (October 2013) and I was silently admiring my work when irony descended upon me. Damned irony and its smug ass self! I began to laugh one of those big belly laughs but I knew it was simply a ruse to keep the tears at bay. The company owner had ordered some marketing postcards to send to her list of contacts in honor of Thanksgiving. Along with the obligatory marketing catch phrases, she had included her family recipe for pecan pie. The fallibility of Spell Check notwithstanding, when her recipe came to the point where the recipe directed to “pour the mixture into a prepared pie crust,” all 250 of her postcards read, “ . . . pied crust.” In toying with different plans to rescue the project, I discovered that the printing was fresh enough to sit gingerly on top of the heavy card stock and could simply be scraped off: brilliantly simple, right? Plus, the finished repair job was so effective that one would have to really look closely to even notice that there was anything at all that was ever amiss. Doing so however, required a very sharp knife or razor blade, a steady hand, and a gentle touch, so as not to mar the card stock. One little mis-scrape of the blade, and there went the darned e at the end of pie. So I had sat for two days scraping my big fat ass off and I was so proud that I had salvaged what would have been either a waste of the company’s marketing dollars or worse, the damage to the image of the company that couldn’t even spell pie. Yep, it was a job well done, no doubt. Then . . . irony, damn you! Not so very long ago, I remember a time when being proud my work or having a sense of accomplishment about my job meant something very different. I have always taken pride in my work. Back in the day though . . . if I had done a really good job it meant that someone’s family was made to feel more comfortable, or a really sick person’s pain was relieved, or that a critical change in condition was reported to the doctor so that the right treatment could be given. Dammit, I literally saved people’s lives!!! I made a difference in someone’s life because I kept a mother from dying too soon or I gave someone another five years or ten years with a loved one. Good God, my work was an extremely meaningful contribution to the world and to humanity. So I laughed because I was proud of scraping a “d” off of 250 pieces of what most people were going to consider junk mail. How horribly pathetic is that?