Different

What if I am different?

What if I am different than “you”?

I like spicy, flavorful Mexican food, so my hot dog will not have the “regular” ketchup and mustard, but will be overloaded with bacon, onion, tomatoes and jalapeƱos.

I will take a quiet, peaceful walk in the mountains over a sandy beach.

I would rather sit with “you” in a quiet place, and eat and talk and laugh and cry. Than be in a group, frazzled by all the chattering noise.

Solitude is my friend, my rest; the place where I can just be. I don’t have to be rescued from it. It doesn’t mean I’m shutting down, heck I can shut down in a crowded place.

We are all different. We are all fearfully and wonderfully made. The beauty in a collage with all the different faces, colors and sequence.

There is beauty in differences! There is peace in just being me!

The Runaway

Running, running…always running. Have I ever stopped? Has it taken a different form? More than half a century of living, or attempting to live or what has it been? Am I still the same? Am I different?

Memories of a 9 (or was it 10) year old, “running away” cause her “no” wasn’t sufficient. Then shutting up about what happened because she was afraid of the outcome, of the repercussions.

Then her louder “NO” explodes into a cry for help, for understanding, for protection. She finally opens her mouth and speaks, only to be told to SHUT UP.

She runs away attempting to find a refuge, only to end up used and abused and cast away like a used, filthy rag. Really?! She was only 14.

My mind is filled with voices, lots and lots of voices…”SHUT UP!”, I scream.

I’m tired! I don’t want to run anymore. I just want to be STILL…

Dad

At 14 she already had her share of “life”. Just a little girl…her innocence a distant memory. She “decides” that home was better than the streets or was it?

Feet as heavy as led, step by step she makes her way to the front door of her home. Can she call it “home”? She hopes so…soon she’ll be rudely awakened. She’ll realize that this place will just be a “holding place” until her next escape. Where does she belong? Does she belong anywhere, to any one?

She opens the door…heavy as a bolder, stuck like glue. She manages to take a step inside, then another. “Oh, he’s sitting on his couch…his spot!” He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn her way, doesn’t even acknowledge her. It’s as if she didn’t even exist. Maybe he wishes she didn’t. Maybe that would take away the shame and disgrace she has brought upon the family name.

She manages to make her way to the kitchen. Mom is busy, as always. She’s quite the homemaker. With a side look, she acknowledges her, but the frown confirms that there is no joy in her coming “home”.

Mom barks a command, “Go! Kneel before your father and ask him for forgiveness!” The girl turns and walks back to the living room, her feet even heavier than before. She approaches the strong man, still sitting in his favorite spot. She kneels. Through tears she manages to speak. Her shaky voice comes out in a whisper, “Dad, please forgive me for running away.” Silence! No movement, not even a flinch. Her mind raising with thoughts, “What will he say? Will he forgive me? Will he slap me? Well, if he did, I deserve it!” Finally, a slight movement of his head…only to dismiss her to her mother. Not a word…not a look…just a small gesture.

The heaviness! The hurt! The disgust!

She stands…walks away…her mind assaulting her with more thoughts. “Did he forgive me? Can I stay? What happens next?”

Shattered Routine

It was a “normal” day. Routine was in full swing. Time for dinner was soon approaching. I busied myself preparing and putting the final touches on dinner. My girl was upstairs in her room not feeling well. Checking on her periodically, something just didn’t feel right. My entire being filled with an uneasiness…call it mother’s intuition, I don’t know.

“We need to go back to the doctor,” I said. She asked for us to wait. So many things scared her or made her uneasy. Doctors were on her list.

Dinner almost ready. Final touches…I hear steps coming down the stairs. Her posture, her complexion, her tears…not good!

“I need to take you to the ER.” She said, “ok.” My stomach sank further. My body began to shake. “She said ‘yes’, this is not good”, was my thought. “Maybe it’s just a virus,” I calmed myself.

We entered that place where our lives would for ever change. The smells, the sounds, the faces. The face of a innocent little girl, pale, sweaty, scared. As a Mom, I so wanted to shield her from all of this, BUT I could not! My heart ached!

I held her, touched her, smiled and remained “steady”, calm and collected. I needed to! She looked to me to be her strength and assurance. I looked to Him. There was no other way.

Tests, needles, exams —– screams! Those screams! All I could do was hold my girl ever so tightly…BUT I could not stop them from “hurting her”. Oh, the nightmares…the agony!

More and more tests, exams, needles…the night passed.

Faces, nods, grim prognosis, papers…the feeling of sinking sand taking you under with a violent pull that can’t be stopped. You grasp, but there is nothing to grasp. Yet somehow, you know there is a Presence holding you tight.

The room! The test! The confirmation!

The looks…the news!

COLORECTAL CANCER

The weight of the world fell on us! Breath was sucked from our lungs! Yet, we were held by the One who holds the power of life and death in His hands.

July 16, 2016 – a date etched sharply on my heart.