liz by design

Lessons From Dorothy

2011-12-27T18:01:00.000-08:00

Someone told me this past weekend that I reminded them of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. Like the little girl with the ruby slippers, a tornado ripped through our life, picked up our little family, and dropped us smack-dab in the middle of unfamiliar territory. Unlike the destructive Kansas storm, our tornado was not an act of nature, but rather was human caused.

Dorothy wasn't always comfortable on her yellow brick road, and many times she was afraid. But in the end, she learned valuable lessons and was grateful for the experience.

I want to say that I will forever appreciate the lessons I learned and the new friendships I forged during the oft-difficult journey. That, however, doesn't change the fact that our tornado was spawned by careless and thoughtless human beings. Our story is a cautionary tale to be sure.

I've watched as news of the Pennsylvania Sate sex scandal has dominated the news for the past few months. So many people - innocent people - have been caught up in the wake left by the evil actions (allegedly) of one sick man. My heart aches for the victims, their families, other coaches, students, and unsuspecting fans. I'm reminded, once again, that as we travel through life, we are like vessels on the sea. We leave behind wakes and waves that affect everyone with whom we share the journey.

Our devastating tornado hit when three people - three so-called friends - made assumptions, told lies, and stole the reputation I'd worked hard to build. I have no idea what motivates people to gossip and lie with the purpose of undermining another person. I do know, however, that psychologists will tell you that when they see this behavior, it most often stems from jealousies, insecurities, or just plain vengeance.

Our children were 11, 12, and 14 when we were literally kicked out of the church in which they'd been dedicated and raised. We'd made the decision to attend the same church as Tom's family so our children could be surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and an untold number of extended family members. They loved Sunday School, kids choir, and the many and varied mid-week activities. I worked at the church, volunteered in a number of areas, and used my gifts and talents to begin a ministry through which I shared my heart.

And then the tornado hit.

I was accused of saying things I never said and doing things I never did. The fact I worked for the theatre was particularly frowned upon. Then, my 14 year old son was "too hard" for the Junior High pastor to deal with. I was told to take my family and leave the church we loved.

"It's time your family goes."

The world as we knew it changed. A tornado ripped it apart, and we were caught up in the wake left by actions, deeds, and the bad choices of others.

Even if the accusations were true, where was the grace and forgiveness that Christians preach about? Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. But extend that same grace to another wretch? No way!

All my children knew was that they were no longer allowed to see any of their church friends. I tried to be strong, but overnight I lost every single friend with whom I'd shared fourteen years! The security of relationship was gone and I was dropped in the middle of an unfamiliar world.

Our church wasn't just a building with a threshold we crossed once or twice a week, it was our family, our support, our friends….a place called home. I cried every day for a whole year. It would be three years before I could drive by the church without crying.

I would never have betrayed my friends as they betrayed me. I don't think they'll ever understand the grave impact they had on my family.

Is it any wonder our children made the choice to walk away from church, from Christianity, and from God? Like me, our kids were left with empty holes and deep sadness. For a time they used drugs to fill those empty places. Why would they look to God or church when it was God's people - The Church - that caused excruciating pain?

I looked for forgiveness and grace from the people I'd been raised to believe would be the first to extend it, but I didn't find it there. I did find it, however, in the most unexpected of places.

I found unconditional love when it was showered on my daughter by the rehab counselors - most of whom belonged to a religious sect I'd been taught to fear. If I was Dorothy, then they were the lion that turned out to be our healer and protector. We found grace in the person of a tough parole officer who was a tin man with a heart of compassion. Parents of prodigals are like scarecrows - we stand watch over our children, but are sometimes unable to scare away the dark forces that come pecking away at their very souls. We are smart enough to know we can't do it on our own, and I'm blessed to now be surrounded by amazingly wise scarecrow parents.

Yes, I guess I'm a bit like Dorothy. I woke up in a scary strange land surrounded by people whose words and ways I didn't understand. I was initially alone in the dark place, but along the road I met people who showed me the way and who dared to walk with me. When the yellow brick road brought Tom and I back home, we found that no one else would ever really know what we'd seen or what we'd been through. Not even Uncle Henry or Auntie Em. There's no way we'll ever find the words to help them understand.

I know the advantages of moving forward and never looking back, but I implore you to stop occasionally, look behind you, and take note of all you're leaving in your wake. Are you leaving paths of peace, love, and comfort, or are you cutting deep swaths of drama, gossip fueled angst, hurt feelings, broken hearts, wounded trust, physical pain, or destroyed reputations?

Please, please take a moment to reflect back - back on the lives you've touched. Are people better for having known you? Are friends and strangers stronger, healthier, happier, and braver because of the moments, hours, days, or years they spent sharing life with you?

Are there people like us in your past - human beings you could've been kinder to, shown grace and compassion for, or perhaps could've stopped to help now and again? Did your gossip - no matter how true you thought your words might have been - cause someone else to judge a person harshly without benefit of the whole picture?

Please take a moment to look back. It's never too late to help clean up from a tornado you might have spawned. It's never to late to say, I'm sorry, Please forgive me, or I was wrong. Learn from our long and painful journey. We are a cautionary tale from which I pray others learn lessons about grace, compassion, and forgiveness.

I'll take a moment to look back.

How's The Little Missionary?

2011-10-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

My friend's granddaughter got into a bit of trouble last week. At first she was disappointed and had no idea what to say to her frustrated and angry daughter – the girl's mama. Then....she thought of me.

Not long ago I was talking with my friend about my own little girl. In seven short years she's gone from troubled teen-ager to South African missionary.

So, Grandma encouraged her daughter with these words, "Your little girl is being prepped to be out in the mission field."

And now whenever my friend talks to her daughter she asks, "how's the little missionary?"

I love this story :)

All things DO work together for good.

Shopping With ME-Monsters

2011-10-10T10:22:00.000-07:00

I might never share a word of personal conversation with my fellow Winco grocery shoppers, but I learn more about them during those excursions than I ever wanted to know.

Here are some of my observations:

Some of you are ME-monsters. You live and shop in ME-ville and you don't know the meaning of "share the road". You drive your super-sized shopping carts just as you drive your ginormous SUVs–like you're the only one on the road/aisle.

Is it really so hard to be courteous? Don't park your cart in the middle of the aisle then step away to search for your favorite brand of mayonnaise. You wouldn't stop your car in the middle of the street when you want to check out a roadside stand. Keep moving or get out of the way.

Okay, sidebar about the size of the shopping carts. It seems these days that everything is super-sized. Every once in a while I go into a store with old-school carts, and they are tiny. I mean, they are oh-look-at-the-toy-shopping-carts small. Back in the day, burgers were smaller, fries came in little packages, store buggies were diminutive, and fewer people were morbidly obese. Perhaps there's a connection *gasp*.

Back at Winco. Listen, when you dip your dirty hands in the bulk bins and stuff your face with snack booty, you are stealing. Yes...STEALING! It's also gross when you lick the orange residue from your fingers after eating cheese curls, then grab a handful of bulk animal cookies and leave behind your germs and boogies for the rest of us.

Oh, and parking your kids at the bulk bins while you shop is a very dangerous habit. I can't believe you encourage shoplifting AND leave your child unattended. Yes, I'm the mean woman who told your son he was stealing and that he should go find his mom.

The motorized shopping carts are NOT toys, and the store aisle is not your personal raceway.

I watch some of you move through the aisles painfully and slowly. You lean on your cart as you push it along because your legs want to buckle under the enormous weight of your body. I look in your carts and I see boxed and canned food, which are full of salt, preservatives, artificial flavors, and empty calories. You buy crackers, cookies, white bread, and sugar-laden sodas. The fresh fruits and vegetables are not as "fresh" as they could be, but we are blessed to have access to inexpensive healthy food. We can all make better choices.

Next time you go grocery shopping, leave the ME-monster at home. Keep moving, or get out of the way.

Tap Dancing to South Africa

2011-09-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

I've written before about being chastised by the church for working in the theatre. I was even denied reconciliation because of my connection to the entertainment genre'.

My theatre family, however, has always been quick to recognize a need and to respond. I could not love and appreciate you more!

When my daughter was missing, it was my actor friends who saw to it that hundreds of "missing child" posters were plastered all over the city. Now Giana will be teaching tap dance lessons to South African orphans–and theatre moms and kids have once again shown their love and support. They are my shoe heroes!

My dear theatre family, you have blown me away with your resourcefulness and generosity. Together, you donated over 40 pair of new and used tap shoes (and another 20+ pair of jazz and ballet shoes).

So, to Lori, Lynn, Melissa, Tina, Sonja, Nadine, Collin, and Joseph, thank you so much for your donation of time, resources, and SHOES! Your kindness reaches to the other side of the world to the hearts and feet of God's kids in South Africa. How cool is that!

Integrity

2011-09-20T10:19:00.001-07:00

On Sunday Pastor Dale taught on Daniel – a man of consistent and continual integrity. I've been thinking about integrity ever since.

That word was used a whole bunch when Giana was in rehab. The girls were encouraged to hold one another accountable by simply saying the word "integrity" when they suspected a teammate of being less than honest.

When Gia got home from rehab, I remember a time when I suspected her of lying to me. I looked at her and said, "Integrity". "Oh Mom," she retorted, "I heard that word every day for seven months. Do me a favor and find another word." I've always loved that she feels free to speak her mind around me.

noun

adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.

the state of being whole, entire, or undiminished: to preserve the integrity of the empire.

a sound, unimpaired, or perfect condition: the integrity of a ship's hull.

We often say that integrity is being the same person – whether we're in public, or alone in our own home. As parents we strive to teach and model integrity. I remember being in a store one time when I saw a mom with a small child in tow. She was attempting to cash a personal check. The clerk was trying to tell her that her account had been flagged. Apparently she had, at one time, written a check that bounced. Hey, it happens.

The mom said, "My check is good. I'm a mother – I wouldn't lie." It occurred to me that she had the opportunity to model integrity for her child. Perhaps her check WAS good, but she had to pay the consequences of a mistake she'd made in the past.

As parents, I think we sometimes bully our children into becoming adults who lack honest integrity. Consider this scenario: One of your three kids leaves an artful masterpiece on your leather sofa, and they used a permanent marker for a brush! You march into their playroom and at the top of your lungs you bellow, "Who did this?"

The children cower into the corner.

"Okay, whoever destroyed my couch will tell the truth, or I'll call Daddy and we'll cancel our trip to Disneyland! You have five minutes to confess."

The kids discuss and commiserate and accuse. Perhaps they're all guilty, or maybe there's only one budding Picasso in the group. For whatever reason, however, the child with the artistic (albeit destructive) bent fails to come forward. So, one of the innocent kids throws up his hands, and in exasperation proclaims, "I'll say I did it. Geez! I don't know about you, but I WANT to go to Disneyland."

I was that kid. I took responsibility for a lot of stuff I didn't need to take ownership of. I naively believed that the truth would eventually win out. But here's the problem – I set myself up to be the fall guy. Even when I was innocent, I willingly took the blame, and others were eager to dump it on me.

Several years ago, a boss wrongly accused me. He was sure of my misdeeds because others had told him it was so.

"Why," I inquired, "do you believe them and not me?"

"Because," he replied, "they are people of integrity."

But wait, didn't the fact that these people came to him with gossip automatically mean they LACKED integrity?

Instead of loudly proclaiming my innocence, my naivete' once again prevailed, and I believed the truth would eventually find it's way free. I would be exonerated. It didn't happen that way. I had been groomed to take responsibility – even when it wasn't mine to take.

Look, I'm not perfect. I've made tons of mistakes. I don't hide my skeletons, I dance with them. I take ownership of my wrongs and I've finally learned to stand up to bullies. And, like Daniel, I've been thrown in the lions' den. But guess what? I survived.

I believe having integrity means acknowledging when I've messed up, absolutely. But, does a person of integrity need to carry the burden of someone else's weaknesses and lies?

Hmmmm.... It's food for thought, isn't it.

Makeup, Makeup!

2011-09-12T14:47:00.000-07:00

As Tom and I arrived in Lake Tahoe last week, we stopped by the local Safeway to buy a few groceries so we could cook at the cabin. We'd left home that morning later than we'd hoped and traffic moved slowly. It had been a long, hot several hours.

I rarely wear makeup when we travel, and this day was no exception. I mean, no one's lookin' at me except Tom–and he's seen me looking far worse.

So, there we are–standing in the snack aisle looking at microwave popcorn options and I hear, "Hi Liz!" I slowly turn my head as a thousand thoughts run through my mind. Please oh please oh please let there be another Liz standing nearby. Nope...I was the one! The married couple standing to my left go to my mom's church. I hadn't seen them in many years, but I recognized them, of course. Then the man called out, "Hey Gregg, come here."

Around the corner walks a guy I hadn't seen since high school. Worse, he's a guy I once had a crush on - and me without makeup! Aaaaahhhhh!!!!

Gregg introduced me to his lovely wife, and I introduced Tom. They were in Safeway for the exact reason that we were, and they too had just arrived in town. What are the odds? We chatted a bit and wished one another a great vacation.

This morning I was at the gym. Call me crazy, but I don't wear makeup there either! An adorable older woman (who was wearing makeup) stepped off the treadmill and said, "You've got a twin that works at Roger Rocka's Dinner Theatre."

"Well", I said, "I think I'm her. But, you probably don't recognize me without makeup." She's a fan of the theatre and she loved The Dixie Swim Club.

You know, there was a time when I rarely farded (look it up) before running errands. I'm thinkin' those days are over. I'm almost 50 years old and, well...I look better when I glam up a bit.

From now on, if you're looking for me at the gym–I'll be the one wearing lipstick, mascara, and under-eye concealer.

Quicksand of Pride

2011-09-10T15:55:00.000-07:00

Oh how sad it is that so many relationships get and stay stuck. They get mired down in the quicksand that is pride, jealousy, unforgiveness, and misunderstanding.

People move on, but relationships can remain interminably stuck.

I wrote a post several months ago about bullies. A friend of mine was buying gas when an almost unrecognizable man from his past walked up to him and apologized for the way he bullied my friend in junior high school.

My friend was relieved and grateful for the man’s kind words. Almost immediately, the old ugly relationship became unstuck. Two grown men were finally able to heal the brokenness and send the old hurts packing.

I recently saw one of my old bullies. We’re grown women – she’s a grandmother – but the relationship is stuck in a muddy swamp of judgmental condemnation. I’m courteous when I’m around her, but I can still see her cold eyes and her gnarled finger pointing at me from across the table during a conversation many years ago.

You’re weak.

You’re not a good friend.

You’re jealous.

God has graciously allowed my family and me to walk through incredible fires. I didn’t come out unscathed, but I learned many things about myself. I discovered I’m stronger than I could ever have imagined and I’m a generous and steadfast friend.

I learned that when we unfairly accuse others of jealousies and hidden sins, we’re actually revealing more about the state of our own hearts. When we point fingers at others, we shine spotlights on our own darkness.

I recently spent a bit of time with another old friend. It’s been years since I had a real conversation with him and the friendship ended badly when he called me a liar. While he and I are both cordial, the relationship is stuck.

Does he still believe I lied? Does he see me for who I really am? Does he care about what my family has been through—the miracles we’ve seen, or the life lessons we can share with the world?

I never lied to him – not ever.

People grow, change, move, mature, and evolve, but pride keeps relationships stuck.

So, how do we find our way out of the gunk and goop that keeps relationships in a bad place? Well, we don’t “find” our way out of it. We FIGHT our way out. We have to confront, tell the truth, chase away misunderstandings, and break the chains of pride and preconceived judgments so that we can be free.

I’m exhausted from trying to single handily pull relationships out of quicksand. I’m not even sure why it’s important to me, when it’s painfully obvious that it’s not important to those who insist on remaining buried in the past.

That’s not true. I know why it’s important to me. I value what once was, and losing you still hurts.

Making Waves

2011-09-07T13:09:00.000-07:00

Tom and I spent this past weekend in Zephyr Cove, Nevada where we lazed away the days on the banks of Lake Tahoe. The water is cold and crisp, but that couldn’t keep me from hours of swimming in the clear blue water. Tom isn’t quite as adventuresome as I am.

In my next life I want to be a mermaid.

Labor Day traditionally marks the end of summer, and people all over the country did exactly what we did – they donned their Speedo, life vest, and snorkels, and headed out to bodies of water to swim, boat, ski, and parasail.

Did I just say “Speedo”? FYI, there is NEVER a good time to wear one of those skimpy hey-you-forgot-to-look-in-a-mirror swimsuits. But I digress.

During the off-season, Lake Tahoe is glass smooth and as still and quiet as a kitten’s purr. But on this busy holiday weekend the many boats and Jet Skis created thousands of water wakes and waves that literally pounded the shore with loud urgency.

Being on the lake’s edge made me think about the oft given admonition to “stop making waves”. I know people who would rather chew off their own toes than rock the boat of life. They are compliant, quiet, and courteous at any cost. Others take great pride and pleasure in raising every ruckus that comes along. For these people, making waves in an otherwise calm journey is what keeps life interesting.

Though the boaters created whitecaps and swells that rocked the swimmers and then slammed into the rocky shore, the wave makers themselves were unfazed by the rolling waters. They went about cutting their path through the ice-cold water – laughing as they celebrated the end of the hot summer.

Some people are like that. They zip through life, rocking boats, and making waves just because they can. They enjoy creating unnecessary uprisings, and they rarely deal with the consequences of their actions.

Look, I don’t want to discourage anyone from rocking the boat to bring about healthy change. Sometimes we have to make waves in order to wake the sleepers on life’s beach.

I want to make waves with a purpose. I want to rock the boat of apathy and create opportunities for dialogue, problem solving, and world changing. I don’t want to be a speed racer who tears through life’s waters with no regard for how my actions affect those with whom I share the journey.

I realize that some of you are floating through life on tiny little rafts and it wouldn’t take more than a ripple to knock you into icy waters. For you, simply asking “why?” or expressing an opinion that differs from yours is enough to blow the air right out of your river rat. You don’t want anyone rockin’ your boat.

The truth is, however, there are wave makers all around us. I want to be someone who rocks the boat of indifference, prejudice, and intolerance, and fights against small-minded apathy. I’ll keep my eye on the shore, and I’ll tend to those I might accidently shake up, but I can’t promise that I won’t rock a few more boats.

I do pray my motives are good and purpose-filled. As I speed through life, I hope I leave behind waves of hope, change, courage, and bold endurance.

The Elephant and the Blind Men

2011-08-16T18:20:00.000-07:00

The other day I was out for a walk, and the words of a poem I once read popped into my head. Now, I haven't thought about the rhyme in many years. I learned the poem in (I think) the fourth grade at Tarpey Elementary School, and I'm pretty sure I haven't seen it since.

Perhaps you know the composition. It's about six blind men from Indostan (the former name of an area of South Asia) who all encounter different parts of the same elephant. Since none of the men can see, they are dependent upon their sense of touch to gain understanding of their surroundings. The man who feels the side of the elephant proclaims, "God bless me, but the elephant is very like a wall!"

The second man feels the sharp tusk and declares, "Tis wonder of an elephant is very like a spear!" The other men are equally sure their observations are true descriptions of the mammal. Depending on what part of the animal the men are touching, it is "a snake", "a tree", "a fan", or "a rope".

Each of the six men were more positive than the one before them that they were right, and each made his point sure and strong. The poem ends with this line: "Though each was partly in the right, and all were in the wrong!"

I wrote a post a few weeks ago about how small, but false accusations, have devastating effects.

I don't blame the people who passed judgment on me, as they were–for the most part–operating in good faith. They BELIEVED they had all the necessary facts to make an assessment of my family, my life, and me.

I wonder if the six men of Indostan were ever able to set aside insistent pride and "see" the elephant for what it truly was.

Several months ago I sat in a room with Tom, a counselor, and a family member with whom we all hoped to reconcile. The counselor asked me to tell my story. Oh, I'd done this so many times before and I ached at the thought of "living" through the sadness again. But I did.

I cried.

The therapist turned to the family member. "What is your response?"

My relative smiled.

"Liz..." She paused. She smiled.

"Liz..." Pause. Smile. "...embellishes."

I was devastated.

The story elements she thought I "embellished" were completely unembellished! She, however, chose to see only pieces of the whole picture and therefore her picture was VERY different from mine.

Let's all work together to see and appreciate all the parts of the elephant. The big picture might be far more cool and impressive than a small snapshot of a portion could ever be on its own.

"Though each was partly in the right, and all were in the wrong!"

Hope and Open Doors

2011-07-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

Okay...I know, I know - I'm transparent to a fault. I accept that the vast majority of the world doesn't give a gnat's whisker about my life.

So why take the time to write this blog?

I write to remind myself of the many miracles that happen every day and around every corner. I write to encourage you who are lost and broken that wholeness can be yours. I am ETERNALLY optimistic and hopeful for restoration, reconciliation, healing, discovery, love, and goodness.

Some of our hard times have been uglier than most. I've seen the worst that humanity offers - drug dealers, hypocrites, liars, cheaters, manipulators, heartbreakers, and joy stealers. I've seen some of that ugly in the reflection of my own mirror.

This is what I know...God is still in the business of miracles!

On January 1, 2011, I had a sense that this year was going to be unlike any other for the Stoeckel Family. I told Tom and the kids that things were going to explode in a positive way, and that by the end of December, we'd all find ourselves in places we never expected - in a good way!

Okay, does all this sound a bit weird? You all have an inner voice that gives you direction and encouragement. For some of you it's God or spirituality, and some of you look to other resources for that inner peace. Giana said she keeps feeling that "summer will be awesome" and that changes would start during this season. It's only July 19, and I'm already seeing that "prophecy" coming true.

The doors of opportunity have flung open and Gia will soon be heading to South Africa to serve in long-term ministry. Yesterday good fortune smiled on Dallas, and he's heading to LA to start a new creative venture. Drew will soon be heading out on his second musical tour of the year. These are all amazing gifts to my kids - favors that were but dreams at the beginning of the year.

And me...I find myself working with people who've had a piece of my heart and a chunk of my love for many years, but from whom I've been estranged. Are things perfect? Of course not - we're human! Am I hopeful? YES!

Do I believe in restoration, miracles, recovery, and healing? Of course I do. If I didn't, I wouldn't pray for it on a daily basis!

There's still five more months to go before we see the end of this year. I still "see" more doors opening, greater good still to come, and surprising fabulousness on the horizon.

Small Earthquakes Cause Devastating Tsunamis

2011-07-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

I wish I could ignore the hurtful mean things that have been said about me. I wish I could filter out the false accusations. But, this is the deal - it kills my spirit knowing that there are people who believe I'm a hater and a hurter.

Granted, there are only a few people who are guilty of these absurdities, but those few have caused major waves of destruction that I have to deal with. Those foolish humans are like tiny earthquakes that shake a few walls, crack a couple of windows, knock a hundred or so cans off wobbly shelves, then go on their merry way. The problem is, however, they've set into motion all the elements needed for a devastating tsunami.

Tsunamis destroy far more property and lives than the initial earthquake could ever imagine tearing apart. Whole families, villages, cities, and hillsides are swallowed by tsunamis.

On March 11, 2011 the largest earthquake to hit Japan in 150 years triggered a mighty tsunami that devoured cars, houses, planes, and buildings. As of April 25, 2011 more than 14,000 people were dead and nearly 12,000 were still missing. The quake was hard enough, but the aftermath and the destruction done by the behemoth water monster was far worse.

Small decisions have big consequences.

Accusation: I was jealous of a good friend.

Truth: Not even a little. I loved her. I miss her.

Accusation: My children smoked pot in my house while we went to the store.

Truth: They're not that stupid. Tom and I were very smart parents and we were working with counselors at the time. The plan was to get through the holidays. The worse thing you can do when dealing with addicts is to accuse them unfairly. They just get indignant and become more secretive. That accusation caused a severe setback to recovery and things got much worse before they got better. It was unfair.

Accusation: I didn't want to work with a particular woman if she was in charge.

Truth: This one started because a few words were misheard. I love and respect every chance to be part of a team. I really don't care what my role is. Just working with talented people is a gift. There are no small roles, only small actors. I live by that mantra.

Accusation: Asking questions of people in authority meant I was on a "dangerous path".

Truth: The act of asking questions empowers individuals (maybe that's what they were afraid of) and it strengthens the team. It provides the information needed to grow and change.

Accusation: I lied and manipulated to get my way.

Truth: Since I never said the things I was accused of saying, this can't be true. BTW, look again at the answer a few lines before. I would rather be a respected member of a team, then a person who always gets her way.

Accusation: I've walked away from the Lord.

Truth: Jesus is my best friend. I've had doors slammed on my face and friends cut me off because they don't want any part of the myriad of challenges we've had to face. Jesus has never made an accusation against me, and we're tighter than ever.

Accusation: I brainwashed my son against his bio-dad.

Truth: I ALWAYS told Dallas his dad loved him, but was unable to be a part of our lives because of his choices. I didn't share details about drug addiction and abuse until Dallas was an adult battling his own addictions. The door was always open. Always.

Look, I'm not perfect. I don't even try to hide that fact.

Some relationships are just plain toxic, and I've put distance between those persons and me. Instead of making assumptions about me and my choices, why don't you ask me a few simple questions? Maybe, just maybe, I have good and healthy reasons for doing as I do. Instead of seeking out "friends" to talk to about me, talk to me.

Scientists predict that in March of 2014 a giant debris field from the massive Japanese tsunami will wash up on the shores of California. Three years after the major event, the garbage will still be evident and someone will be forced to deal with it. Can you imagine, cars, roofs, doors, walls, and all manner of trash smothering our beautiful beaches? We will suffer the consequences of a catastrophe that happened on the other side of the world years after the tragedy.

So it is with false accusations. Small decisions to believe lies and act accordingly have great consequences in the future.

I won't waste any more time investing in toxic relationships. I'll be nice when I see you, I promise. If you make false accusations against me, please don't expect me to respond.

It's hard to have a constructive conversation with someone who's wagging his or her finger in my face. I still love you, but please - please put the finger away.

Someone Should Write a Book

2011-07-13T20:09:00.001-07:00

The other day my 26-year-old son said, "Mom, someone should write a book or make a movie about us. Seriously! We've beaten all the odds."

"Well," I said, "have you ever read my blog?"

He's right. So far, we've overcome challenges and roadblocks that have leveled many an American family.

We've been swimming against the flow on a river of gloomy statisticians for as long as we've been a family. I've written about the night I nearly miscarried Dallas. My son was obstinate and determined from the moment of conception. He beat the odds - he lived.

I survived physical, emotional, and mental abuse at the hand of a charmingly manipulative drug addict. I was able to escape before my former husband ever laid a hand on my baby boy even though the odds were against us.

My husband Tom married a divorced woman. Do you know that according to the Department of Vital Statistics, 60% of second marriages end? I'm not going to lie and tell you Tom and I never considered walking away, but this was my second marriage and the odds of making it were not in our favor. There was a particularly heartbreaking and dark time in our life and we separated for several months, but we reconciled. Again - baffling odds makers everywhere.

Two of the kids battled horrific addictions to Meth. That drug is a demon that comes for the souls of its users. It was once believed that Meth addicts had no hope of recovery because of the high rate of relapse. The drug changes the brain's wiring by destroying its dopamine receptors and users need a full year to allow those receptors to re-grow. Dopamine is the brain's "joy drug" and without it, people are depressed. Meth gives the user a false sense of happiness, and the abuse/addiction cycle continues.

My kids are amazingly strong, resilient, and determined. Drugs have destroyed so many lives and dreams, but my kids are living and pursuing their dreams with drug-free healthy abandon. Odds beaters!

As a family we've survived tough stuff like job loss, marital discord, financial devastation, bankruptcy, addictions, prison, missing kids, and rehab. The unbelievable reality is that we walked the journey largely alone. Despite being heavily involved and devoted to a large church family, we were abandoned in our time of deepest need. Churches are woefully ill prepared for certain types of conflict. Most church goers walk away from God and religion after experiencing judgmental condemnation - not us. And our extended family? I'll be gentle and just say they were terribly unhelpful.

So, what's our secret? How have we survived - even thrived - when so many other families break and disintegrate? Well, we're not perfect and we're not super heroes. We fight big, love completely, pray unceasingly, cry often, and every day find more reasons to laugh. We give one another the room to fly, the freedom to explore, and permission to be mad sometimes.

I don't write this blog because I think I have the answers. I write because it sucks to go it alone. If just one reader feels less isolated by reading our story, then this is for you. If you can look at us and think, "Wow, I don't have it so bad after all", that's okay too.

Someone needs to write a book about us.

You Go, Girl!

2011-07-08T16:33:00.000-07:00

The photo I use for my blog banner is the top half of a picture my daughter Giana painted for me. I hope to someday get a portion of the painting tattooed onto my body. But, that's another topic for another time.

The hands in the painting represent me, and the butterflies are my three now grown children. They know I'll always be here for them (thus the open hands), but Tom and I raised them to fly free. Gia chose Africa as the backdrop for the piece because she has flown there now several times, and I was lucky enough to share one of those amazing life-changing trips with her.

I've known for many years that Giana needs to fly. An old adage says, "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was." It's hard for a parent to let a baby bird fly away from the nest, but it's what you do when you love the anxious little creatures. Gia was born to fly - and she's been flappin' her wings since she was twelve years old.

Last Sunday Jaco Van Schalkwyk was visiting church from South Africa where he is the Executive Director of Refilwe Community Project, a foster care facility for orphans. I'd heard about Jaco, and was excited to meet him. I told him how my daughter was hoping to one day be part of a long-term volunteer service in Africa. He said, "That's the kind of thing I like to hear."

Well, within three hours Gia was sitting at a table with Jaco and his American hosts. One thing led to another, and bam, Gia is scrambling to get to South Africa. As luck would have it, she already has a trip to Malawi, Africa planned and will be leaving on July 27. It won't take much to get her re-routed to Johannesburg instead of California.

The logistics are still being worked out, and we're not sure just how long she'll be out of the country and off our continent. I KNOW this is where she's supposed to be - at least for now. She's got a heart for the hurting, a love for the indigent, compassion for the lost, and wings to take her where her passions lead.

I'm so proud of the beautiful independent daughter that God entrusted to me. You go, girl!

UnChristian

2011-06-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

Lest anyone who reads this is tempted to judge my motives, please know this...I love The Church. I believe The Church is the body of believers and not a building. I also know all too well that The Church's reputation is seriously broken - and deservedly so. I'm ashamed of the way we treat people we supposedly love.

I'm reading the book, UnChristian - What a new generation really thinks about Christianity...and why it matters by David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons. This book has brought me to my knees. The title describes perfectly what this book is all about.

For the past ten years I've been speaking the truths that are spelled out in this timely book. However, I've been poo-pooed by naysayers. "Oh Liz, don't look to people. Just look to God." "Your personal experience is rare. The Church doesn't usually treat people the way you were treated."

Those naysayers are WRONG. My family's ordeal as it pertains to the church is NOT unusual, it is NOT rare, and it is NOT okay.

The Barna Group is a well respected evangelical Christian polling firm located in Ventura, California. UnChristian gives all the data it has collected from non-believers and Christ followers alike to explain why Christianity has an image problem. Oh boy, does it have an image problem.

People under the age of 29 have been particularly turned off by The Church. We think we can bring them back if we play a certain kind of music, or use cool graphics in our video presentations. Well, it's just not that simple. They're sick of hypocrisy and they crave (as I think we all do) authenticity.

In Luke 15 we read the story of The Prodigal Son. We Christians use that parable as the perfect picture of God's grace. I think that's true. However, we gloss over the older brother in the story. He is the picture of The Church. Don't miss this - he is THE CHURCH.

The older brother does not want the prodigal to receive grace. The older brother folds his arms, stomps his feet (my interpretation), and whines to his dad, Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him! Luke 15:29-30

We call one another, "brother" and "sister". But when someone messes up (or is accused of messing up), we refuse to call him "brother", but rather we say, "this son of yours". And by the way, that nasty older brother hadn't even spoken to his younger sibling, yet he assumed the prodigal "squandered your property with prostitutes".

I shouldn't have been surprised when I was accused of saying, doing, and thinking things I didn't say, do, or think. Jesus himself tells us in this parable that The Church WILL make assumptions about its very own brothers and sisters. Ugh. Shameful.

Again, I LOVE The Church. Grieve is a love word. You don't truly grieve the loss of something or someone unless you loved them. You might feel sympathy or sadness, but not grief. I grieve for The Church. My heart breaks for all the people out there who've been disenfranchised, kicked out, or damaged by the Pharisaical hypocrisy of The Church.

We're all broken. No one is better than anyone else. Love is such a simple word. Love is a powerful healer.

Photo Friends

2011-06-20T09:03:00.001-07:00

For the past several weeks I’ve been working on putting together a video tribute for a birthday party. I had a great time going through boxes of old pictures, programs, and clippings. My kids were so stinkin’ cute when they were little.

Among the fading photographic images were several pictures of a few people I once believed were very good friends. The smiling faces and intertwined arms tell a story of fun birthday parties, relaxing church picnics, busy mommy days, shopping excursions, and goofy theatrical mishaps—a life shared. Sadly, the happy memories are overshadowed by the realities of betrayal, gossip, and loss.

What do you do with pictures of people who betrayed you?

I used to be able to walk into a room full of strangers and feel confident that I would leave there having made at least one friend. I loved people, I saw good before bad, and I welcomed new experiences. I miss that Liz.

Now I look at those slightly discolored old photos and I wonder if anything I see was ever real. One woman with whom I shared so many precious times actually told me I was “never that good a friend”.

But the pictures are all about friendship—a relationship brimming with love and trust.

So, today I’m a much more cautious person. I hear what people say, but I listen with skeptical ears and a suspicious mind. The door to my scarred heart is rusted shut.

Angry ex-girlfriends literally cut the faces of philandering boyfriends out of photographs. Should I do the same? Do I smudge the image, or do I just trash the pics and attempt to wipe my mind’s memory card clean?

Yep…. I miss the old Liz and the friendships she once trusted. Now, excuse me while I look for my scissors.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

2011-05-03T08:56:00.000-07:00

I love, love the film “You’ve Got Mail”. I bet I’ve seen it 20 times! At one point Kathleen Kelly writes to her chat room buddy, NY152, “So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?” I’ve got the opposite issue. So much of the fiction I read reminds me of frightening experiences I’ve actually lived through.

People read books and think, “that doesn’t happen in real life”. I’m here to tell you—yes it does!

I’ve read every one of Nicholas Sparks’ romance laden, tear jerkin’, heart breakin’ novels. Hey, don’t judge me. He rocks. But Sparks’ latest book, “Safe Haven”, is messin’ me up! I’ve lived parts of this story!

The book is about the mysterious and beautiful Katie who appears in a small North Carolina town. Alex is a young widower with two small children. He immediately takes a liking to Miss Katie.

Katie’s past is slowly revealed, and her fictional drama is reminding me of my real-life chronicles. She ran away from her abusive husband. Not only did he hit her and attempt to control her every move, he also used Bible scripture to justify himself.

My ex-husband used the Bible to legitimize his bizarre antics. He wouldn’t go to the grocery story with me because “God hadn’t released” him. He spent hours in front of the television watching Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker because “God directed” him through their show, Praise The Lord. He stayed home and cast demons out of my closet while I was at work, then threw me up against a wall in an attempt to exorcise the devil out of me.

One evening we went to marriage counseling at the home of one of the pastors from our church. We got to the small apartment in Clovis before the pastor and his wife had a chance to get home from the Sunday night service. We sat on the patch of grass in front of the complex—my baby son asleep in my arms.

While we waited there on that muggy summer evening, Terry read scriptures to me. Better to live on the corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife, Proverbs 21:9 Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord, Ephesians 5:22. Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as is fitting to the Lord, Colossians 3:18. And on and on.

That counseling session did not go as Terry expected. The pastor directed all counsel at my then-husband. He was not being a Godly leader—he wasn’t working and providing for his family, he couldn’t be called the Spiritual head of the home, and he was ignoring the Bible’s instructions to love your wives and do not be harsh to them. (Colossians 3:19)

At the end of our time together that evening, the counselor instructed me to not “use” any of the things said that evening against Terry. In other words, I was not to say, “I told you so!”

On the way home I asked if we could stop for a Sprite soda. Terry went ballistic, saying things like, “The pastor told you not to use his words to get what you want. I suppose you think you can ask me for anything now.” I remember being so terrified that night.

He eventually left Dallas and me at our apartment and he disappeared. I didn’t see him until the next day. Such ugliness.

My former husband has not been the only “Christian” to use the Bible as a weapon of mass destruction. I think I’ve accepted some of the abuse because I sincerely want to “hear” God and honor Him. People often use God as a hammer to beat people into submission.

I’ve written about the associate pastor who told me I was “on a dangerous path” because I asked “Why?” His boss had removed me from a leadership position that I loved and was good at. When I asked why, I was told, “Because I’m in charge.” Don’t ask questions…submit to the will and way of the leader—the man. These could’ve been the instructions of cult leaders like David Koresh or Jim Jones!

It’s not just men who are spiritual bullies – women do it too. Oh, our ways are subtler, but no less wrong. We gossip and call it a “prayer request”. We manipulate and claim to have “heard God” tell us truths He won’t tell you.

Sunday at church the pastor challenged us. John the Baptist said, “Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand.” But Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is here, repent.” In other words, come have a relationship with me and hopefully that relationship leads to change. Real heart reformation rarely happens in the finger pointing, name calling, judgment-rendering call to “REPENT!” (Cue echo sound effect)

I grew up in a very legalistic and spiritually oppressive environment. I grew up believing that it was way more important to act religious than to know Jesus and actually have him as a friend. When I was young I was terrified of breaking the rules because God’s wrath would send me straight to hell.

As a young adult I went to the same kind of legalistic, fire and brimstone “do this” “don’t do that” kind of church. It was what was familiar. If I could change one thing about my past, I’d change what my kids learned about religion when they were little. I hope they one day see a clear picture of who Jesus really is—not the spiritual bully they grew up seeing in others.

Home churches are on the rise today. A friend told me the other day she chooses to forego the traditional church because everyone in the home church has “issues just like me”. It would be more honest to say that people at the home church ADMIT to having issues far more readily than the traditionalists, with their “Repent Now!” mantra.

To the bullies I say, no, I am not “too weak”! I’m the strongest person you’ll ever meet and I’ve survived things most people only read about in novels. No, God did not “tell” you some mean, oppressively religious thing about me. We talk everyday and HE thinks I’m awesome. And no, just because you’re a pastor does not mean you can manipulate and twist my words in order to prove I’m something I’m not. No!!

Dallas Finally Meets His Dad

2011-04-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Dallas and I flew to Memphis with only three carved-in-stone plans; a. Bingo night with Grandpa (he ended up being too sick to play); b. Spend 2 ½ days in Missouri with Jodee and her family; and c. Celebrate Fat Tuesday on Beale Street with Uncle Tim.

Dallas made it clear all along that he really didn’t have any desire to see his birth father. He was pretty sure that if he did see Terry he’d want to tell him off. After Wayne passed, Dallas was especially grateful for the planned outing to Missouri, as he knew a funeral wasn’t the place for a father/son confrontation.

I gently encouraged my son to not let the opportunity to meet Terry go by. I didn’t want him to have any regrets. I wrote about the “daddy place” a couple of posts back, and I knew my child wanted to have some questions answered—needed some closure.

Monday afternoon we got ready to leave Jodee’s home and head back to Wayne’s house in Mississippi. Carm prepared a fabulous lunch for us. The pasta and shrimp was crazy good. As we were sitting at the bar in the kitchen, Dallas got a text message. “I’d like to take you and your mom out to dinner before you leave town.”

Dallas was still not sure he wanted to see Terry at all. “We’re having with lunch with Carm and Jodee right now. I’ll be back at Grandpa’s tonight.” Dallas told Terry he’d contact him when we got back to Mississippi. It was 20 minutes before the confirmation text came, “K”.

During the five-hour drive back “home” I again nudged Dallas toward seeing his dad. He agreed with me about not wanting to have any regrets, so he sent Terry a text message telling him he had homework in the morning, but would be free at 2 or 3. Terry said that sounded great.

The schoolwork took a bit longer than Dallas had anticipated, but Dallas kept in touch with Terry. At 3:30 my son sent a text message; “I’m all done and we’re heading into Memphis.” He told him we were free till 6:00. Terry responded, “Have fun.” Dallas laughed. “Well, I guess we’re NOT meeting him after all.” Are you kidding me? Terry was going to blow Dallas off? Unbelievable.

Dallas and I wanted to eat at the original Neely’s location. We love watching The Food Network and we didn’t want to be in Memphis and not have some authentic BBQ. Neely’s did not disappoint—it was delicious. We walked in the rain, took pictures down by the river, and just kicked around.

A few minutes after 6:00 we headed to Uncle Tim’s house, where we met his wife and little daughter, Mattie for the first time. Mattie is just three years old and she’s the youngest of Dallas’s cousins on that side of the family.

While visiting with Tim and his family Dallas was texting wildly. I felt like the mommy of a 10 year old. I wanted to say, “put that phone down right now.” My son looked at me and rolled his eyes.

At around 7:30, Tim, Dallas and I walked out to my rental car. “Apparently”, Dallas said, “We’re meeting Terry on Beale Street at 9:00.” The wild texting was going on between Dallas, Terry, and Terry’s mom – who lives in Michigan! She was mad at Dallas for not making time for his dad, and Terry was saying we were only going to give him an hour (or something like that). Hmmmm…3:30-6:00 is 2 ½ hours! Whatever. Drama!

Dallas knows that his uncle doesn’t get along real well with Terry, so he gave Tim the option of staying home. No, we’d planned to spend Mardi gras together, and he’d been looking forward to it – as did Dallas and I.

Down on Beale Street there was no one around! Fat Tuesday on Beale Street in Memphis, and there’s not a soul in sight. Crazy! We had The Hard Rock Café to ourselves, so we chatted with the waiter, drank a beer, ate onion rings, and settled the bill. We walked up the street to meet Terry.

Dallas was not even crawling when his dad left, and now Terry was shaking his grown son’s hand. He hugged me. He was accompanied by his fiancé, who is lovely and kind. Dallas talked about his music, his plans for the future, and the classes he was taking. Terry chitchatted about this and that.

When I met Jodee I told her she had Terry’s teeth, and now, as I sat across the table from my ex-husband and listened to him talk, I thought, “yep, Jodee certainly DOES have his teeth.” And, by the way, she has her grandma’s eyes. Dallas shares many of the same mannerisms as his dad, his uncle, and his grandfather. After an hour or so, my son looked at me and said, “I’m ready to go.”

No pictures were taken that night—Dallas wasn’t comfortable with that idea. He said he didn't want to hurt his dad (Tom). Terry’s girlfriend graciously understood. Terry hugged Dallas goodbye, kissed me on the cheek, thanked me for bringing Dallas to visit, and we were gone.

Within a few minutes, the drama began. Terry made phone calls and accused me of “ambushing” him. Dallas wasn’t to be blamed because I had “brainwashed him”. The claim was made that Terry’s mom and my own mother both agreed that I “kept Dallas hidden from Terry”. Oh, My Gosh! And I thought things had gone so well too. Sheesh.

Both mother’s denied ever saying such a thing – or even thinking anything like that. I was so angry. None of them walked the streets with me when I searched for my meth-addicted son. None of them cried their eyes out during the days and weeks when we didn’t know if Dallas was even alive out there. None of them went to County jail every weekend to visit my son, nor did they drive 100 miles to the State Prison to see him. If it weren’t for Tom and I (and God’s grace) Dallas wouldn’t be here—healthy and whole.

I’m sorry there are people who believe Terry’s lies. But you know, I think my son finally found closure. I think the questions have finally been answered.

Uncle Tim, Mattie Grace, Dallas

Sibling Love

2011-04-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

As soon as my ex-sister-in-law contacted me with the news that Dallas’s grandfather had taken a bit of a turn for the worse, I knew we had to go see him. We could not have known that Grandpa Wayne would die within just a few hours of our first visit with him in 13 years.

Many months back I went on Facebook and found Dallas’s little sister and her family. They were immediately open to us and we quickly exchanged photos and stories. Like Dallas, a wonderful man adopted his sister Jodee and raised her as his own.

You know, men get a lot of bad press and there’s no doubt that some of it is deserved. I mean, men have the luxury of walking away from their children, and many do. BUT, there are tons of great men out there who become daddies not because they have to, but because they want to! Dallas and Jodee have both been blessed with that kind of a daddy.

As soon as I knew we would be traveling to Memphis, I contacted Jodee and her mom, Carm. They live five hours from where we’d be staying and I told them we’d love to visit. They gave us a resounding “YES”, and even offered up their home to us.

On a chilly Saturday morning in March, Dallas and I made the drive through some of the most beautiful countryside in America. The Amish communities in Missouri are just gorgeous. The rolling hills are dotted with big barns, simple wooden houses wrapped in wide porches, cattle, and lush trees reaching to the sky.

As soon as we walked in the house my son and his sister embraced as their moms cried happy tears—as moms are wont to do. Carm captured the moment on video and I snapped still pictures.

Carm and I look nothing alike, but our children share so many physical similarities. DNA is an interesting thing. Dallas and Jodee both have blue eyes, the same nose, and that cleft in the chin. I loved Carm and Jodee the moment I met them.

We had a great few days with the family. Carm, Darin, their other daughter Kiera, and Jodee are just fabulous. We spent the first evening eating and laughing. On Sunday we went to church in the morning, and hung out in Branson, MO all afternoon. Sunday night – more eating and laughing.

Later Sunday evening we watched a video Carm had of her family celebrating Christmas 1988. It was of interest to us because that’s when Carm and Terry were together, and he was featured prominently with the rest of the family as they celebrated the holiday.

I wasn’t prepared for the tears that came when I heard Terry’s voice and saw his face staring back at me from the television monitor. He would have been 29 that year—so much hope and promise. If love had been enough, Terry would have been wildly successful. I loved him, Carm loved him, and our families loved him too. His own family showered love and favor onto that boy (his Grandma Mattie doted on him).

I watched on that tape as Carm’s family interacted with its youngest member – a one-year-old boy with bright eyes and blond hair. Dallas was 4 in 1988, and he hadn’t received a birthday card or Christmas nod from Terry in three years. I stared at that grainy old VHS video—looking for any sign that my son’s dad was thinking about him on that day. Was he? I don’t know.

Everywhere we went on our trip, people were always saying, “Wow, Dallas looks so much like Terry.” Dallas had seen pictures, but as the tape played that night, he was listening to Terry’s voice and watching his mannerisms for the first time. Jodee didn’t remember ever seeing any pictures, so this was all new to her. We all now agree that, when comparing them side-by-side, Dallas did not look quite as much like Terry as we thought he did (although the similarities are unmistakable).

My marriage to Terry was hard and there have been times I wished it never happened. However, because of him, we now have an extended family in Missouri for whom we are so grateful. Dallas loves his sister Giana so much and watching them together is a blast. He summed up Jodee as “tight" and if they’d been raised together he imagines he’d have a similar relationship with her that he has with Gia. They were awfully darn cute together.

Dallas and his sister, Jodee

So, to all the family members who hosted us when Dallas and I were in Tennessee, Mississippi, and Missouri – thank you! You guys rock, and I can’t wait to see how our relationship grows over the years ahead.

The "Daddy" Place

2011-04-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

Christian music artist, Plumb sings, “There’s a God shaped hole in all of us, and the restless soul is searching.” An Agnostic friend of mine thinks that’s the most ridiculous lyric he’s ever heard, but that’s not the point of this post.

There IS a “daddy” place in each and every one of us, and people without a daddy struggle to fill that hole.

It’s not only little kids that suffer loss when a father walks out, or dies prematurely. I have an adult friend whose heart was broken by her daddy’s selfishness. I myself have a mentor who was like a surrogate daddy to me. I’d give anything to hear that Music Minister say, “I’m sorry. I believe you. Come home.” Ugh…

Tom has been an incredible dad to all three of our kids. I’m a blessed mom. Dallas, however, still had an empty place left by the father that walked out on him when he was barely seven months old.

I was shocked to see Dallas grieve for his absent father over the years. He was so young when the marriage ended. When he learned to say “da da”, he said it to Tom. He didn’t even remember Terry. How could there be a “daddy” hole in my son?

I sometimes wished I’d never told him about the sperm donor to whom I was once married. I knew, however, that truth was always the best policy. Who would’ve guessed the Internet would explode the way it did, and Dallas’s dad would contact him via a social media site called MySpace one day? Crazy.

I’ve written before about the fact that my ex-husband was absent from our lives for 23 years. The door, however, was ALWAYS open to him. I maintained contact with Dallas’s uncle and the grandparents, as I knew it was the good and healthy thing to do for everyone. Besides, I truly love my ex-husband’s family and they are great people.

Terry always knew where we lived and how to get in touch with Dallas. Again, the door was ALWAYS open. It was not easy for Tom to share his son with a phantom father who had abused me—his wife!

When Terry contacted Dallas three years ago I blogged, “We’ll see.” I’d prayed for my son’s bio-dad for 22 ½ years, and I asked God to let Terry live long enough to see his son grow into a man. I prayed for healing of hearts and addictions.

Tom and I walked with our oldest son through crazy challenges, including drug addiction, arrests, prison, rehab, joblessness, and sobriety. We would do it all again.

Dallas spoke to his bio-dad briefly back in 2008. Sadly, Terry immediately told him lies, and that angered my son. A few months later my ex apologized to me for “betraying the vows of our marriage”, and thanked me for never giving up on Dallas. He told me I was a good mom. I took him at his word.

When I asked about Jodee, Terry denied fathering the little girl I knew was his.

Shortly after Dallas spoke with his bio-dad, I began getting notices from Fresno County Family Support. I’d never received a dime of child support—presumably because Terry had never worked at a job long enough to be caught. Now, however, he seemed to be settled and the government tracked him down.

Fresno County was receiving all the collected monies, and I didn’t get a penny. Finally, after about a year of this, I contacted them to inquire as to whether or not I was entitled to any of the collected money. Turns out, the case was so old that they’d kept track of what was owed to the County, but lost track of what was owed to me.

Family Support quickly corrected their error, and I (thinking Terry was new and improved) expected my ex to do the right thing. He went ballistic!

He wrote me a terrible letter in which he accused me of all kinds of bad. He called me a liar and told me I’d hidden Dallas from him, and “poisoned our son” with my lies. I know what Tom and I did and the extremes we went to in order to keep doors open. I don’t have to defend myself. My son knows the truth because he lived it.

That inflammatory letter was the push I needed to renew contact with Dallas’s little sister and her family. I’m so grateful I did!

Finding My Son's Sister

2011-04-15T13:00:00.000-07:00

Before I tell you about the amazing moment when Dallas met his other little sister for the first time, let me tell you how I first learned of her.

Even though Tom isn’t Dallas’s birth father, he’s the only daddy my son has ever known. Tom had planned on adopting Dallas from the moment he kissed me goodnight after our first date. Yes, HE kissed ME—don’t believe anything you might hear to the contrary. :-)

In 1988 Dallas was 4 years old and Tom and I had been married for two years. We gave a lawyer $200 to begin the adoption process, but shortly thereafter he closed up shop and skipped town. It would be five years before we could start the ball rolling again.

We did all the adoption heavy lifting ourselves—filing paperwork, securing letters from family, putting ads in local newspapers, etc… Terry had never made any real attempt to see Dallas, despite receiving a letter from him in 1989 in which he promised to come see his son soon. He never paid a dime of court-ordered child support. He said, “God told me” he didn’t have to pay because he was “going to win custody”.

I had to prove I’d done all I could to give my ex-husband ample opportunity to respond to the adoption request, so I worked like crazy to try to track him down.

Terry’s dad hadn’t talked to him in years and his mom stopped contacting us when Dallas was about five years old. I’d always sent both grandparents letters and pictures of their grandson. They’d been divorced for years and did not live near one another.

Grandpa Wayne was great at keeping in touch with his first-born grandchild. However, one day I sent an envelope filled with new Dallas pictures to Grandma, and it came back to me with the red words “return to sender” stamped on the front. The phone number I had was disconnected and she stopped sending birthday cards and Christmas cards. We wouldn’t hear from her again for many years.

I knew Terry had gotten married again after we divorced, but I was pretty sure they were no longer together. I had to find her.

Vicki had lived with my son’s father in Springfield, Missouri. I called long distance information and dialed the number provided to me by the operator. Vicki answered the phone. She told me they’d gotten divorced and she had no idea where Terry was living. I asked her if they’d had any kids—if maybe my son had a brother or sister we didn’t know about.

Sadly, Vicki had miscarried, but yes, Terry had fathered a child in Missouri. Shortly before he married Vicki, a young woman from a small town 20 minutes outside of Springfield had given birth to his daughter. She gave me the mom’s name and I think she even had a phone number. As soon as we said goodbye, I dialed the number I held in my hand.

The young mom who answered the phone was delightful, and so happy to chat with me. That night I learned that Dallas’s little sister was five years younger than him. Like my son, she had a cleft in her chin, blue eyes, and blond hair. Her name was Jodee.

California Pretty

2011-04-12T12:12:00.000-07:00

I told you all in the previous post about the trip Dallas and I took to Memphis, TN last month. Dallas was able to sit and chat with his Grandpa Wayne just hours before Grandpa passed away. It was a precious time.

When we arrived at the nursing home that night, Dallas’s uncle Tim was there to greet us. My ex-brother-in-law is one of the kindest men I know. He was 19 or 20 years old when I married his brother, Terry in 1982. Tim has a quiet, sweet nature, and when we first met he made me laugh. We always got along great, and I’m proud that Dallas gets to call him “Uncle”.

My ex-husband had apparently been to the hospital often to see his dad. I say “apparently” because the staff seemed to know who Terry was, but he rarely (if ever) visited his dad when the rest of the family was around. Wayne’s wife Sue hadn’t seen Terry in 15 years.

While we were all visiting in Grandpa’s room, a bubbly nurse came in and happily greeted “Mr. Clay” and the whole family. Terry’s stepsister, Tammy pointed at Dallas and said, “Do you know who this is?” She looked at my son and she knew immediately who he was.

“You’re that hot man’s boy. Oooo, you’re daddy’s hot.”

The Memphis family hadn’t seen Dallas Wayne in 13 years, and everyone was blown away by how very much he resembles the birth father he never knew. We all laughed at the nurse’s correct assessment of just how my son was connected to the family.

She looked at me. “His daddy’s hot.”

I said, “You don’t have to tell me. I’m the mama.”

“You’re the mama. Oooo girl, I thought you were the girlfriend!” She crossed the room to deliver a high-five. “Where ya’ll from?”

“California.”

“Oooo”, she squealed, “I’ve got to get out to California and get me some of that California pretty.”

Her enthusiasm was absolutely contagious—and her compliment was nice too.

The whole exchange got me thinking; do people know when they look at me that I’m God’s kid? Do they see the family resemblance?

Ooooo, I’ve got to me in The Word and get me some of that Jesus pretty.

Weak Body, Strong Spirit

2011-04-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

I’m still processing all that’s happened in the past month or so, and I’ve got to share some of the, uh….excitement with you. Dallas and I saw his bio-dad for the first time in 26 years, AND the little sister he’d never met!

I’ve written about some of the frightening details of my tumultuous 2-½ year marriage to a cocaine addict. I always prayed that my ex-husband would live long enough to one-day meet the son he hadn’t seen since before Dallas began crawling.

Before I get to the crazy details about the first face-to-face between father and son, let me tell you a bit about how it came to be.

In mid-February I received a Facebook message from my former sister-in-law telling me that my son’s grandfather had taken a turn for the worse. Grandpa Wayne was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a few years back. Although Dallas hadn’t seen his grandpa in 13 years, they had kept in touch via phone calls, cards, letters, and occasional emails. Sadly, there had been little contact during my son’s drug years, and Grandpa hadn’t been well enough to understand how Dallas was struggling.

When I heard Wayne’s health was failing, I was nearing the end of an eight-week run in “The Dixie Swim Club” at Second Space Theatre, so I couldn’t leave right away. I asked Dallas if he’d be interested in a trip to Memphis, TN (of course!), and I began looking at travel dates.

The show ended on February 20, and at first I considered heading east somewhere around March 9. In looking at available flights, however, I realized that there was little difference in the cost of flying sooner rather than later. Something told me to “Go!”, so I made reservations for a March 2^nd flight to Memphis.

We arrived in the southern city that had once been my home at 2:00 in the afternoon. My former sister-in-law Tammy and her mama, Sue met us at the passenger pick-up door for United Airlines. The four of us chatted happily during the 30-minute drive to their home in Olive Branch, Mississippi, just south of the Tennessee/Mississippi border.

Five hours later Dallas and I gathered with family in a care facility in Memphis, TN at the bedside of Grandpa Wayne. I will never forget the awestruck joy that filled the eyes of the frail man as he looked at my grown son.

Sue had been telling Wayne that Dallas was coming to see him, and although Grandpa was unable to speak, his eyes told us he was very much aware of my son’s presence in the room. When we asked if he recognized Dallas, he nodded in the affirmative. When Sue urged Wayne to blow a kiss, he did just that, so I know Wayne was truly cognizant. His eyes followed Dallas as if he was trying to drink in every precious moment.

Wednesday night is Bingo night at the nursing facility where Wayne stayed, and it was our hope that we’d be able to participate in what had become a weekly family ritual. Grandpa, however, wasn’t feeling well and his breathing became labored during our time with him. The nurse listened to his chest and felt Wayne should be transferred back to a hospital where he could get a big dose of antibiotics and a breathing treatment. He’d be good as new in a day or so.

The family walked alongside the stretcher as the EMT’s rolled Grandpa to the waiting ambulance. We all waved and promised to see him soon.

The phone rang at 4:30 in the morning. Wayne was gone.

I’m amazed at the spirited determination of the human heart. We know Grandpa Wayne stayed alive long enough to see his grandson Dallas for the last time. I’m so glad I listened and responded to that still small voice that told me to “Go!”.

Dallas, Uncle Tim, and Grandpa Wayne

Beyond Acceptance

2011-03-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

I do write a lot about reconciliation. It’s an important topic for me as I’ve sought it from a number of people I have loved. Finding true relationship harmony goes way beyond forgiveness and one cannot do it alone. To forgive is easy, but truly reconciling a broken friendship is hard.

I think we confuse simple forgiveness with the deeper act of reconciliation. Forgiveness can lead to tolerance and acceptance, but reconciliation leads to an intimate level of love and trust. It’s not enough to simply tolerate you, and I would hope you would expect more from me. I can tolerate the squirrels that scamper along my backyard fence, but don’t expect me to invite them in for tea.

Consider the act of reconciling a checkbook. I remember back in the day when I would compare my check registry with the monthly statement that came to me from my bank. I was sometimes surprised to find that my number did not match the one on the computer-generated bank report. We failed to balance.

The first step to redeeming an unbalanced checkbook is to acknowledge there’s conflict. If my registry says I should have $300 in an account, but the bank insists I only $220, I can’t ignore the discrepancy—unless I want to deal with overdraft charges, of course.

Step two is to accept responsibility for personal mistakes or wrongs. Maybe my math skills failed me, or perhaps some human bank employee used the wrong numbers or data. If neither one of us takes responsibility for the error, but rather we stand our ground like a two-year old and say, “not me, not me”, there can be no hope of balancing.

The third step is to adjust and fix the problem. Perhaps one of us was given faulty information, or insufficient data. I’d sometimes find I had less money in my account simply because I was too lazy to input a check right away and I just forgot about it. That was never a good thing. There were times, however, when a low-level employee of the financial institution made the error.

Finally, it’s important to absorb the lessons and learn from the mistakes. What could I do to make sure I kept better records? Companies are always doing their best to up their costumer service rating, so if a bank employee made a mistake they were usually quick to fix it—to reverse any unfair charges.

The great thing about reconciling immediately is that we are constantly being given a brand new slate. The first day of each month brings with it the chance to start fresh with no negative carry-over from the previous time period.

Reconciliation is not simply ignoring the problems and sweeping them into a file cabinet somewhere. When we do that there is no learning, no maturing, and the foundation of trust is compromised. If we did that with our financial records we would have no knowledge of what was real—of how much or how little money was actually at our disposal.

So it is with relationships. There must be balance and a pure reflection of truth.

Healthy reconciliation takes effort. We must acknowledge, accept, adjust, and absorb. It’s not easy, but like anything of real value, it’s worth the cost. If you don’t want to invest, there can be no real and true reconciliation. After all, you get what you pay for.

No Surprises Here...More on Reconciliation

2011-02-22T14:03:00.000-08:00

I don’t know why judgmental piety continues to shock me, but it does. If you’re not a Christ-follower, than this post will be of little interest to you. I do want my unbelieving friends to know that I admire and appreciate your honest authenticity!

I’m ashamed of the way we Christians sometimes treat one another, and it’s time we take ownership. Whether I express my frustration in a small group, or on a social networking site, the religious extremists always slap me down.

The latest came after hearing a sermon a couple of weeks ago. I have sought reconciliation with a handful of church leaders several times. I’m not sure why I keep going back in hopes of building bridges. I mean, they’ve made it clear that reconciliation is NOT on their to-do list, but I’m a romantic optimist (and I keep thinking the leaders will do the right thing).

So, after hearing the convicting message about anger, forgiveness, and reconciliation, I posted the following as my status update: “Hey church leaders. How can you hear a sermon like that and not be motivated to reconcile?”

Several people shared their own personal stories of disappointment and frustration, but one person said, “How sad that some people can’t forgive.” That is absolutely a true statement, but what does it have to do with my observations

Look, both statements are accurate and factual. We are commanded to forgive AND reconcile! Not either/or, but both are necessary to build a healthy body, a flourishing church, and robust spiritual health.

I guess I’m not sure why my friend decided to respond to my comment with her mention of forgiveness. Was she passing judgment on me—suggesting that I hadn’t forgiven? I forgave the gossip, lies, and cruelties exacted on my family and me years ago, and then I was convicted to seek reconciliation. I’ve written before about how restoration was denied me, however, because I work for the theatre.

The importance of reconciliation is expressed all throughout the New Testament. Matthew 5:24 admonishes us to not even offer our gifts to God until we have been reconciled with those from whom we are estranged. The verse says, “First go and be reconciled with them; then come and offer your gift.” GO…and be reconciled. How much clearer can it be?

So, before we sing in the choir, sit with the babies in the nursery, greet at the doors, or put a penny in the offering bag, we are to go and be reconciled. Yes, we are also to forgive, be kind, love one another, be generous and peaceful, etc…

I have many non-Christian friends, and I love them dearly! I’ve learned more about what it means to be of good character from them than from so-called believers. They do right by people just because doin’ right is…well…right.

I’ve seen un-churched friends leave work early so they could go see someone they argued with and be reconciled with them. They don’t have an angel sitting on their shoulder to prompt them to make the good and honorable choice, but they do it because the relationship means that much to them.

Christians pray for forgiveness, and then think that act excuses them from doing the virtuous thing. Yes, that’s a general statement, and it certainly doesn’t apply to all believers, but it’s far more common than I’m proud to admit!

Maybe if we weren’t so sure we’d be forgiven for every little thing, we’d be more careful of what exactly those little things were!

Look, I’ve reached out and sought agreement and mutual understanding from Christians, and I’ve heard every excuse as to why it can’t be. But those justifications have NO Biblical foundation. So let me sum up…we Christ-followers are called to forgive AND reconcile. It’s simple and clear.

Saying Yes to Cracks

2011-02-12T17:18:00.000-08:00

Today, Tom and I spent a bit of time wandering the back packer/rock climber/snow skier paradise that is REI. Recreational Equipment, Inc. (or REI) is the first place we head when looking for camping accessories, gear, equipment, or survival supplies. It’s a pretty awesome store, to be sure.

We strolled around, measured me for a backpack, and then looked at rock climbing paraphernalia.

“I’ve always wanted to rock-climb”, said Tom. Okay, this news surprises me.

“Really? Since when?”

“Since always. In fact, I’m gonna set a goal for myself, and make it happen.” And I think he will.

I started looking—really looking at the special equipment needed to climb a sheer face of granite and not die. One needs the right shoes, ropes, aluminum rings (carbiners), and monolithic protection.

Then I saw the Spring-Loaded Camming Device, or SLCD. The idea of this ingenious little mechanism is to hook into the cracks of the rock to secure the climber and give him something to hold on to as he pulls himself up ever higher.

When placing an SLCD, the climber pulls a mechanism to retract the cams, places it in a crack with the stem pointing down, and releases the mechanism, allowing the cams to spring back against the rock. When the SLCD is pulled downward (say, because of a fall), the spiral-shaped cams are forced harder against the rock, making it more secure. – Stephen Edwards, rock climber

Although some rock faces are considered “sheer”, there are always cracks—some are crazy tiny and some are deep and wide. Without the cracks there’d be nothing to grab hold of and therefore the rock would be impossible to climb.

I love the movie, “Pretty Woman”. Edward (played by Richard Gere) is afraid of heights. He occupies the penthouse suite, which is on the roof of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills. He won’t even step out onto the terrace to look out over the city because he’s too scared. Why then, if he’s so afraid of heights, does he stay up there? “Because it’s the best.”

That’s the very reason people give when asked why they climb mountains. “Because it’s the best.” They love the view, the air, the adrenaline rush, and the feeling of accomplishment and pride that comes with overcoming great obstacles and making it to the top.

If we are to reach our full potential and climb to the top of life, we’ve got to face our fears, get and use the right equipment, and summon all our strength and courage to tackle the challenge. But (and this is important), if life is smooth and without cracks, we won’t have anything to hook onto and pull ourselves up. The crevices, cracks, and crannies are necessary imperfections that help us in our climb.

So, next time you hear someone bragging about how smooth life is and how lucky he or she is to have never encountered any breaks in their perfect life, think about the rock climber. Those people might miss out on the experience of standing high up on a challenging mountain of trials and knowing the thrill of surviving—of making it to the top.

You know…I like the fact that my fissures and fractures have been exposed. They’ve given me the footing I needed to climb up over the obstacles and ugly hurdles. And let me tell you, the view from up here is awesome!

When Exercise Systems Talk Back

2011-02-07T11:17:00.000-08:00

I really do love to exercise, but I am easily bored. So, I change it up all the time. I often walk or I move to the Wii Fit, the P90X videos (when I’m feelin’ crazy), or a dance DVD.

Last year about this time I purchased the Jenny McCarthy exercise program for the Wii called, “Your Shape”. The package includes a DVD and a small camera. The idea is that the user mirrors Jenny’s avatar and the camera captures the user’s movements. The system senses whether or not the consumer is in sync with Ms. McCarthy.

I plugged in the camera, slid the DVD into the Wii system, turned on the TV, and started to exercise.

Jenny’s cartoon image began stretching and moving on my TV screen, while my image was captured by the camera and projected in a small box in the lower right hand corner of the television. I mirrored her movements perfectly. The camera, however, had a slight delay. This means it APPEARED that I was behind.

Suddenly, Jenny starts talking to me. “It seems you’re having difficulty with this move. We’ll slow down a bit.” Jenny McCarthy is berating me. Are you kidding?

I move closer to the camera in hopes it sees me more clearly.

“Okay. Are you ready?” Jenny prods. “Let’s go!”

We stretch and reach. I can see my image in the corner of the television and the camera is still not reading me properly. My arms are up over my head, but the “me” on the screen looks like she’s moving in slow motion.

“You still seem to be having trouble with this move.”

I am not having trouble, Jenny McCarthy, and I don’t like your tone!

I popped the DVD out of the player, unplugged the camera, and repackaged the whole stickin’ thing. Jenny had been in my home for less than 30 minutes, and I was ready to send her packing!

I drove to Costco, walked up to the return counter, and handed the yellow box back to the woman.

“Is there anything wrong with the product?”

“Yeah! Jenny McCarthy is talking smack about me.” The lovely cashier handed me my money, and I headed home.

Now excuse me while I put on my P90X DVD’s. That guy can’t see me so as far as he knows I rock! And a bonus—he’s way cuter than Jenny!

The Command to Love

2011-01-27T11:08:00.000-08:00

At the Bible Study yesterday morning the subject was friendships. Nothing stirs up emotions for me faster or more profoundly then this topic. Good friends are such a gift!

I’ve written before about the friends I’ve lost, not to death, but to brokenness. Joni (the Bible study teacher) shared about a silly feud she once found herself embroiled in. She didn’t even know what she’d done, or how it started, but she knew her friend was mad at her. So, she confronted her.

As it turns out, the other woman was angry with Joni for moving a plant on the church platform. Ridiculous, right?

Women can be ridiculous. We can be jealous, petty, catty, gossipy, and just plain mean. I’ve penned many a post on this very topic

So, what IS a friend? According to the Miriam/Webster Dictionary a friend is, “One attached to another by affection or esteem; a favored companion.” The Bible says, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13, NIV).

In politics, a “friend” is someone who shares your philosophy, or supports your agenda. For me, a friend is someone who cares about you even when they don’t agree. A friend has your back, walks and cries with you through the tough stuff, makes you laugh even when life throws you a curve, and holds you accountable when you’re being a ditz.

One of the women I loved dumped me because, among other things, I walked away from her after seeing her in the hall at church. She says I made eye contact with her, then turned and walked the other direction. “I have no choice”, she said, “but to assume you’re jealous of me.” Well, I don’t even recall that incident, but my mind is often someplace else and that may have been the case that day. Who knows? I’m sure it had nothing to do with her!

That particular friend had her list of reasons that I was “too weak” to be her friend, but it all comes down to this—she no longer liked me. Period. Losing the relationship with that woman wasn’t exactly a big loss. Unfortunately, she took a few other people who I loved and trusted down with her. THAT is the source of my greatest sadness.

When I was growing up my mom always said that to have a friend, we needed to be a friend. I always thought I was a good friend. Caring for others is second nature to me—watching a friend’s children when she’s sick, preparing meals and helping with the laundry after a surgery, driving miles to hold a hand at a funeral, or defending someone I loved when they’ve been wronged. It never occurred to me to NOT do those things.

The saddest point about the lost friendships is that they were Christian friends. The verse just before the above stated scripture says, “My command is this, love one another as I have loved you.” It’s not a suggestion or a piece of arbitrary advice—it’s a command from the God we claim to love and serve. What gives us the right to be so petty, judgmental, critical, and mean?

To have a friend who has my back. Wow! I hope to one day have that kind of friend, and I long to be that kind of friend.

Bullies

2011-01-21T18:58:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago I wrote about the sadness caused by friends who keep silent. The post was inspired by my friend, Cameron’s Facebook status in which he quoted Martin Luther King, Jr. Today I’ve been inspired once again by a Facebook status, and the power of words.

From a friend: The day just keeps getting weirder and weirder. Random encounter at a gas station. Went in to fill up, a bully from my days in junior high comes up to me. At first did not recognize him, till he called me by my name I used then. Instantly my guard went up. He came over and apologized for the way he treated me back then. WOW! So long ago, but I appreciated that so much.

The bully could have stayed silent. My friend hadn’t even noticed or recognized the tormenter from his past. But the man didn’t keep his mouth zipped; rather he shook off any hint of embarrassment and humbly faced his ugly former self.

There’s a lot of talk these days about bullies. Look, we’ve all got our stories. My maiden name was “Santori” and since I’m six feet tall I was often called, “Two-story Santori”. I went to a Christian high school and never really felt like I fit in. I was too poor, too tall, too unattractive, too whatever.

As an adult I’ve been bullied - mostly by other women. No matter the age of the antagonizer, there are some truths to remember. They need to put other people down to make them feel better about who they are. They’re jealous, insecure, scared, envious, or just plain mean. It’s rarely about the victim.

Of course, when you’re the one getting tormented, gossiped about, or the one about whom people are telling lies; it’s almost impossible to not take it personally.

Several people responded to my friend’s Facebook post, and he himself wrote a follow-up comment. Still in shock. For someone to do that. I can't tell you how much time, and therapy, I have gone through dealing with a lot of that "junk" from my past. Nice to scratch off a name from my "list" of people who caused me so much grief back then.

He went on. You know the old saying, "sticks and stones...yada, yada, yada, but names will never harm me." SO not true. Words are extremely hurtful and CAN stick with you for years. They have and they did. Hopefully by this man’s action, maybe karma has been unkind to him. Karma is a powerful thing. I forgave him, and wished him well.

I couldn’t have said it better myself. Like my friend, I’ve been through tons of therapy because of WORDS. Stupid, hateful, and dumb words! Crazy! And, as I wrote the other day, silence can also hurt and tear friendships apart. We’ve all faced the opportunity to stand up to a bully, but how many of us have done it? Not enough, I’m sure.

Notice my friend’s last sentence, “I forgave him and wished him well.” I forgave him. Wow! That is what grace looks like. Awesome!

To those of you who used to be the schoolyard bully, listen up—it’s not too late to do the right thing. Words hurt. The pain caused by ugly words lessons over time, but never disappears altogether. It’s never too late to say, “I’m sorry”.

"The Silence of our Friends"

2011-01-19T16:21:00.000-08:00

On Monday of this week we celebrated the life of human rights advocate, Martin Luther King, Jr. For the week leading up to the holiday my friends posted some of their favorite King quotes on Facebook.

Cameron posted the following King quote on his profile page: "In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

Dr. King’s life was cut short by an assassin’s bullet on April 4, 1968. I was six years old—a kindergartner at Tarpey Elementary School in Clovis, California. I don’t remember how my parents reacted to the leader’s death, but I remember people around me expressing concern for the state of our world.

We lived in California, where everyone accepted everybody and everything, and I never sensed the deep-seated kind of hatred that white people in other parts of the country seemed to feel toward blacks. That may be why I was much older before I really understood the risks that Martin Luther King, Jr. took in speaking boldly.

Dr. King encouraged all of us to refrain from silence. It wasn’t enough to have black friends, he asked us to speak out and speak up for said friends. He gave us all—regardless of skin color—the courage to speak boldly.

I do understand how silence can ruin a friendship and shatter a trust. I long ago accepted the ugliness and weakness of character as revealed when a person opens their mouth to condemn, criticize, or castigate an innocent person. But the friend who sits quietly by and says nothing? I can’t comprehend what motivates that kind of silence.

We don’t hesitate to open our mouths and vomit our opinions on anyone who might be within earshot. We declare the democrats are too soft, the republicans lack compassion, Christians are hypocrites, and the police are corrupt. We whine and complain about the weather, high gas prices, the cost of pack of cigarettes, and the volume at which television commercials are blasted at us.

We don’t hesitate to express our opinions concerning subjects about which we have little knowledge, and yet we fail to speak up on behalf of a friend in need of our support.

Have you kept silent for too long? It’s not too late to let your voice be heard. Someone needs you to break your silence today. I bet you can think of a friend who needs you to do more than nod in agreement. They need you to open your mouth and tell the truth—to defend them against a terrible wrong.

At the end of my friends’ lives I would hate any one of them to spend a minute remembering a time when I could’ve spoken up, but didn’t. How sad that would be!

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

Dancing With Skeletons

2011-01-05T20:04:00.000-08:00

It's Wild Ride Wednesday. When I'm gone, I'll be leaving behind a messy legacy...and I wouldn't change a thing! I'm gonna dance with all the skeletons in the closet!

My life is messy, and I like it that way.

Several years ago a friend of mine was lamenting about the different girls his son had dated. There was a huge difference, he noted, between the young ladies who came from intact families, and the ones who grew up in broken homes. The girls whose parents were still married were decidedly more stable, and my friend hoped that just such a young woman would end up being the mother of his grandchildren.

I was a bit offended by that generalization. I’m the product of a broken home AND I’m divorced, and I’m fabulous!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pedigrees and family legacies. Like most kids, I wished and prayed for my parents to stay together. However, as I grew and matured I came to understand that mom and dad were healthier people apart from one another then they might have been if they’d stayed in a bad marriage.

People brag about their family legacies. I know people who come from a long line of doctors or teachers or artists. They wave the branches of their family trees with honor and pride.

Many of my friends are Christians. Christian legacies are very important. It’s not unusual to meet pastors whose parents and grandparents were pastors, or couples whose families haven’t seen a divorce since the turn of the last century.

I also know many people who are ashamed of some of the nuts growing on their family tree. They sweep the dirt of their kinfolk under the heirloom rug and bury ugly skeletons deep in the basement closet. They don’t talk about the uncle who once spent time in prison, the crazy cousin who’s been divorced three times, or the brother that doesn’t spend holidays with the folks.

My own father didn’t know his dad had been married to another woman before his mom until he was in his mid-twenties. That was a well-kept family secret.

I’ll be leaving a messy family legacy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way! My parent’s marriage wasn’t perfect, and I thank God. If it had been, I wouldn’t have a beautiful little sister named Megan. My husband’s mom and dad both said “I do” more than once. Although Tom was the only child born of his parent’s union, he now has eight brothers and sisters—all wonderful and incredible people. We’re so lucky.

I divorced my oldest son’s dad after he walked out more than 25 years ago, but we are blessed to have my ex’s family in our lives. My kids have made bad choices and they’ve taken us on a wild ride, but oh, the incredible people we’ve met along the way! I’m so grateful for the counselors, parole officers, wayward kids, and parents of prodigals who’ve inspired and loved us. My life is better because of each and every one of you.

Yep, my life is messy. Our family isn’t perfect. We’ve stumbled along the way and we’ve got skeletons in our closet. Unlike some of you, however, we bring our skeletons out to play. We dance and rejoice with them as we remember where we’ve been, appreciate where we are, and look forward to the good days yet to come.

Everyone deserves another chance!

2011-01-04T20:55:00.000-08:00

Every person has been gifted in wonderful and unique ways. Everyone has a diamond inside of them - a diamond just waiting to shine. This wonderful video reminds us to look beyond the wrapping and see the fabulous gift inside each and every man and woman.

I Choose Wholeness

2010-12-30T17:58:00.000-08:00

One of my Facebook friends posted the following status recently: Psychologists say we judge and condemn others according to our own weaknesses. We project our weaknesses onto them.

I thought about responding with a snide comment. For you see, this is the woman who—along with her husband—convinced a pastor that I was manipulative and controlling and therefore should be replaced. They made their case by accusing me of saying things I hadn’t said.

We don’t have to look far to know that the psychologists are right. We see pastors rail against homosexuals, only to be exposed as a closeted gay. Politicians fight prostitution, only to be outed as regular consumers of the working girls.

Girls are great at making mean and ugly accusations against one another. My husband often says, “Boys are dumb, girls are mean.” True. We’re jealous, self-conscious, insecure, and snide. Although I believe that’s what we are deep down inside, we have the power to be our best selves, not our weakest selves.

A few women in my life have been a bit grumpy about the fact that I’ve pulled away from them. Instead of asking why I’ve made that choice, they’ve done just what the psychologists have suggested they would do—they’ve assumed things about me. These assumptions might just say more about who they are, than who I am.

To the family member who told me I don’t “accept people for who they are”—I wish you could accept me as I am. To the cousin who believes I was “in the belly of the whale”—you were wrong. Your words did, however, reveal SOME truth. I wish you’d listen to what I’ve learned (and it’s not what you think). To the woman who accused me of being jealous of her, the woman who told me God shut the door of opportunity to do the right thing, the lady who told me I’m unforgiving, and the mom who accused my kids of doing something they didn’t do; I wish I could help you understand. I’m sorry you chose to bulldoze over our friendship.

I choose to be positive. I choose to be around women who seek to close wounds rather than rip them open over and over again. I choose to walk away from the accuser, and into the arms of the healer.

I choose to make 2011 the year of wholeness.

Labels

2010-12-06T10:35:00.000-08:00

A few days ago a friend posted the following as his status update on Facebook; “People’s performance usually reflects the expectations of those they respect. – John Maxwell”

That quote stuck with me and got me to thinking about all the labels we put on people. I’m certainly guilty of labeling people, which is shameful since I know how it feels to be unfairly classified. Unless it details a calorie and ingredient breakdown, a label is rarely a good thing.

Then at church on Sunday Dale taught about the danger of labeling people. So, I thought I’d blog some of my thoughts on the topic.

One Sunday morning when Dallas was about four years old I went to pick him up from his class at church and the teacher met me at the door. “Dallas was very bad today.” She looked down at my son who was now standing at her side. “Tell your mommy how bad you were today.”

I wanted to punch that woman! You can tell me he misbehaved, you can tell me he was a bigger challenge than he normally was, but do NOT call my child “bad”. From that moment on, Dallas was “that kid” at church. You know the one—the child that all the Sunday school teachers warn the other leaders about. “Oh, Dallas is going to be in your class next year—he’s a handful.” My son was labeled.

The truth was, Dallas loved his teachers at church and he wanted to please them. Their expectations, however, were low. My son respected these people and his performance reflected their expectations.

Several years ago I sat across a tiny table at a Starbucks from a woman I loved and respected very much. I’d requested the meeting with Rhonda as our relationship was broken and I desired healing and wholeness. For the better part of an hour she spewed her accusations and venom at me. “You’re weak. You’re jealous. You’re not that good a friend.” Her reasons were flimsy at best, but the bottom line was – she’d labeled me and she refused to see me as anything other than the person she decided I was.

During Dale’s message on Sunday he held up signs with words written in big black letters—labels we put on people. Democrat. Liberal. Republican. Pro-choice. Pro-life. Homosexual. We practically stamp words on the forehead of people the very moment we meet them. Let’s try something new; let’s see people as God sees them—a target of HIS love and HIS grace.

Back at that Starbucks after Rhonda stamped me with all her labels I said, “If you saw me in that way, why didn’t you say something? I mean, I was your friend.” That’s when she said, “You were never that good a friend.” I replied, “I’m more—I’m a part of the family of God.” She said, “You just want to play the victim, and I won’t yield to your victim mentality.”

Isn’t it interesting how some Christians pick and choose what part of the scriptures they want to embrace? To their way of thinking it’s okay to use the Bible as a sword to stab and condemn others. But if you’re a Christian, you should also be willing to use the scriptures to sharpen you.

Desiring to be seen as a child of God does NOT make me a victim wannabe! I allowed myself to be influenced by the labels put on me by others. I did that because I loved and respected them and I trusted their friendship. I wrote this last week, and I’ll say it again, shame on me!

I AM a child of God and a target of His grace. THAT is the label I deserve. And by the way, that's the label my son deserves!

My "Dangerous Path"

2010-12-01T23:50:00.000-08:00

For today's Wild Ride Wednesday, I want to remind myself, and you, that it's okay to ask "why?"

“Randall used to say when you turn 50 you’re closer to the final curtain than the overture. But I think there’s still time to learn whatever it is I’m supposed to learn.” - Dinah Grayson, The Dixie Swim Club

Dinah Grayson is the character I’m playing in the upcoming Second Space production, The Dixie Swim Club. I myself am closer to 50 than to 40, and like Dinah, I believe there’s still time for me to learn. But first, I need to learn to BELIEVE the things I’ve already LEARNED! Why is that so hard to do?

It’s been several years now since a pastor told me I was on a “dangerous path”. One day Pastor H’s assistant, Pastor B, called me at home. He said, “Liz, you’re on a dangerous path, and I believe if you don’t get off you’ll end up in a bad place.” He and his wife were very dear friends and I had no reason to doubt he had my best interest at heart.

And what was this “dangerous path” I was on? Was I breaking a commandment—stealing, cheating, or lying? Nope, I had done something worse; I dared to ask “why?”

Pastor B told me (effectively) that I should never question pastors, as God Himself put the spiritual leaders in authority over me. Um…isn’t that exactly how priests justified abusing and taking advantage of kids?

You see, Pastor H fired me and then refused to tell me why. He removed me from the ministry I helped start and wouldn’t tell me what led to that decision. He kept saying, “I’m in charge, and you can’t put me in a box.” I’d poured my heart, talent, and time into building the ministry, and now I was arbitrarily being removed. Adding insult to injury, I was being reprimanded for asking “why?”

Pastor B gave three examples of my disrespect for Godly authority. He credited me with saying something about a pastor that another member of my family had said. In fact, I reminded him, I had DEFENDED the pastor. “Oh yeah”, he said. “Well…” he went on. “You challenged the children’s pastor after he chastised Drew.”

What? How did he know that? Yes, Tom and I were very disturbed about an encounter between the children’s pastor and our second son Drew. We confronted the leader, but never ever spoke to anyone else about it. Two weeks after the incident, the pastor took time out of his family vacation to call us—he was crying. He told me he’d been going through a tough time and he took it out on our son. He asked Tom and I to forgive him—which we did—and the incident was over. Apparently, however, he had asked for Pastor B’s advice before he called us, but never told him about his contrite phone call. Now the encounter was being used against me! Unbelievable.

The third “proof” of my dangerous-path-traveling was my daring to question my firing. I was just supposed to be quiet and accept Pastor H’s decision regardless of how my life was being affected.

It would be many weeks before Tom and I were finally allowed to sit with Pastor H to hear him explain his decision. He accused me of saying things I didn’t say and thinking things I never thought. When I stood up for myself, he called me a liar.

It is ALWAYS okay to ask “why?” I learned that truth when I was a child, and I gave permission to my own kids to do the same. But I’m not sure I really believed it until now that I’m almost 50. It’s my life and it’s okay to ask why!

You are allowed, by the way, to answer a “why” question with, “because I said so”, or “because I’m in charge”. That answer might not sit well with me, but you have the right to say anything you want.

Accusing me of saying something I never said is not cool. I have no idea what motivated Pastor H and Pastor B to do what they did. What I DO know, is that I spent way too many years doubting myself and believing their lies about me. Shame on me!

I bought a license plate frame that says, “I’ve got an opinion, and I’m not afraid to use it.” I am a smart, talented, and good person. I’ve worked hard to build a reputation as a hard working, respectful person, and I have an opinion. I never asked anyone to agree with me.

When the decisions and choices of other people affect my life, I have the right to ask “why”. So do you! Lesson learned.

2010-11-24T20:30:00.000-08:00

For this Wild Ride Wednesday—the day before Thanksgiving—I thought I’d share some of my best Thanksgiving memories.

I remember many Thanksgivings at my grandparent’s home in the middle of a cotton field (and later a peach orchard) on Road 56 in Dinuba, California. They lived in the same small clapboard house their whole married life, and both my mother and her older brother were born in that house. My uncle was literally born in the house, but my mom was born in the tiny local hospital. Her first bed was a dresser drawer.

My grandma always made chocolate pie. My siblings, my cousins, and I liked to eat the cream filling first, and then we would nibble the yummy handmade crust. We ate the pomegranates we pulled from the tree at the end of the long dirt driveway. We cracked walnuts my grandpa picked from the giant tree in the front yard.

I distinctly remember Thanksgiving Day, 1972. I played happily in the cotton bin parked in the front yard, but my siblings and I had a secret that Thanksgiving. In the privacy of our own little cotton hideaway, we told our cousins that although we were all there together, our mom and dad were officially separated. That would be the last Thanksgiving we spent as an intact family.

Nine years later I packed everything I owned in my little 1973 Mazda Wagon, left home, and drove east. I landed in Memphis early in November, just a few weeks before “turkey day”. I got a job almost immediately, and I even found a place to live—an apartment I shared with a crazy girl who also happened to be named Liz.

On Thanksgiving Day, 1981 I sat on the floor of my small living room where I watched the Macy’s parade on television, and dined on chili beans that I ate right out of the pan. The next day someone I worked with brought me a turkey sandwich! I can still taste the yummy white bread and the smooth, thick mayo. Mmmmmm.

In 1984 my husband and I happily posed for pictures—his hand resting on my very pregnant belly. My family had no idea I’d been living in a house of horrors for much of the past two years. My abusive marriage to a cocaine addict would end eight months later, leaving my baby son and me alone.

On Thanksgiving night 1985, Tom would ask me to marry him. Oh what a difference a year makes. Tomorrow will be the 25^th anniversary of that proposal.

My favorite holiday memory is—and I believe always will be—Thanksgiving 2004. Giana had been in a Utah rehab for six weeks. I made a chocolate cream pie and carefully packed it on ice for the 15-hour trip to Loa. Tom, Drew, and I laughed and talked all the way to the sleepy little town.

It was dark and cold when we pulled up to our hotel. We were exhausted and we slept well that night. Early the next morning we drove the winding 4 miles to Aspen Ranch and were directed to our daughter’s cabin. I will never forget seeing her run out of her cabin and into Drew’s arms. It was clear our little girl was on the road to recovery and was already so much healthier than she’d been in years. I wrote more about that day here.

I know what it means to be truly thankful. Loss is hard and terrible, but without it I wouldn’t fully understand how very blessed I am.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Gateway Drugs-Are We Giving Kids The Keys?

2010-11-22T14:32:00.000-08:00

I submit to you that a) marijuana is a gateway drug, and b) statement “a” is true because WE have given our kids the keys to the gate. I hope I have your attention.

The Drug Enforcement Agency, or DEA, is the Federal Government agency responsible for enforcing laws and regulations governing narcotics and controlled substances. The DEA has divided drugs into five “schedules”.

Schedule 5 drugs have been found to have a low potential for abuse; they may lead to very limited physical and/or psychological dependence, and currently have an accepted medical use. Schedule 4 drugs are the same as 5, but users may be slightly more apt to fall into a dependence on these drugs. Those drugs found in Schedule 3 are more dangerous, Schedule 2 drugs are worse still, and Schedule 1 drugs are considered the most hazardous.

My kids all went through the Drug Abuse Resistance Education or DARE program in their schools when they were in the sixth grade. There’s no doubt the program has the best of intentions. It sends police officers into classrooms to educate kids about the dangers of drugs and the challenges and trauma they will face if they go down the drug path.

According to the DEA marijuana is a Schedule 1 drug. That means, it is as threatening a toxin as heroin, Ecstasy, LSD, and methamphetamines (cocaine is a Schedule 2 drug).

It should be noted that according to the Schaffer Library of Drug Policies (and many other sources), there has never been a reported case of anyone dying from a marijuana overdose. It should also be noted that there are over 5,000 cases of alcohol related deaths every year in America.

Understand me here; I am NOT advocating the use of marijuana! I do believe, however, that IF marijuana is a gateway drug to the hard stuff, WE are responsible for making it so.

Pot is easy to get, fairly inexpensive, and widely used by kids who are interested in experimenting with illegal drugs. I was not one of those kids. I never had a desire to get high or drunk when I was a teen-ager, but I was around pot a few times and I knew kids who smoked regularly. Kids today are no different.

So, here they are, smoking a bud for the first time. They laugh a little, they eat a lot, and they fall asleep. They think, “Well, that wasn’t so bad”. But wait, these kids learned back in the 6^th grade that marijuana was just as bad, dangerous, and evil as heroin and Meth.

It is easy to understand why they aren’t afraid of trying the hard stuff—opening the gate and walking down the drug path.

The brain and body do not become addicted to pot. This is not true, however, of Meth. Meth users become addicted the first time they use this insidious drug and they will spend all their money, time, and energy chasing the thrill of that first high. The chase often ends with the user dead or in prison. The same is true of users of heroin, cocaine, Ecstasy, etc…

We MUST tell kids the truth. There are many good and logical reasons to not smoke pot—it costs money, and a case of “the munchies” contributes to unwanted weight gain. In addition, smoking causes the heart rate to increase, and the blood pressure to decrease. Researchers found that users' risk for a heart attack is four times higher within the first hour after smoking marijuana, compared to their general risk of heart attack when not smoking.

All in all, the risks associated with using marijuana are far smaller that those attributed to other Schedule 1 drugs. We’ve GOT to tell kids the truth. We are losing too many to drugs.

Ma'am, Are You Okay?

2010-11-17T18:27:00.000-08:00

Today’s Wild Ride Wednesday installment (like last week) goes back 25 years. When I look back over my life, I see a string of miracles. God has protected me from some crazy stuff, and I am grateful.

It was late May or early June 1985. Dallas was nearly 6 months old and was the light of my life. I was blessed to have a job that allowed me to bring my baby to the office for a few hours every afternoon. My sister, Tina watched him every morning before she went to work at The Peppermill where she was a waitress.

I woke up around 6am on that late spring morning. It was hot—the first really hot day of what would surely be another sweltering summer in Fresno, California.

As was often the case, my ex-husband had not come home the night before. He’d held ten or twelve jobs in the 2-½ years since our Memphis wedding, but had never worked longer than three months at any place.

During this period of unemployment the father of my child was “waiting for God” to direct his path. He wouldn’t even go to the grocery store with me unless God “released” him to do so.

Dallas woke up smiling and laughing—just as he did every single morning. He was an incredibly happy baby. After I showered and dressed for work, I put my young son in the highchair so I could feed him breakfast. As I spooned the mashed bananas out of the bowl and into Dallas’s eager mouth, his daddy finally walked in the front door.

I don’t remember how the innocuous conversation started, but I remember that it soon escalated and became volatile. I couldn’t say anything right.

My ex-husband began tapping me—just thumping my head with a steady rhythmic beat. “Please don’t do that.” I tried to keep my voice calm. The man just laughed.

The man I’d once promised to love, honor, and cherish balled up his right hand into a fist and with his knuckles he began knocking on the top of my head, as if he was knocking on a door.

I appealed to his good sense. “Aren’t you tired? Maybe you should go get some rest. I have to get to work. Dallas and I will be out of your hair in just a few minutes.”

He knocked harder. I started to cry.

“Look at your mommy, Dallas. Look at her cry.” His voice was cool and steady, devoid of feeling.

He went on, “Look at your mommy cry. Dallas, you’re mommy is crazy. She’s insane. I’m sorry you have a crazy mommy.”

I stopped feeding my son and began to unbuckle the lap strap that secured him to the highchair.

“I’m going to work”, I said.

“You’re not taking Dallas today. He’s going to spend the day with me.”

Over my dead body!

I went back to the bedroom and called my sister. “[My husband] won’t let me leave the apartment without Dallas. I don’t know what to do.”

Within fifteen minutes there was a knock on my door. I looked out the front window and saw a police officer. I told my husband that my sister had called the police and I was letting them in.

He walked back to the bedroom and shut the door. I opened my front door and two uniformed officers from the Fresno Police Department stepped inside.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

My sister came running up the stairs. She’d left her apartment as soon as she’d called the police. I was relieved to see her.

The police told me I would not be allowed to remove anything from the apartment. They would escort me down to my car, but if my husband came out of the bedroom and asked me to leave my child, they could NOT let me take my son to safety.

I walked down the hall and opened the bedroom door. My husband was lying on the bed. “Dallas and I are leaving.” No response.

We spent the day at my sister’s apartment, but when night came I had to go home. It would be a month and half before the nightmare ended, but that was the day my ex-husband learned that I wasn’t alone—my family would not let him hurt me anymore.

I’m happy to say that laws have changed. If this experience happened today, I don’t think the police would force a frightened young mom to leave her child behind with her abuser.

Please Don't Let My Baby Die

2010-11-10T22:44:00.000-08:00

Today’s Wild Ride Wednesday goes back to early July of 1984. I was married to my ex-husband.

It was 3am and I was lying in bed—alone, pregnant, and awake. This was nothing like I thought married life would be.

I’d only been married eighteen months. Shouldn’t we still be in the “newlywed” phase? The sad truth was, my new husband and I had spent more nights apart then together. He was addicted to cocaine, and chasing the high took priority over me.

I remember how shocked I’d been to discover we were going to have a baby. I mean, I know how it happened, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out when it happened. We were very seldom together. On that hot July night I was sixteen weeks pregnant.

This was in the days before everyone had a cell phone. I lay awake thinking the same thoughts that had rattled around inside my head the night before, and the night before that, and for most of the nights since our wedding. Was my husband alive? Was he in jail? Was he with another woman?

I got up to use the restroom. Panic washed over me. I was bleeding.

My pregnancy was completely unplanned, but I’d heard the heartbeat, and I loved and wanted this baby very much. I started to tremble—only a tiny bit at first. My eyes welled with tears and I soon found myself rocking and sobbing on the bathroom floor. Oh God, please don’t let my baby die.

A few weeks earlier I’d done something I never thought I’d want or need to do—I went through my husband’s wallet when he was in the shower. I scribbled down the woman’s phone number I’d found written on a scrap of paper buried deep in the leather wallet.

I picked myself up off the bathroom floor and stumbled to the phone. I dialed the number. “Hello?” The woman’s voice was soft and confused.

“My name is Liz.” What was I doing? Was I crazy for calling this woman? It was the middle of night, for heaven’s sake. “I need to talk to my husband. Is he there?”

I heard her whisper. “It’s your wife.”

An hour or so later my husband walked in the door. He was so angry. I explained to him that I was bleeding and I was scared. I needed the father of my child to be home with me.

“You know we don’t want this baby. Loosing it would be the best thing that could happen to us.” He turned to me and put his finger in my face. “How dare you go through my personal belongings and check up on me. I’m going to bed. Leave me alone.”

He walked into the bedroom and slammed the door.

I took a shower, sat on the couch, and waited for the sun to come up. At 9:00am I called my doctor.

My husband moved out the next day and we spent the rest of my pregnancy living apart. The ultrasound would show that Dallas was alive and well—growing, moving, and kicking inside me.

I'm no Pollyanna

2010-11-09T13:06:00.000-08:00

Confession—I am so NOT a Pollyanna. Shocked? Not if you know me.

Pollyanna is the title character from a book written by Eleanor H. Porter in 1913. The girl with the sunny disposition went through life playing “The Glad Game”. She looked for the positive in every single situation.

The Glad Game was created by her dad one Christmas when her poor family received gifts from the mission. The little girl was hoping for a doll, but found only a pair of crutches inside the gift box. Her daddy taught her to look at the good side of things—in this case, to be glad about the crutches because she “didn’t need ‘em!”

The word Pollyanna is now a part of our English vernacular. We use it to describe a person who sees the good in everything. The word is sometimes used as a derogatory slam to describe someone who is so sickeningly positive that they seem completely out of touch with reality.

I consider myself a realist. Look, I would rather see the bad and deal with it, than wear blinders that keep me from seeing the whole picture. I believe in facing challenges and negativity head-on. Subtle flaws and imperfections add unique depth to works of art.

Some time ago I met a young man who had just moved to Fresno from Phoenix, Arizona. He didn’t know much about our fair city, but he’d been offered a teaching job at Fresno City College, so he came. What little he did know about us was negative.

I Googled the phrase “Fresno voted worst place” and came up with 91,400 hits. I then tried the phrase, “Fresno voted best place” and the search engine gave me just 13,700 findings.

Well, no wonder the teacher had heard far more bad press about Fresno—there’s so much more bad than good out there!

The new resident was expecting to drive up Highway 99 and see a hot barren stretch of desert nothingness. Instead, kind people and trees—lots and lots of trees, greeted him.

I read a couple of the Fres-“NO” articles found by Google and one writer said Fresno needed more trees. The college instructor, however, said he was amazed and enchanted by our abundance of trees. In fact, he offered, the local chamber of commerce ought to use our ample wooded goodness as a selling point in the come-to-Fresno brochures.

There is much wrong with our city—drugs, homelessness, low-scoring students, joblessness, and poverty. It used to be that the Appalachian Mountains were home to our country’s poorest people. Fresno County now boasts that dubious distinction.

But there is so much to celebrate about our Central California home. If you live in the Fresno/Clovis area, you are less than an hour away from some of the most beautiful and scenic mountains in the world. The Sierra/Nevada mountain range is the gorgeous home to many of the oldest and tallest trees in the world—the mighty Sequoias. We’re less than three hours from the fabulous Pacific Ocean. We easily take day trips to Yosemite, San Francisco, or Hollywood.

We are home to a myriad of artists and their incredible work. We boast fine theatre, exquisite dining, fabulous music, quirky art communities, and the best-in-the-world agriculture. Nothing beats our homegrown peaches, nectarines, and watermelon on a warm summer day. If you love rodeo—we’ve got it. You like water parks? We’ve got two! You’ve never seen an underground garden? Plan a visit to the world-famous Forestier Gardens.

I’m no Pollyanna. I see all that’s wrong with this city—just like I see all that’s not right in my life and in my family. It’s the good AND the bad that creates the depth of beauty that is my world. I won’t ignore the negative; rather I will do that which is in my power to make it better.

I’ve walked in the desert, and I found respite under the trees. I feel the hurt, and I appreciate the joy. I grieve for the sick and addicted, and I rejoice with the free. I see the good, the bad, the ugly, the fabulous, the weak, and the strong.

Okay, so I’m not a Pollyanna. But if no one sees that which is wrong, who will rise up to say “I can help”?

Unexpected Heroes

2010-11-03T10:49:00.000-07:00

For this Wild Ride Wednesday I want to say Thank You to all the people I never expected I’d meet, but without whom my family might not be whole. You are heroes.

I so appreciate the Clovis Police officer who took the first missing child report. Tom and I never, ever believed we would be the parents of a teen-age runaway daughter and we were scared and confused.

As soon as the officer left our home—a tiny picture of Gia tucked in the pocket of his beautifully pressed shirt—I got in my car and drove around town. I didn’t have a specific destination in mind. I was just hoping to catch a glimpse of my little girl.

About three hours later I turned left onto our little street having had no luck in finding my daughter. Sitting in his black and white car at the end of the block was the police officer. He was keeping watch—hoping with us that Gia would come home.

There are so many kind and caring people in the world, and many of them are strangers who will love you the moment they meet you.

I’m so grateful for the sweet woman who answered the phone at the Aspen Ranch rehabilitation facility. While her name escapes me now, I remember her calm and welcoming voice.

Thank you Paul for being a fabulous therapist. You are funny, tender, kind, tough, and honest. I appreciate an unflinching drug counselor named Phillip. These men walk and talk integrity and they inspire their students to rise to meet their full potential.

I’m especially grateful for a fabulous parole officer named Andrew. He showed our son and our whole family enormous respect. He had just the right combination of tough authority and gentle patience. I appreciate the deputy who greets the visitors at the Fresno County Jail.

Thank you to all the 7-11 stores and mini-marts who let us put up pictures of our missing child. Every time I see a poster hanging in one of your windows I stop and pray for the child and their family. You are doing a great service.

I love the drug addicts and homeless who take care of one another. There really is a code of honor among thieves. Without their weird brand of principles, my kids might not be alive.

I owe an extra debt of gratitude to the moms of prodigals I would not have met if not for the path my life has taken. Renee, Liz, Linda, Susan, and Ralaine—you have enriched my life, made my burden lighter, and helped me keep the faith through the ups and downs. I appreciate you girls so much.

I also want to thank a youth pastor named John who encouraged my daughter and helped her find her wings. The fact that she flies today is due in great part to your love and support.

Don’t ever be afraid of the unforeseen and unexpected path on which you might find yourself. You will meet people along the way who want to help you—who want to love you.

Do I Belong?

2010-11-01T14:41:00.000-07:00

Belonging. Of all the needs shared by mankind, I believe the need to belong is one of the strongest.

This powerful essential is the foundation on which gangs are formed, friendships are forged, families are created, churches are built, and towns and cities are incorporated. We all desire the security that comes from knowing we are part of a greater whole.

There really is strength in numbers. The opposite is also true—we are weakest when we are alone.

Dale preached a powerful sermon a week or so ago. He pointed out that most churches teach principles for right behavior. Right behavior is a good thing, but it is often taught in the form of a mathematical equation—behavior + believe = belong. If you behave in an acceptable manner and believe as we believe, you get to belong.

Jesus, however, teaches exactly the opposite—Belong + Believe = Behavior. In other words He wants me to know first and foremost that I belong. He hopes that as I spend time with Him I’ll come to believe and then my behavior will reflect my beliefs.

We definitely see this truth played out again and again on the evening news as it relates to gangs and gang activity. Kids find a place where they belong, they get acquainted and indoctrinated into a certain way of acting and thinking, and finally their behavior reflects what they know.

I definitely grew up in an environment where behavior came before belonging. I was raised in a church whose practices were extremely legalistic. We worshipped on a certain day, ate certain foods, and didn’t wear jewelry. There were a lot of “don’ts”. Don’t go to the movies, don’t dance, don’t eat shellfish, and don’t go out on Friday night dates…just to name a few.

One day I got a letter from the church elders. I was no longer considered a member because they’d “been told” that I attended another church. My behavior meant I no longer belonged.

I was hurt.

You know, the unfortunate thing about behavior-based belonging is that you really do feel that you unconditionally belong, until you don’t. I mean, I knew what the church taught, but I had no idea that attending another Christian church was on the “don’t” list.

I was the oldest of four kids (a little sister came along MUCH later), and I was always confident of my place in my family. We first-borns are given very defined roles and the expectations placed on us are often crazy high. In the past several years I discovered that I was no longer able to successfully live up to all the familial expectation. I found that I was no longer able and available to be the mom-of-kids-in-crisis/wife/employee AND a sister/daughter/hostess.

My family did not react positively to my inability to do all that was expected of me. I discovered then that my belonging was in serious jeopardy because my behavior had changed. Performance-based relationships seldom survive the long haul.

Despite my intense desire to never, ever attend a church that put legalistic rules ahead of grace, I ended up in just such a church for many years. Dysfunction can be comforting when it’s all you know. I really did feel I belonged. I know I believed, and my behavior reflected my heart. My behavior, however, was deemed less than perfect and I was booted from my church family.

I’ve written about some of the “sins” I committed while attending that church (working in the theatre is the most egregious), but being accused of saying and thinking things I never said or thought was the most personally offensive and heartbreaking.

I really hope and pray that each one of you belong. I hope you unconditionally belong to a family, a group of friends, a church body, an employment community, or a neighborhood.

Do I belong?

No Excuses!

2010-09-16T18:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve been asked why. Why would I share some of the painful details of my life and the church’s role in both the good and the bad? Well, allow me to answer that here and now.

Church is, and always has been, a huge part of our life. Of the many and varied paths our road has taken we have seen the worst and the best in human nature. We’ve met people from all walks of life—some have been helpful and kind, others were selfish and cruel.

I would love to say that every good person we’ve had the pleasure of knowing is a God-fearing, Jesus-with-skin-on kind of Christian. And, I’m sure some of you would feel better if you knew that all the “bad” people in the world are not Christ followers.

But, as a pastor friend of mine likes to say, “people are no damn good”.

This is what I want all of you to know—I have never, ever allowed the bad behavior of a few to influence my love for God or my understanding of who God is. Tom and I have always trusted God to work in and through our circumstances. As I’ve said again and again, we’ve had a front row seat to some serious miracles!

I hear people tell me all the time that they don’t want anything to do with a God whose kids are so mean to one another. But I know that people are human beings who make stupid and careless mistakes all the time. I wish we were perfect, but on this side of heaven perfection will forever elude us.

A few weeks ago I sat in a church service where the pastor asked the congregation to tell him who Jesus is. People said words like, “kind”, “miracle worker”, “unconditional love”, “grace”, “forgiveness”, and many more. The pastor then removed his jacket and revealed a t-shirt with the word CHRISTIAN on it.

What, he inquired of the congregation, do you think of when you see this word?

It took a few minutes for people to begin, and they started quietly, but soon the words came. “Hypocrite”, “judgmental”, “haters”, etc… The number one adjective used by unbelievers to describe Christians is “hypocrite”. There’s a disconnect between who Jesus is and who we are.

We’re all hypocrites—every human one of us! We all say we stand for things, but when push comes to shove, we fold under the pressure. We say we don’t lie, but we tell our boss we’re sick on a day we want to go to the beach. We say we don’t steal, but we use the copy machine at work to make those posters for the weekend garage sale. We gossip, we judge, we covet, and we keep angry accounts.

While I've come through the fire with my faith in God still intact, I sometimes find it difficult to have faith in the people who make up the body of the church.

I struggle because we’re so busy checkin’ out the speck in one another’s eye, that we neglect the tree trunk protruding from the middle of our own head. We do this. I do this. Come on people, let’s acknowledge this truth and hold one another accountable with love and gentleness. That’s what we’re supposed to do. If you don’t know how to do this, please read Matthew, chapter 18.

There are days when I can’t stand the thought of ever walking into a church again. But then I remember the words of the author of the book of Hebrews, Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another--and all the more as you see the Day approaching. Hebrews 10:25

Did you catch the word in the middle of that passage? Look again. Encourage. We are to encourage one another.

You wanna know why people aren’t coming to church, why they aren’t being drawn to Jesus? We fail to encourage one another—not always, but too often. In addition, we are called upon to sharpen one another, to hold the pew sitter next to us accountable, to love, to carry, and to grow each other up in the light of Christ’s teaching. We are supposed to meet the needs of the hurting and hungry. We are SUPPOSED to be Jesus with skin on!

I have NEVER, nor will I EVER use the bad behavior of a few as an excuse to not serve God. I’ve made mistakes, errors in judgment, and I’ve flat out sinned. I don’t excuse my behavior and I don’t blame anyone else for my choices.

Further, I know you’ve sinned. How do I know this? It’s the human condition. I don't know what, when, or how, and I don't want to know. But guess what? I love you. If I don’t show it, call me on it. I’m not asking the church to water down The Gospel or to compromise Truth. I’m asking God’s kids to seek first to understand, then to be understood. I’m asking the church to love.

The other day I wrote about an article I came across in the January, 1962 edition of LOOK Magazine. Several thinkers of the day predicted what life would be like in 25 years. Martin Luther King, Jr. said he expected the world to “blush with shame” at the way we treated people of color.

The history of the church is peppered with embarrassing atrocities—traditions we no longer hold to. We are still growing and learning. I trust one day we will “blush with shame” at some of our ugliness.

No Reconciliation for you!

2010-09-15T18:29:00.000-07:00

Today's Wild Ride Wednesday is a hard one. I want you to know...I still pray for reconciliation.

I called and asked for a meeting with the pastor. It’d been several years since we’d attended the church, but the emotions were still raw and the pain was still real. My child encouraged me to once again seek reconciliation.

I’d always been open to restoration with the staff pastor who had booted me out of ministry, and I’d sought it on a couple of other occasions. He, however, wasn’t interested. So, I went directly to the big guy—the man who’d been leading the church for well over 40 years.

I walked in the office and sat down in the overstuffed chair. It seemed like I was 25 feet from the pastor. He had the biggest desk I’d ever seen in my life. A lot of granite had to die for that desk.

The pastor was familiar with my story. He knew we’d been forced to leave the church, but he wasn’t aware of all the nuts and bolts.

I had no interest in recounting all the ugly details—I only hoped for reconciliation and restoration. I’d do whatever it took to forgive and be forgiven.

The pastor’s words shocked me, although I’m not sure why. You’d think by that point I would have understood that the condemnation and judgmental finger pointing was a part of the church’s DNA.

The minister folded his hands, leaned slightly forward, and in his finest Southern gentleman drawl said, “We don’t have to reconcile with you. You work in the theatre and therefore, you are a danger to our reputation.”

And, there it is.

I don’t even know what to say to that. All I know is the pastor needs to step out from behind the behemoth that is his desk, step outside of the church, and see that Christians live in the real world. We have many and varied talents, and sometimes Christians dare to work in film, television, and the theatre!

There are times when I seriously can’t figure out what it is about Christians that draw people to God. That day, sitting in the pristine office of an old Southern pastor, was one of those times. I didn’t see Jesus in his eyes. I saw a Pharisee who effectively said, “Thank you God that I’m not like this person.”

Hope for Tomorrow

2010-09-14T12:10:00.000-07:00

I have on my coffee table a LOOK Magazine dated January 16, 1962. The publication is a special issue titled, “The Next 25 Years”. In it, several scientists, specialists, and other notables give their predictions for what life will be like in 1987.

Here are a few of the thoughts and expectations for the future:

“I hope that world peace will have become secure… I would expect the world to blush with shame to recall that, three decades earlier, a human being was graded by the color of his skin and degraded if that color was not white. I would expect the Christian era to begin.” Martin Luther King, Jr.

“In 25 years, either our lovely earth will be a charred lump of rubble circling the sun, or we shall all be well on the way to universal peace. I believe it will be peace. There is no room for anything else; certainly no room for war…Asia and Africa will become equal partners in the work of the world…Class and race distinction will have disappeared.” Sean O’Casey—Irish Playwright

“The quality of music in the smallest hamlet of the United States will equal that in the world’s capitals. Every library will have facilities for playing recorded music, plays, novels, and poetry—the sounds of living history and voices of the great men of our time…The separation between music of the theatre and music of the opera will become less apparent over the next 25 years.” Richard Rodgers—composer

“As a cautious optimist, I believe the world will be at peace in 1987. But the pessimist in me suggests that this peace may be preceded by conflict. If war occurs, I trust that it will at last give us a true perspective on its futility as a means of settling disagreements between nations.” Frank Ellis—Director, U.S. Office of Emergency Planning

It has been nearly 50 years since the above quoted predictions were made. I believe human beings are optimists at heart. We believe—really believe that the world will be a better place tomorrow than it is today.

One of Fresno’s native sons was not so optimistic. Read the words of William Saroyan:

“What our world is at this time, it is likely to be a quarter of a century form now. Why isn’t the world better? Why is the human experience profoundly violent, psychotic and deathly, and only superficially and occasionally fun, true, or meaningful? Briefly, the world isn’t better because it is an invention of man’s—because man apparently needs a couple of million years more.”

Remember, these predictions were made in 1962.

The magazine is fascinating. The fashionistas of the day made prognostications about what we’d all be wearing in 1987—they were way wrong! Did any of you ever see the episode of the original Star Trek called, “Mudd’s Women”? Well, it was the style of dress worn by the beautiful women in that show that most resembles the way we were expected to dress by the late ‘80’s. They underestimated the power of neon!

It was expected we’d be living in homes largely made of plastic, aluminum, porcelain-enameled steel, and reinforced concrete. As far as space exploration was concerned, scientists believed there would be manned expeditions to and from Mars by 1985.

In many ways life has not moved as quickly as it was once expected it would. In other ways, however, we have leapt over tall buildings. We’re living with AIDS, terrorism, computers, and an out of control drug culture.

On page 17 of the January 16, 1962 issue of LOOK Magazine, then president John F. Kennedy wrote encouraging words of hope for his country’s future. It does me good to read those words today:

“While I possess few flat predictions of life on this planet 25 years hence, I possess many hopes. I hope that we will have made the peace more nearly secure—that tranquility will have replaced terror in the intercourse of nations. I hope that our people will be richer and more secure—that the anxieties of unemployment and illness will be greatly reduced—that our national output will have vastly increased—and, equally important, that we will have learned to use our wealth wisely.”

Hope. Today, tomorrow, and always, we have hope.

The Cries of a Strong Woman

2010-09-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

For today’s Wild Ride Wednesday, I submit the most difficult and personal words I ever wrote. If you’ve never read my blog, I urge you to read it today.

Allow me to set the scene. Two of our kids were on drugs and I was fighting desperately for the lives they seemed determined to throw away. My extended family had said and done things that not only slowed, but also in some cases, reversed the work we had done to restore our children to wholeness.

Those same family members were making demands on my time and energies. I was, after all, the “strong one”.

We’d been asked to leave the church we loved—the place where our gifts and talents had been nurtured, where our children had been dedicated to the Lord, and where we’d been faithful members for thirteen years. I was accused of saying things I didn’t say and thinking things I didn’t think. It’s a shame when jealousy, selfishness, and pride ruin relationships—especially when it involves God’s kids.

My best friend told me “God closed the window of opportunity” to defend me and minister to my accuser.

Through it all I was working two jobs and I never missed a day. I was also singing in the choir at our new church and was helping the drama ministry.

I felt as if I was a failure as a mother, a friend, and a wife.

It was almost exactly six years ago to the day that I penned these thoughts. Here are the words just as I wrote them on September 10, 2004—raw and unedited.

*****

This is a page full of thoughts and words that I need to send out into the air and hope they come back less scrambled.

I feel so trapped. I want out, but to what? To where? To whom? Who do I want to be? To what end? I have been made promises that will never be fulfilled; I have been judged too harshly and not harshly enough; I have lied and have been lied to and the lies continue with the hope that if I repeat them enough they will become real and true. They are not bad lies, I tell myself, but rather kind lies. I say, "I love you", "Yes", and "That sounds great", but I don't mean it. I don't mean it. I hate myself more everyday for the "kind" lies I tell, the horrible truths that I hide, and the sadness I work so hard to disguise.

I'm afraid of the desperation that is closing in on me. I'm deeply disturbed by the thoughts I entertain, the world I escape to, and the joy I'm missing. I believe there is joy out there, even in here, but it feels so unattainable. It is sometimes just barely beyond my reach, but unattainable still. I think, "If I could just go there, I'd like it there". But I don't know where "there" is, and worse, I'm not entirely sure that "there" even exists.

The words I’ve written here are so jumbled and my thoughts are confused. Will they return to me in the form of answers and with clarity?

*****

These words are the cries of a strong woman. Look around. Chances are you are working with someone, living with someone, or sitting in a church pew next to someone whose heart is breaking and whose spirit is weak. Reach out.

The Father's Gift

2010-09-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

What is a gift?

It is the rain and the sun washing over the face

of a prisoner freed from a windowless cell.

It is the clean blanket and new socks that bring warmth

to the body and soul of a homeless child.

It is the opening of a door and the thunder of laughter

signaling the homecoming of a prodigal son.

What is a gift?

It is the chatter and giggles that come dancing from the bedroom

of a happy little girl who once was lost.

It is the music that rattles the windows and shakes the walls

of the house where a family really lives.

What is a gift?

It is every “I’m sorry”, “I love you”, “I need you”,

“You’re special”, and “I forgive you”.

And the greatest gift?

It is grace—unmerited, undeserved, unwarranted,

unearned, and unjustifiable.

It is the very same grace that is given willingly, freely, eagerly,

voluntarily, and enthusiastically.

Thank you Father.

Elizabeth Stoeckel

November 28, 2005

Faith and the Thermometer

2010-09-01T12:05:00.000-07:00

More from the wild ride that is our life. Today I’ll share another high—a time when our needs were met in unexpected ways.

It was around 1998. A little more than a year earlier Tom had been laid off from the well-loved job he’d had for nearly a decade. He’d dreamed of being an independent software developer and the unexpected and abrupt loss of employment put us on the fast track to self-employment.

It was a scary and exciting time.

An independent software developer doesn’t have a lot of over-head costs. We needed a computer. Check. A phone. Check. Talented software developer. Check. The most expensive part of the operation was the printing costs for the installation disks and product manual. We took a leap of faith and hired a local printer to do the job.

Now we owed $1,500 and the money was due in full in 30 days. I’m not gonna lie…I was worried. That was a huge amount of money and we had absolutely no idea where the funds for groceries were coming from, let alone the monies needed to fund a business.

I decided this would be a great opportunity to teach my kids something about prayer and God’s faithfulness. So, I drew a five-foot tall thermometer on a six-foot banner and hung it on our kitchen wall. We were going to pray, wait for the money to come in, and keep track of it with my elementary-school-inspired artwork.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret—this was a gigantic risk for me. I was not sure God could do this thing. We had gotten used to living on very little money. We needed every single penny for gas, food, rent, and utilities. I couldn’t imagine where an “extra” $1,500 would come from.

We prayed. We prayed some more.

We decided that any unexpected money would go towards moving the mercury up the thermometer. One day a card came in the mail and inside was a check for $25. The enclosed note said, “Hi Tom and Liz. Thought you might be able to use this. Have a great day.”

Wow! I used a fat red marker and filled in the rounded bottom of the gauge on the wall. The money started coming in. I had a birthday—money. Tom’s mom had a bit of a windfall and she shared it with us—money. We sold a record number of software packages that month—more money. Amazing.

I can’t recall here and now just exactly where every penny came from, but I can tell you that on the 30^th day, the last few pennies trickled in and the entire thermometer was completely bright red!

I’d put the crude drawing on the kitchen wall to teach my kids about God’s faithfulness in times of need, but it was I who needed to learn that lesson!

As our life got harder and harder and spun farther out of control, God’s faithfulness wasn’t always easy to see. But then I’d remember the thermometer and I knew that even when my faith was small, His faithfulness was never failing.

He always shows up in the nick of time. He still does.

Confession

2010-08-31T17:16:00.000-07:00

I urge you to read this one to the end before you pass judgment on me.

Confession—I regularly break the tenth commandment. Whew! That felt good. Confession IS good for the soul.

I understand most of you know what the 10 Commandments are, but you may need a refresher on which “Thou Shalt Not” is covered in the last law. I confess that I (big breath) covet. I want what others have.

I envy swimming pools. Well, more specifically—people who have swimming pools. I am jealous of you lucky ones who can walk out your door at any time of the day or night and swim, float on, sit in, or otherwise enjoy any body of water. If you live on an island with a warm ocean outside your door, be assured I am extra jealous of you!

But wait, there’s more!

What causes me to be a big time commandment breaker is my envy of relationships. I know people who have unconditionally supportive, non-judgmental, through-thick-and-thin, walk-through-the-fire, defenders of truth kinda friends.

My “friends” gossiped, judged, accused, and abandoned me when I needed them the most.

When a mom gives birth to a premature sick child, her friends rally with meals, house cleaning duties, and prayer. When a child is stricken with a serious disease or dies a premature death, the parents are embraced and loved. No one would dare blame the mom and dad for their heartbreak.

Being the mother of a prodigal child is a lonely business.

Here are just some of the “encouraging” words I’ve received during my journey:

“You need to give up on your child. He made his choice when he was nine years old.”

“If you give custody of your daughter over to the state, you will no longer be financially responsible for the cost of her rehab.”

“You should never have gone to work in the theatre.”

“What’s happening to your kids is your fault.”

And my favorite…

“Liz Stoeckel let her kids take drugs.”

The mom of a prodigal child has many of the same needs and concerns as the mom of a sick or dying child. Our days are filled with appointments, phone calls, and unforeseen emergencies. We have financial worries and emotional stresses. Our marriages suffer—sometimes they end. It seems that every phone call and mail delivery brings bad news. Every morning we wake knowing this could be the day our child dies from the disease of drug addiction.

Are you still with me? I want you to hear this; while I freely confess to my friend envy, I must admit that I’m glad it worked out the way it did. I’ve had the amazing privilege of meeting some incredible moms who, like me, have been abandoned by people who believe that drug addiction is an infectious disease. If I hadn’t had so many empty holes in my life and in my heart, I wouldn’t have had room for these great women. I would’ve missed the blessing of walking with them through their prodigal crisis.

I had lunch with a friend last week and she acknowledged that having a drug-addicted child is “different” from having a sick child. People underestimate the needs and concerns of the family of an addict. We judge and condemn the family of an addict.

Do you know the parent of a prodigal? Give them a call, drop them a line, or pay them a visit. They are most likely feeling isolated and alone and it would mean so much to them if they knew you were out there.

Okay…now that I’ve worked through my friend envy, I just need to figure out how to stop coveting your swimming pools. Man, it’s always something!

Still a Mama bear!

2010-08-25T11:32:00.000-07:00

It’s Wild Ride Wednesday. Today I’ll talk about forgiveness, hope, and a mama bear’s response to someone her child should be able to trust.

I’ve written stories about my ex-husband. I experienced physical abuse at the hand of the man with whom I shared my bed, and I witnessed frightening spiritual attacks.

A couple of years ago Dallas received a strange message on his MySpace page. A nurse from Missouri wrote, “Are you Dallas Wayne Stoeckel of Clovis, CA?” He showed the message to me. Who could this be? How does she know his middle name?

As soon as I looked at the message and the pictures posted on the sender’s page, I knew. She was somehow connected to my ex-husband—Dallas’s biological father.

“What should I do?” Dallas was 23, but still asked for Mom’s advice on occasion. “Write back. Tell her you are in fact Dallas Wayne and ask if you know her.” He did.

The woman wrote back to say that she was a friend of Dallas’s dad and that after 23 years of absence, he wanted to have contact with him. If you are a regular reader of my blog you know that my ex walked out of our apartment in the summer of 1985 and we never saw him again. Dallas agreed to have contact.

They spoke briefly on the phone. Sadly, Dallas was told untruths.

Despite the lies, I prayed there would be healing. My ex-husband was addicted to cocaine for 20+ years. I watched my children wage their own battles with drug addiction, and I know first hand that an addict is...well...crazy! I hoped and prayed, however, that clarity would come with sobriety and that some kind of relationship would develop. My ex-husband claims to be a strong Christian and he asked me to forgive him for “betraying the vows” of our marriage. I readily forgave him. The truth is, I’d forgiven him long ago. I had to if I was going to love and raise our son in a healthy and happy home.

Over the past two years I’ve had some friendly contact with Dallas’s bio-dad, but Dallas hasn’t been interested in hearing more lies. Besides, Dallas lovingly pointed out, “I already have a dad”. Precious words from a son to my husband Tom—the man who loved and raised Dallas since he was a year old.

About the time my ex-husband popped back into our world I started getting letters from Fresno County informing me that they were collecting back child support monies from the long-missing man. The money wasn’t coming to me, however, but rather it was going to the county to pay them back for the period of time Dallas and I were on welfare following the separation. A couple of months ago Fresno County sent me a letter telling me the debt was paid in full. I asked them how that could be, since I personally never received any court-ordered reimbursement.

My ex-husband sent me the most horrible letter the other day, telling me I’m a liar and that I poisoned Dallas against him. He says he’s hired an attorney to get to the bottom of the child support “truth” since he “can’t count on” me for that truth. It’s been 25 years since he packed his bags and drove out of our lives. Why do his words sting?

While I would love to write a rambling paragraph defending myself, I know that isn't necessary. I hoped that after all these years, this man might actually have an opportunity to meet his son and get to know the awesomeness that is Dallas. Instead, he continues to blame and to deflect the focus from his own irresponsibility and bad behavior.

The mama bear in me wants to rise up and say, “You hurt my kid, and you must be taken down!” No matter how old my children are, the urge to defend and fight for them never diminishes. I really believe that God feels that same frustration when we hurt one another—His kids!

I also know that God allows consequences. It must be hard to sit back and watch His kids suffer because of our own bad choices, but He knows we’ll learn and grow because of it.

Dallas is a strong young man. His life is full. He has loving friends and a supportive family. He’s getting healthier every day. My ex is living with the consequences of his choices, but I can’t help feel a twinge of sadness. He’s missing out.

Dear Jaimee

2010-08-17T11:15:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, August 15, 2010, Jaimee Baker-Renfrow passed away.

Last week I wrote about Jaimee’s valiant battle to live. She was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis when she was about three months old and until fairly recently she’s been surprisingly healthy.

Two weeks before her death, Jaimee was admitted to the hospital with a severe lung infection. The decision was quickly made to move her to the top of the transplant list and the search for the right lungs began.

Anxious fear turned to cautious relief late Saturday when the news came that a pair of lungs was available. Jaimee was prepped for surgery and people from literally all over the world began praying for the doctors, the family, the donor’s family, and of course—for Jaimee. By 2am Sunday morning a young man’s large lungs were breathing life inside the chest of a very tiny, very sick young woman.

Early Sunday afternoon something went terribly wrong. Jaimee was gone. Her body was just so tired. The cause of death was unrelated to the new lungs or the transplant surgery itself.

Jaimee’s faith in God was unwavering and she trusted Him completely. Her last words before being anesthetized and put on life support were, “Tell them to live for Christ”.

In my last post about Jaimee I wrote, “Rise and be whole”. Today she walks the streets of heaven. She’d been dancing since she was three years old. Today she’s dancing with unabashed freedom and joy—breathing deeply and without pain.

Dear Jaimee, you did it! You are finally able to rise and be whole!

Rise and be Whole

2010-08-11T17:07:00.001-07:00

For today’s Wild Ride Wednesday I want to share the joy that has come by knowing a beautiful young woman named Jaimee Baker-Renfrow.

As I write this, Jaimee is lying in a hospital bed in southern California. A ventilator is helping her tired lungs do the job they did before the ravages of cystic fibrosis weakened them.

Jaimee is 23 years old. I remember the Sunday morning so many years ago when Tim and Pam Baker dedicated their baby daughter to the Lord. Tim’s dad is a pastor, and he lead the congregation in praying the blessing over Jaimee, and her family—which included older brother, Jason.

Less than a month later (it might even have been the next Sunday), our church's pastor asked the congregation to pray for baby Jaimee. The baby girl hadn’t been able to shake a chronic cough, and the doctors diagnosed the three-month-old with CF.

Modern medicine and the ever-growing body of science have kept Jaimee surprisingly healthy for the past two decades. On July 19, 2008 Miss Baker married Rony Renfrow. What a joyous day! I remember sitting at her bridal shower a few weeks before the wedding and marveling at the miracle sitting before me in the form of a blond-haired blue-eyed beauty. So many friends in one room—they’d shared the rollercoaster ride of Jaimee’s chronic illness with the entire Baker family and they came together to share the love.

It’s now been over a week since the doctors told Jaimee’s family that she would need new lungs within seven days because she was so ill. The doctors said she was too sick to last much longer without the new organs. The bad news is…no new lungs. The good news is…she’s still on the transplant waiting list. The spunky young woman barely stands five-feet-four-inches, but she is getting stronger. That’s huge!

A couple of weeks ago—just before being admitted to the hospital, Jaimee posted a note on her Facebook page called, “A prayer and praise written to my God in song lyrics”. She used lines from well-loved and well-worn hymns and worship tunes and she expressed her faith, strength, reliance on God, love for her family, and so much more. I believe she had a sense of what was coming, and she was girding herself for the journey.

My life has been a wild ride and because it’s what I know, it’s what I write. I do not, however, assume for one moment that I am better than, stronger than, braver than, or more spiritual than anyone else on the road of Life.

For the Baker/Renfrow family it’s been a wild ride. They’ve seen heartache, fear, joy, and miracles galore! Today they’re waitin’ on a brand new day and a brand new miracle.

Somewhere there’s a family who is facing the agonizing decision to let their loved one go so that his or her healthy lungs can breath life into a sick young woman in southern California. Their wild ride might just be beginning and I pray they will be surrounded by love and support as they make the choice to donate the organs of someone they love so much.

I love you Pam. I love you Miss Jaimee. Rise and be whole. Rise and be whole!

You've Got To Promise Me!

2010-08-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

Wild Ride Wednesday.

In September of 2004, when Giana was sixteen, she ran away from home. She disappeared on a Friday night and we knew she was in the company of two people—a 17 year-old girl I’ll call Tracy, and a 30 year-old man with a wife and kids.

Tracy was a freshman at Fresno Pacific University and she lived on campus. The college campus is located in the south end of Fresno, California where crime is high and the surrounding neighborhoods are in disrepair.

The first few days after the girls went missing were so confusing. Tom and I were in regular contact with Tracy’s parents. We’d hear something and we’d pick up the phone and fill them in, and they would do the same.

Sadly, as had been the case with a handful of other parents, Tracy’s mom and dad blamed us for their daughter’s drug use.

On Monday—three days after our daughter disappeared—Tracy’s parents looked at the bank records and discovered Tracy had spent a good chunk of money at the Target on the corner of Shields and Cedar. Their daughter had also withdrawn money from a mini-mart ATM near Olive and Highway 99. Based on these revelations we had ideas on which area of town to search.

Every little bit of information about our missing kids was like gold to us and to Tracy’s parents. We were frightened moms and dads who just wanted to find our baby girls.

At around four o’clock Wednesday morning my phone rang. Tom and I were barely sleeping, but I’m pretty sure the ringing phone woke me that morning.

“Liz! They found her! They found Tracy!”

The jubilant voice on the other end of the line belonged to Tracy’s mom.

“Where? How is she?”

“She’s fine. She’s in Stockton. The police found her and my husband is on his way to get her now.”

“That’s wonderful!” I meant that. We’d been praying for Tracy nearly as much as we’d prayed for Giana. We hated the idea of any other parent suffering the pain of not knowing where their child was.

I was almost afraid to ask the next question. “Is Giana with her?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll call you when we know more.”

It would be 24 hours before I heard from Tracy’s mom again. As soon as her dad got her into Fresno, Mom joined them and they drove straight on to Utah where they left Tracy at the Turnabout Ranch. We had a mutual friend whose daughter had successfully completed the rehabilitation program at Turnabout, and it was our plan to take Giana there as well—as soon as we found her.

I asked Tracy’s mom if she had any new information about Giana. No, she would tell me, she didn’t. Tracy had slept all the way to Utah and they weren’t in the mood to quiz her.

Not in the mood to quiz her!? For the first time since the girls had gone missing, I got very angry. I had no idea how to react. I held the phone…silent. Tracy’s mom continued.

“You must promise me you will NOT take Giana to Turnabout Ranch when you find her.”

I weighed my words carefully. “We’ve been searching for the right place for her. Turnabout is exactly the program we’ve been looking for.”

She was adamant. “Promise me, Liz. Promise me! I do not want Giana near Tracy. They won’t get well if they’re together.”

I promised.

I hung up the phone. Tom went ballistic. He wanted to know why his daughter wouldn’t get the same quality program that Turnabout offered. We felt so helpless. We didn’t know where our daughter was, and now someone was telling us where we could and could not take her for healing when we found her!

We never talked to Tracy’s parents again. They always seemed to blame us for their daughter’s missteps. Giana went to a much better rehab, and it turned out that Aspen Ranch—a rehabilitation facility about 80 miles from Turnabout—was EXACTLY where she was supposed to be.

Swimming in Dark Waters

2010-08-03T00:16:00.000-07:00

We spent a lot of time swimming in and around Kaanapali today. We were just up the road from Black Rock—a place I hope to return to tomorrow.

The other day I wrote about my need to deal with things as they come. I’m not comfortable with the “go with the flow” or “don’t worry, be happy” kind of mentality. It’s not that I’m inflexible—far from it. But when trouble comes, I’d much rather deal with the situation at hand, and then move on with life.

The surf at Kaanapali Bay was very high and unstable today. I’m sure there’s been many times when it was more turbulent, but the waves were significant. In fact, at one point the warning alarm sounded, and the swimmers moved closer to shore.

A particularly high wave marched towards me. I dug my heals into the sand and attempted to hold my ground. I was no match for nature’s fury, and the wall of water pushed me down and twirled me around—leaving me confused.

I quickly learned that when a mountain of water was bearing down on me, the best way to deal with it was simply to put my head down and dive directly into the wall of water. In seconds it would pass over me and the trouble would be over.

That’s how I face life—I lean forward, round my shoulders, put one foot in front of the other, and like a defensive tackle on the football field, I barrel into the problem.

I know how to change the things I can change and accept the things I cannot. I learned in the past few days that if I find myself caught in a dangerous rip-tide—an undercurrent that drags people quickly out to sea—the best thing to do is to swim out of it. Don’t ride the current and don’t fight it. Simply swim out of it.

I could stick around and say, “wow, this is cool—the water's all swirly and stuff”, but I’d drown. There are people and situations that would love to suck me under, but I’ve learned to simply swim away. It’s the safe and healthy choice.

You’ll notice in the photo I’ve posted of Kaanapali and Black Rock Cove that the blue-green water is particularly inviting. The dark water is where the rocks are, and it’s not always pleasant to swim in and around the rocks. However, the dark waters are teeming with life. It is there—among the rocks—where the plants grow and the fish live and play. I love putting on my snorkel mask and watching the fish dance from rock to coral formation and back again.

So it is in my life. The dark waters have sometimes been scary and are often filled with dangerous boulders and prickly situations, but the growth that has come from our time in those waters is wonderful and amazing.

So, I’ll keep diving headfirst into life’s challenges, I’ll swim out of the relationships that have become dangerous riptides, and I’ll look for life in the dark waters. Yep…that’s how I roll.

Bucket List

2010-08-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

A bucket list is a catalog of all the things we want to do before we die—before we kick the bucket.

I’m not even 50 years old yet. In fact, 50 is a long ways off! It’s never too soon to assemble that bucket list because fulfilling some of my long-held dreams may take a while. I figure it’s time to get on it.

Two days ago I was able to check something off my bucket list. The event, in fact, inspired me to go ahead and start building my wish list. Tom and I snorkeled off the coast of Maui, Hawaii.

We boarded a boat and sat up top in the fresh air. Our first stop was Molokini Crater.

The waters surrounding the Crater are warm, blue, and crystal clear. The clusters of coral and the schools of fish seemed close enough to touch. It was gorgeous.

After spending a glorious hour in the water, we climbed back onto the boat and headed to the small island of Lanai. The beautiful privately-owned island is located West of Maui and is home to around 2,000 people.

We docked in a magnificent cove, surrounded by majestic cliffs. We once again donned our snorkel gear and jumped into the water. We spent another hour or so in the warm enchanting waters.

I am a water girl for sure. I could happily swim every single day of the year. Oh to live in a house with a swimming pool, or better yet—an ocean outside my front door!

I choose to deal!

2010-07-29T12:05:00.000-07:00

I wrote a couple of weeks ago about my fear of planning a vacation. Every time—EVERY TIME we plan a vacation, something happens to suck the joy and money out of the plans.

I know life isn’t fair, but…. Well, you know the rest.

As I write this, I have a beautiful view of the mountains of Maui through my hotel condo window. The challenges we’ve faced as we charted out this respite have not been the most difficult, but there have been so many.

We dealt with sick cars, sick dog, and a sick refrigerator. Most of the money we saved specifically for this trip was drained from our account before we even left. Then, the night before we caught our 5:30am flight, the kitchen sink backed up. Nothing cleared the blockage.

Tom is very handy, but he was not able to fix the sink in the time we had before leaving town. So, we cleaned up the mess, turned off some of the water, put buckets and bowls under the sink to catch the dripping water, and left town. Even with all those precautions, the kitchen is STILL wet.

The kids are home and are dealing with things. I appreciate them so much! They are cycling through towels—drying the wet ones and laying out dry linens to absorb the water. We canNOT find the source of the leak!

I am amazed at the way my Facebook followers and friends suggest I deal with this crisis.

“Just get on the plane and let your house float away.”

“Forget about it!”

“Turn off the water in the house, and GO!”

I’m a deal-with-it kind of girl. I think that most of the friends and family who gave me the “forget about it” advice, are also people who deal with stuff. They are smart, talented, energetic, and strong. They don’t get that way by ignoring life’s challenges…they DEAL.

If I ignore the leaky sink, the small problem will turn into a major financial and physical loss. The floor and cabinets will rot and be ruined. Besides, can I really rest and relax on my vacation knowing my kitchen is being destroyed, one drip at a time?

I deal with things! When my kids were on drugs, we dealt with it. We never buried our head in the sands and ignored the signs and the loss. If we’d taken the “don’t worry, be happy” kind of road in our life, our family would be completely broken and our children might be dead.

I do pray, “God, give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

There are loved ones in my life who would love for me to accept some things as unchangeable. That means that there is no hope for better. That is something I cannot accept, but that’s just me.

Life is filled with challenges. Life is filled with joys and amazing celebrations. I won’t let the trouble rob me of my joy. Rather, I will DEAL with the roadblock so I can get back on the road!

A Little Hollywood in Visalia, CA

2010-07-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

On this Wild Ride Wednesday—a little taste of Hollywood.

In November 1992 my sister, Tina and I both got to be extras in the Touchstone movie, “The Son In-Law” starring comedian Pauly Shore. I’ve worked as an extra in several movies and television shows. It’s a fairly easy gig to get, actually.

Anyway, the silly movie was about a young girl who leaves the farm and goes away to California for college. Some of the scenes were shot at a ranch in Visalia, California—just a few miles from my home.

Tina and I showed up to the movie set at around 7:am. The set was a huge old barn that had been decorated for an old fashioned barn dance. There were about 75 extras all dressed in varying degrees of cowboy chic.

We had a blast during the two-day shoot. We had several lovely conversations with some of the stars. Tiffani Amber Thiessen and Dan Gauthier were smart, personable, and approachable. We especially loved hanging out with the musicians on the set. We had mutual friends and shared many laughs. You can even see Tina and me in the movie, and Tina got a close-up.

At the end of two long 14-hour days the shoot was finally wrapped. The actual scene in the movie is only about seven minutes long. Everyone was tired, but Tina and I were invited to hang out with some of the cast members at their hotel.

We sat down at the bar and chatted briefly with Pauly Shore and then with another actor (who will remain nameless). We’d been hanging out with him for two days and felt very comfortable. He offered me a drink. In fact, he offered me his drink.

After just a few sips of the white wine my head was spinning. How could so little wine have this effect on me? He invited Tina and I up to his room to get an autographed photo. Listen, this guy had been married for 25 years. We had no reason to suspect that he had nefarious plans for us.

We got in the elevator and the actor touched me in an inappropriate manner—with Tina standing right next to me! I grabbed his hand and said, “If you ever do that again, I will break your fingers!”

We got the autographed photo without ever going into the guy’s room. It took several hours for the effects of whatever I drank to wear off.

The next day Tina got a call from the handsy actor who invited her to spend the day in Sequoia with him. She said “no!”

I still love to watch “The Son-In-Law” whenever it shows up on TV. It’s fun to remember those two good days on the set of a silly movie with a group of really talented people—with the one exception of course.

Live Theatre (why is the church saying "no"?)

2010-07-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

I love live theatre!

Live theatre moves the audience in a way that no other entertainment medium can. The viewer sits in the theatre seat expecting to be entertained, and soon finds that he is more than a spectator. He’s a part of the action—he’s a guest of the characters on the stage and he’s been invited into their private world.

I love live theatre!

Last night I had the honor of watching several fine actors perform brilliantly in the wonderful musical comedy, “The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee”. Not only are they wonderful actors, but I also get to count most of the cast as my friend. I’m so blessed.

I work for a theatre company that has been putting out quality work for 35 years. New York and it’s Broadway and off Broadway fare is as exciting and vital as it’s ever been. Touring companies bring stage shows to the everyday man, and the everyday man is still coming out in droves to see and be entertained.

I don’t think theatre will die anytime soon.

Several years ago I performed the lead in a fun piece that was written, directed, and produced by a local guy. The show was rated PG-13 and I was totally put on blast for doing the show by a couple of “friends” of mine. The funny thing was that this couple was in the film industry and they made a few horror films that were rated at least a PG-13 if not R.

When they were oh so critical of me doing the show, I pointed out that I would never criticize the movies they made and would never judge their heart or character as they had done to me. “The stage”, the man said, “is different. Everything is so in your face—so right there.”

And that is what makes theatre amazing!

For years I had the great gift of writing, directing, and performing in churches. But those days seem to be gone—at least here in my hometown. Why? Jesus told parables and painted word pictures that drove His point home and into the hearts of the people.

Live drama has the power to bring spiritual truth to life. Well-performed skits or vignettes can show how Biblical truth can be applied to our daily routine.

But…the fast-paced video has taken the place of sketches on church platforms. The really good writers are applying their crafts someplace where they will be appreciated, and they’re not donating their time to church any more. Church drama departments are full of flakey misfit toys and the pastors have become weary of working with them.

Those are my observations, at least.

I have a passion for God and a passion for the theatre and I dream of combining the two. And so, I’ll keep looking for my platform.

In the meantime…I’ll continue to perform when I can. When I can’t—I’ll watch my brilliant friends, as they do it better than anyone I know!

The Miracle Wedding

2010-07-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

Today I’ll take a bit of a detour from my usual Wild Ride Wednesday fare. On my journey I’ve had the amazing privilege of having a front row seat to many miracles. Today’s post is about one such miracle.

I’ll never forget the very first time I saw Brooke. It was Thanksgiving Day, 2004.

In early October Tom and I made the painful 750 mile drive to Loa, Utah where we left our daughter at Aspen Ranch to get the rehabilitation and counseling she so desperately needed. Six weeks later Tom and I, along with our son Drew, went to Loa to see Giana and celebrate Thanksgiving with her. You can bet we had much to be thankful for.

Our daughter was so full of joy that day and it was abundantly clear to all of us that she was on the road to recovery. We sat at large picnic tables in the ranch-style dining hall—a traditional Thanksgiving spread lay before us. Just as we buttered our rolls and took our first bite of turkey and gravy, a young girl was escorted into the large room. She sat down at a table a few feet from us.

Brooke was 15 or 16, thin and slight, and had reddish hair that was cut short in the back and long in the front. She had big beautiful eyes. Brooke’s parents made the tough decision to leave her at this place in order to save her life. There were a hundred or so other young people whose parents had made the same agonizing choice.

Six weeks earlier we were those parents and that frightened young girl was our child. I caught Brooke’s eye from across the dining hall and smiled at her.

Every time we visited Giana over the next many months, we got to watch not only her progress, but also the growth of the other girls in her group. We got to know the other families and we grew to love them. We needed one another’s support and encouragement and having those strong moms and dads in our life made the journey so much easier.

Brooke’s parents were amazingly strong, supportive, and loving.

After Gia left the ranch she kept in touch with a few of the kids she met there. She has stayed particularly close to Brooke and her boyfriend Ryan. Gia well remembers the moment Broke and Ryan first saw one another at rehab. It was—Gia says—love at first sight.

It’s been 5 ½ years since that Thanksgiving Day at The Aspen Ranch in Loa, Utah. This past weekend Gia and I flew to Boise, Idaho where we had the profound joy of watching Brooke and Ryan get married.

The wedding guests gathered at a beautiful Episcopal Cathedral in downtown Boise where Ryan’s grandfather officiated the traditional ceremony. He shared Brooke and Ryan’s story with the guests. He extolled the amazing love of two sets of parents who sacrificed so much to save the lives of their lost kids.

He praised Brooke and Ryan for their strength and faithfulness to each other and to their recovery.

I cried tears of joy through the whole ceremony.

After the wedding we gathered at a nearby hotel for the reception. There I greeted Brooke’s parents. The moment we embraced we shared a thousand unspoken words, and precious memories.

“Thank you so much for sharing this day with us!”

“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world!”

Another day…another miracle.

I am so honored to have had a front row seat to so many miraculous moments. I get to see my own kids every day and I never take their lives for granted. I will never forget where we’ve come from and I am so grateful for where we are. I have hope for more miracles, greater joys, challenging periods of new growth, and exciting surprises.

Thank You God, for the incredible gift of watching my kids, and so many others just like them, grow and love.

Gia, Brooke, and Ryan...miracles.

You Have Another Sister!

2010-07-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

I love roller coasters. I check and recheck the safety strap and shoulder harness as the car gets pulled higher and higher, moving slowly up to the top of the coaster mountain. Every once in a while the wheels on the under carriage catch and the car lurches slightly. Then you realize…what goes up, must come down! Aaaaahhhhh!

I’ve written about some of the deep dives and scary turns, but on this Wild Ride Wednesday I’ll tell about a surprising high in my life—a mountaintop high.

My phone rang. It was my dad’s voice on the other end of the line. I didn’t hear from my father very often – maybe a couple times a month – and a phone call usually meant he had something on his mind.

“I’d like you to come over to see me. Can you stop by the store some time tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

My dad was a checker at the Safeway grocery store. He’d had that job for as far back as I could remember.

I walked up to the front door of the large market and the automatic double doors slid open. Dad was working the middle lane and was ringing up a costumer’s order when I walked up to the end of the counter. Dad gave the woman her change and told her to have a great day. He looked at me.

“You have another sister.”

My parents had been divorced for about 22 years, and Dad had had a girlfriend or two in the ensuing years. The fact that he might have fathered another child didn’t surprise me. I was, however, surprised by her age.

“How old is she?” I felt a wave of curiosity wash over me like a warm shower.

“She’s nine.”

Nine years old? Was he kidding? My oldest son was nine!

Later that afternoon I went to Dad’s house. He went to his closet and brought out a shoebox filled with neatly folded letters, holiday cards, and lots of photographs. He took out a picture and put it in my hand. The smiling little girl was my sister!

I immediately fell in the love with the blue-eyed girl with long dark blond curls. My mommy heart and my sister love came spilling out. She looked just like my kids and my siblings. She could have walked in the door at that moment and I would have known she was family. Her mom and dad had done a fabulous job of keeping my dad in the loop as his little girl grew over the years.

Megan always knew she was adopted and now that she was 9 ½ years old she was asking questions about her biological family. The adoption agency had contacted Dad and asked him for more info. He asked me to write a letter.

I wrote to Megan’s mom and told her all about the family. From my dad’s branch of the family tree, Megan had three older sisters and an older brother. She also had nieces and nephews that were just about the same age as her. It turned out, in fact, that Megan and my son Dallas had been due the same week in late 1984. Megan was born a few weeks earlier than she was expected, and therefore she was three weeks older than her oldest nephew.

Before long I was getting to know my sister’s adoptive mom over a lovely lunch at the Peppermill Restaurant in Fresno. On a beautiful summer day in 1994 Tina, Sheila, Robby, and I met our baby sister. We’ve had the privilege of being a part of her life ever since.

Each morning we wake up thinking it’s just going to be another day, but we never know what surprise might be around the next sharp turn of the wild ride that is life.

Do you have a mom?

2010-07-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

I love reading the writings of Armen Bacon. She is an occasional contributor to the Opinion/Valley Voices section of the Fresno Bee. I identify with her. Like me, she’s a wife, mom, and educator.

I identify with Armen’s struggles and challenges. Six years ago my son was a drug addict who was living on the streets after having been kicked out of the house by my husband and me. For months and months we lived in fear of getting the dreaded phone call telling us our son had lost his battle with drugs.

Six years ago Armen Bacon and her husband were on the receiving end of just such a phone call. Their son, Alex was dead.

Since that sad day, she has written eloquently and from the heart about her journey. Whether she’s writing about her mom, her children, her home, or our shared hometown, she never fails to stir my heart.

Yesterday she wrote about a raggedy young man she came upon while in the drive through of a fast-food restaurant. He asked her for a dollar so he could get some Top Ramen.

“Do you have a mom?” Armen asked the lost boy. “I bet your mom misses you.”

Oh, I can so relate to that conversation.

I know that many of you see these young panhandlers nearly every day. Their clothes fit loosely on their skinny frail bodies. They have dirty fingernails and unwashed hair. Some of you want to turn away, while others of you challenge the street urchins to “get a job!” Sometimes you slip them a few silver coins, a crumpled bill, or a cheeseburger.

I am so grateful to the people who might have helped my kids when they were lost. I know that some of the money was spent on drugs, but I also know that your kindness touched my child’s heart—even if just for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, you said a sweet word or gave a gentle smile to my son or daughter. I will never know you, but I am thankful that you took the time to show concern to my child.

That dirty young man you see on the street corner probably has a mom whose heart is heavy with worry and fear. She hopes to never get “the call”. Maybe your kind word or deed is the very nudge that boy needs to send him back home, or to a safe place.

Please Don't

2010-07-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

For this Wild Ride Wednesday, I'm going back to when I was 18 years old and a senior in high school. It was the night I learned to say "no"--the night I learned I had the power over my circumstances.

I went to a Christian high school. We had “banquets” instead of dances and proms. Good Christian teens don’t dance!

I invited a tall dark handsome young man to be my date to my Senior Banquet. We’d known one another for about a year, he was a good friend, and we really enjoyed hanging out together. There were definitely sparks and chemistry between us.

I wore a lovely “wrap” style dress to the banquet. The fabric was white and covered with teal and green flowers. The dress was soft and it swished slightly from side to side when I walked. I loved that dress. My date wore a gray suit, complete with a matching vest, a white shirt, and a teal tie. I’m tellin’ you…we were adorable.

I don’t remember what we ate that night or what the entertainment was, although I suspect we watched a Disney movie. Maybe we watched, “That #@*% Cat”. That’s right—I went to a school that bleeped out the word “darn”. I do remember we had a really fun evening and I relished the fact that I had the cutest guy in the room on my arm.

Banquets end fairly early and when it was over we had an hour or so to kill before my curfew. I lived with my family across the street from an elementary school way out in the country, so instead of pulling into our driveway, we pulled into the dark and empty parking lot of the school. We held hands and began walking and talking. We laughed as we strolled the halls, and then under the trees.

We found a soft dry spot on the lawn and he kissed me. It was terribly romantic.

In the blink of eye something changed and things went from sweet and romantic to frenetic and out of control. I remember being surprised and confused. I felt his hand on my chest and I heard the sound of ripping fabric. My dress was open.

“Please.”

My own voice sounded far away and small.

“Please don’t do this.”

It all had escalated so quickly, and now I was seeing the light come back into my date’s eyes. He stopped.

I don’t remember speaking as he walked me across the street to my front door and then he walked to his car. He drove away.

I know that it would not have been okay for him to hurt me that night, but I learned a valuable lesson. I had the power to keep myself safe. I learned to never, ever allow myself to be in a place I didn’t want to be. Nothing would ever happen that I didn’t want to happen. I had the power.

Three weeks went by and the guy I had felt so close to never called. It hurt. Then one day I was driving down the road and I saw him. He told me to pull over. I did. I got out of my car and walked towards him and he walked to me. He put his arms around me and whispered, “You should hate me. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

I believe he learned a valuable lesson about self-control as well. I know he grew to be a wonderful man.

Fear of Vacation Planning!

2010-07-06T12:34:00.000-07:00

Confession…I have a fear of vacation planning!

Fear can be a crippling thing. Some pastors will tell you that ALL fear is sin, because fear indicates a lack of faith. Jesus rebuked his disciples for their lack of faith.

When my kids were lost in their drug addiction, I woke up every morning afraid that this would be the day I’d get “the call”—word that my child had been found dead or dying. Was my fear a manifestation of my lack of faith, or was it simply the natural instinct to get out of a dangerous situation?

If a ravenous lion was chasing me, I assure you I would not stand before it and say, “I have faith you will not eat me”. I guarantee you that my fear would light a fire under my feet and I would RUN!

For me, the fear of the drugs and what they were doing to my family was very real and it wasn’t my lack of faith that spurred me to fight. It was the very real dangers that got me out of bed every day and drove me into battle.

I’ve developed some rather irrational fears over the years, but in my defense, they are a result of conditioning. A ringing phone causes my heart to skip a beat, my blood pressure to rise, and fear kicks in. I really hate making phone calls. The counselors have told me it was all those years of getting bad news calls about my kids and my fear of rejection (which I’ve had a lot of) that has caused those fears.

The fear that has raised its ugly head most recently, is my fear of planning a vacation. Sounds like an irrational fear, doesn’t it?

This is the deal, every single time Tom and I have planned a vacation, stuff happens and a dark cloud hovers over what should be a time of peace and relaxation.

Once we planned an after-Christmas trip to San Francisco—just the two of us. We were kinda poor back then and we saved money for a few months. A couple of days before Christmas we hid all our kids’ presents in the trunk of our car—away from prying eyes. On Christmas Eve morning we woke to find our car had been stolen! The gifts! They were gone.

We took the money we’d saved for our trip, and went out and bought all new presents for our kids.

One Summer Tom and I planned to take our first cruise. I LOVE the water and I was so looking forward to cruising. A few days before our scheduled departure our daughter ran away from home and we cancelled our trip (of course). We would never have left knowing our daughter was in trouble.

A few vacations have been cancelled or shortened because of car problems, unexpected bills, or kid issues. Last year just before we left for a much-anticipated trip to New Orleans, I was fired from my part-time job.

I’m afraid to map out a vacation. I guess I feel that vacation planning will invite trouble. Superstitious? Maybe a bit, but every respite we’ve ever planned has been thwarted in one way or another.

So, here we are—vacation 2010. Tom is two days into a six-week sabbatical. We’ve been saving money and we are really looking forward to a trip to someplace we’ve never been. But…

The refrigerator died, two cars are broken, and kids are in need. The contract for my second part-time job ended last month, so money is VERY tight.

I’m gonna be real transparent here—this sucks. I know life is not fair, but this is so not fair. Don’t we deserve a vacation?

When Gia went to rehab, we had a few friends whose kids were also in trouble. Every one of them found people who helped them pay the massive cost of saving their child’s life. Some of them got help from the school district, some were helped by the state, and others received donations from their church. We asked for help, but we were denied, and we are still paying that large debt.

Now, don’t misquote here, I would give up EVERYTHING to save my sons or daughter. There is NO price too high to save the life of a child! My Lord gave up his very life for me, and I would happily die if it meant my child would live.

It just makes me sad that despite our faithful giving of tithe, offering, talent, and time, the church wouldn’t help us in our hour of need. My human heart feels sad about that.

I have friends who, like us, have a son who was in prison. Now that he’s been release, people are lining up to give him a job. But my son—he can’t get a break. Here’s a bit more authenticity comin’ at ya…why them and not us?

Life can be overwhelming and going it alone is hard. Our challenges have caused us to lose a few friends, and others have distanced themselves from us as if we are contagious.

The upside, of course, is that my family is closer than ever as we really do count on one another. We know that when all else fails, we are there for each other.

We’ll be okay. The fear will subside. We’ll keep going just like we always have. We are survivors.

Thank You For Never Giving Up

2010-07-03T12:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve received a plethora of gifts from my kids over the past 25+ years. They’ve given me pillows, coupon books good for clean rooms and made beds, jewelry, trinkets, stuff for my garden, CD’s, and books. My daughter has painted a couple of pictures just for me.

I have valued and appreciated every Mother’s Day, Christmas, Birthday, Anniversary, and Just Because gift my kids have ever given me.

I think, however, that all moms agree that the most precious gifts one can receive from our kids cannot be tied with a bow. They are words—words from the heart.

My daughter, Gia stopped by yesterday to do her laundry. What will we do when she can afford to get her own washing machine? We’ll never see her!

But I digress.

Gia gave me a great gift yesterday—she told me how grateful she was that I never gave up on her. She has told me this before, but I need to hear it again every once in a while, and I think she needs to say it. She usually finds a new context in which to frame her appreciation.

“Dallas and I have discussed this so many times. We both know that if you’d given up on us, we’d be dead.”

I know how exhausting it is to raise strong-willed kids. I rarely had days all to myself when we were raising Dallas, Drew, and Giana, but I sure appreciated every millisecond of “me” time. And when the strong-willed child becomes a drug addict, a mom’s road becomes more harrowing and unpredictable. She never stops worrying and praying, and somewhere along the way—she forgets to sleep!

I know moms in that situation and I always encourage them to never give up. I KNOW it’s easier said than done—especially when the road is longer and more treacherous than they ever imagined it would be!

Giana told me, “If you had ever said, ‘I give up on you’, I would’ve shouted ‘FREEDOM’, and I would’ve been gone!” She went on, “and today, I’d be dead”.

Wow! Those words make all the sleepless nights, tear-stained pillows, desperate pleas to God, financial investment, and personal loss SO worth it!

I’ll never forget sitting in front of the Junior High pastor at our church when Dallas was 14. He was telling me that Dallas was “too hard” and he told me my son wasn’t welcomed back at church. “I’ve given him chance after chance”, the pastor said, “and all he does is bite me in the butt.”

I responded, “Is that what Jesus says?”

“Don’t throw Jesus in my face!”

That pastor was one of many tired teachers who gave up on my son. Tom and I, however, never surrendered, as we believed the battle would be won.

I know how hard the journey is for the mom (and dad) of a prodigal. I know how tough it is to raise a strong-willed child, or a special needs child. But the journey IS worth it!

Don’t give up. Never give up!

Dallas, Drew, Giana…I LOVE YOU GUYS!!

A Cracked Christmas Carol

2010-06-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

On this Wild Ride Wednesday I’m going back to my first Christmas as a new mom.

I went into labor around noon on December 7, 1984 with my first child. Like all new moms I’d had so many questions and concerns about the whole birthing process. Would I recognize labor when it began? Would I get to the hospital in time? Would it hurt?

The answer to all those questions was a resounding YES!

I’d been married to my baby’s father for two years and there were outrageous ups and downs. My husband (Terry) was addicted to cocaine. The impending birth of our child, however, seemed to balance my husband and I hoped the ugly days were behind us. That (as my blog readers already know) was not the case!

I was concerned about leaving my little apartment when it was time to have the baby. Not only did we live in an ugly area of town, but I also didn’t trust my husband. I wanted to protect our simple home and assets from the unseemly characters that were my husband’s friends.

One of the precautions I took before going to the hospital was to hide the unused checks. I found the small box with four books of checks and their duplicates and buried it deep in the kitchen cabinet inside a rarely used pot. I put the firmly fitting lid squarely on the small cauldron. Surely Terry would never think to look there.

Dallas was born at 4:20AM on December 8, 1984. My labor hadn’t been terribly long, but Dallas entered the world a bright shade of blue and in distress. One nurse swooped him out of the room and Terry went with them. A nurse stayed with me, cleaned me up, and calmly assured me my child would be fine. She was right.

I was not prepared for the flood of love that washed over me. I held my son in my arms and promised him I’d protect him and keep him safe.

Terry left the hospital around 6AM to go home and get some sleep. Dallas and I were taken to the large, noisy maternity ward at Fresno Community Hospital. I spent my first night as a new mom with 20-30 other women, their babies, and their mostly dysfunctional families. I didn’t see Terry again for about 12 hours.

On Christmas day Dallas was 17 days old. Terry and I paraded our beautiful son around to my grandpa, aunt, uncle, and cousins. That first Christmas was magical.

On December 26 I went to the mailbox where I found two notes from my credit union. I saw the words stamped in large red letters—INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

The hidden checks! I went to the kitchen cabinet and dug through the pots and pans for the box I had meticulously hidden. An entire book was missing!

Over the next several days I received more notices from my credit union. How had this happened? When did Terry write the bad checks and for how much? Where was the money? The clouds of confusion slowly began to part and the light of truth gradually broke in.

When Terry left the hospital a scant two hours after Dallas’s birth, he went home and rummaged around our tiny apartment until he found the hidden checks. Those were the days when we could walk into a grocery store or liquor store and simply write a check to “Cash” and get real money in exchange for the signed note.

Terry had gone to a couple of liquor stores and every Safeway in town where he’d cashed checks in the amounts of $25-$50. The bad notes totaled more than $850. While I was in the hospital recovering from giving birth to our first child, he was hosting a cocaine party. My sister’s boyfriend was the only guest at that party, and the two guys smoked (freebased) a lot of crack.

I had been the sole breadwinner, and only earned $900 a month. I would bring home considerably less money while on maternity leave. Terry called his mom and dad (who were divorced) and told each of them that we had a lot of baby needs—which was true, of course. Each parent sent a couple hundred bucks, but not one dime went to the baby. It all went to cover the hot checks, but it wasn’t enough.

When Dallas was around four months old, a certified letter arrived at our home. Terry was being charged with fraud and there was a warrant out for his arrest. I called his grandmother—a wonderful woman with whom I had a very close relationship. She shuddered at the thought of her precious grandson going to jail, and she sent the money needed to pay back the bank.

When Tom and I bought our home 12 years ago, a search of our financial records revealed that I STILL owed money to the credit union from that one incident all those years before. I think the outstanding balance was about $42 and I had to pay it before we got our loan. We actually paid a couple of my ex-husband’s debts, as the state of California held me responsible since he was MIA.

Ahhhh…life.

What's The Take-Away?

2010-06-28T08:44:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago a friend commented that my blog has gotten a bit more positive. I think she actually said something like, “your blog used to be more negative”. She likes seeing a “take away” from each post—a “what I’ve learned from this mess” statement.

The truth is, a ton of stuff has happened, and is still happening, that I don’t understand and for which I have not yet discovered the purpose.

A few months ago I wrote a post called, “Forgive Me If I Have A Bad Day” in which I wrote a list of some of the traumatic happenings of my life. A few people slammed me over that one! A family member asked my kids to check on me as she thought I might be considering suicide.

A couple of days later I wrote a follow-up post called, “More Good Days Than Bad”. It was the flipside of all the bad stuff—looking at the blessings that come through the tragedy. The aforementioned family member said, “I like this post much better”. Some people are afraid of the dark.

The title of my blog is “Liz by Design…Our Journey”.

Life is a journey. That is simplifying things a bit and is exactly the kind of bumper sticker theology that I like to avoid. However, it is truth.

When I first started blogging 5 years ago I did it for me. I wanted to keep a record of where we’d come from, where we were, and where life would take us. I could see that some of the small details were already slipping away and I recognized that even the minutia was going to be important on this journey.

Of late, I’ve started thinking in terms of gaining more readers and I recognize that you want to be uplifted, challenged, or filled with fuzzy goodness. I also recognize that you are very, very smart and I don’t need to placate you or soft-pedal the truth.

I’d like to get our story published one day, as I want you to believe in miracles as much as I do. I want you to know that I know that God is still in the business of marvelous wonders.

Here’s the deal—I really don’t understand why some of the bad stuff has had to happen. I don’t yet see the purpose and the deeper meaning. That’s especially true when it comes to some of the ugliness that’s come at the hands of so-called “friends”. I recognize that sometimes stuff happens for which there might not be a take-away—it just is.

I also like the idea of shooting questions out into the blogosphere in hopes that it boomerangs back to me in the form of answers. I want to stir conversation, share experiences, and find others like me—people who feel alone.

The single most difficult part of our journey so far is the isolation.

I may not always have the answers and my blog might not be teeming with fuzzy Christian platitudes. I try to write in English…not Christianese.

I’m a mom who loves her prodigal children (oops…there I go speaking Christianese) more than life itself and a woman who wakes up every morning and prays for one day’s worth of strength.

Our journey…one day at a time.

The Roach Motel

2010-06-23T06:30:00.000-07:00

It's Wild Ride Wednesday. Our journey has taken me places I could never have imagined I would go. Here's the story of my first visit to one such place.

I turned left on G Street. Fresno residents would agree—this was a VERY undesirable part of town.

I'd been down there before. I’d had the opportunity to minister to homeless men at the Fresno Rescue Mission located on G just south of Ventura.

It wasn't the Mission, however, that drew me to the dark, filthy, drug infested neighborhood down on G Street—it was my son.

My oldest child was home from prison and was on parole. Well, he wasn’t actually at home since the great California Parole System—in their wisdom—decided he shouldn't live with us. I won't even discuss the rationale behind their decision, as it was in fact irrational, but it was our reality.

In order to deliver a few bags of groceries to my hungry son, I drove past the rescue mission, and past drunk and sick men and women pushing shopping carts filled with junk and trash. I continued past the little village known as "tent city"—shanties built from discarded camping tents, garbage bags, and building scraps.

I finally arrived at the small, roach infested motel that the state parole system had demanded my son call home.

The tiny room was even worse than I expected it would be.

I opened the paper-thin door and saw the bed to the left. My son pulled back a stained and shredded blanket to reveal holes in the bottom sheet—holes clearly created by repeated stabbings with a small knife. A worn, splintering cabinet stood precariously near the foot of the bed and cradled a barely working television set with a 15-inch screen.

Where was the hope?

A newly paroled young man who wanted to turn his life around was put in the darkest part of town, surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, hookers, and the mentally deranged. He was forced to spend a minimum of 14 hours a day in that hole. The prison system expected him to find a job and stay out of trouble.

They told Dallas to believe in himself and his future. That seemed like an impossible task in that dark and hopeless place.

More than three years have come and gone since that first sad visit to my newly paroled son. Dallas showed amazing strength and courage. He never stopped believing in himself and his future. He lives at home now—a totally free man.

Though G Street seems a million miles from here, its residents are in my heart and in my prayers.

liz by design

Lessons From Dorothy

How's The Little Missionary?

Shopping With ME-Monsters

Tap Dancing to South Africa

Integrity

in·teg·ri·ty

Makeup, Makeup!

Quicksand of Pride

Making Waves

The Elephant and the Blind Men

Hope and Open Doors

Small Earthquakes Cause Devastating Tsunamis

Someone Should Write a Book

You Go, Girl!

UnChristian

Photo Friends

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

Dallas Finally Meets His Dad

Sibling Love

The "Daddy" Place

Finding My Son's Sister

California Pretty

Weak Body, Strong Spirit

Beyond Acceptance

No Surprises Here...More on Reconciliation

Saying Yes to Cracks

When Exercise Systems Talk Back

The Command to Love

Bullies

"The Silence of our Friends"

Dancing With Skeletons

Everyone deserves another chance!

I Choose Wholeness

Labels

My "Dangerous Path"

Gateway Drugs-Are We Giving Kids The Keys?

Ma'am, Are You Okay?

Please Don't Let My Baby Die

I'm no Pollyanna

Unexpected Heroes

Do I Belong?

No Excuses!

No Reconciliation for you!

Hope for Tomorrow

The Cries of a Strong Woman

The Father's Gift

Faith and the Thermometer

Confession

Still a Mama bear!

Dear Jaimee

Rise and be Whole

You've Got To Promise Me!

Swimming in Dark Waters

Bucket List

I choose to deal!

A Little Hollywood in Visalia, CA

Live Theatre (why is the church saying "no"?)

The Miracle Wedding

You Have Another Sister!

Do you have a mom?

Please Don't

Fear of Vacation Planning!

Thank You For Never Giving Up

A Cracked Christmas Carol

What's The Take-Away?

The Roach Motel