A Cracked Christmas Carol

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?

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

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.

I saw your name on Facebook...

“I had no idea what Facebook was. And now that I do—I think it’s a huge waste of time.” Betty White said that when she hosted Saturday Night Live last month.

After Ms. White’s wildly popular Snickers commercial aired during the Super Bowl earlier this year, there was a massive Facebook campaign to get the octogenarian actress on the long-running NBC live sketch comedy series, Saturday Night Live. She started her television career back in the era when most all television was live, so surely she was a natural to host SNL.

The campaign worked and the uber talented Betty White wowed the studio audience and the TV viewers. So maybe Facebook isn’t such a huge waste of time after all, eh?

Well, I think it does have its positives, but mostly…Betty White is right.

The social networking sight has not become a giant time suck for me yet because I have never, ever played Farmville, Mafia Wars, The Sims, Plants vs. Zombies, Pacman, Doodle Jump, or any of the other addictive and wacky games or applications.

It has been a joy, however, to reconnect with a few long lost friends, co-workers, and classmates. In fact, five times as many people showed up for our 30^th high school class reunion just a few months ago as came to our 25^th gathering (only 4 classmates showed up at that one). I give Facebook all the credit for helping us reconnect.

The other day I got a note in my FB inbox.

“I have seen your name come up on fb several times… I began to wonder if you could possibly be the Elizabeth Santori that I had in my 2nd grade class at Tarpey when I first started teaching. If so, you were such a great kid and always made my day!”

It was a note from my second grade teacher, Mrs. Higgins! I remember her very well, and it was a wonderful surprise to know that she remembered me. Her note made me smile.

So, although Facebook can sometimes be a huge waste of time, I want to thank Mrs. Higgins for taking an extra moment to drop me a line.

I’ve sent several notes to friends, and even a few strangers, whose lives have intersected with mine through mutual acquaintances. I’ve let people know I was praying for them in the midst of a struggle, and I’ve reminded seldom-seen folks that they matter to me.

I’ve been “unfriended’ by a few, and I’ve gotta say…that hurts. Cyber rejection hurts almost as much as a face-to-face slap down, but connecting with someone from my long ago past makes my heart sing.

Thanks Mrs. Higgins for your kind words. You made my day. You reminded me that Facebook isn’t just a huge waste of time but can, in fact, bring joy.

Job's Friends, part 2

The other day I wrote about Job’s friends. I loved the fact that after Job lost everything and was suffering excruciating physical and emotional pain, his friends came to him, ripped their clothing, and sat quietly with him for seven days. They just loved him.

When I was in the darkest of places I wish I’d had more friends who just sat quietly with me and loved me instead of making judgmental and condemning comments. Even some of the advice was painful. Unless you’ve been in that same situation you might not understand that.

Well, when we read on in the Biblical book of Job we discover that Job’s friends weren’t content to sit quietly. They too felt compelled to open their mouths and heap hot coals of condemnation onto their friend.

Job’s wife gets in on the action too. His wife said to him, "Are you still holding on to your integrity? Curse God and die!" Job 2:9 (NIV)

As a side note here, I must say that I question the motivation behind Job’s wife’s comment. I mean she too was in pain. Hadn’t she also lost her children and her home? She must have been desperate for the pain to end. But I digress.

A friend of mine commented on my blog post. She works in a grief ministry and walks with people through the grieving process. She said, “When I think of people who do not say anything—that is worse”. I can only speak from my own personal experience. The people who were silent didn’t hurt me.

I wrote a post several months ago about people who THINK they know what’s best for us in our time of grief, when in reality, they’re just adding to the stress. I know people just want to help—really I do.

In the end, the Lord made Job prosperous again. He ended up with more cattle, donkeys, sheep, camels, and kids then he had before.

BUT…and this is important…BUT, God prospered Job only AFTER he prayed for the very friends who had cursed him. After Job had prayed for his friends, the LORD made him prosperous again and gave him twice as much as he had before. Job 42:10 (NIV)

I remember a time when God told me to pray for someone who had hurt me. I did it immediately. I’ve continued that practice to this day—praying for people who’ve caused me pain. Do I pray for them so that the pain will end and God will prosper us and give us swag?

NO!

I do it because it’s right, and because personal healing and a healthy relationship with God is better than all the stuff in the world!

It Wants Your Children

It’s Wild Ride Wednesday. Here’s another crazy excerpt from the journey that is our life.

I crawled into bed after another very long day. Tom was out of town and all three of the kids were home. Dallas had just turned 19, Drew was almost 17, and Giana was nearly 16.

We’d made it through Thanksgiving, but Christmas and New Year’s Day were just around the corner. I wanted only to get through the holidays with little drama.

Every day brought a new and terrible revelation. We knew Dallas was on drugs and we suspected Giana was using as well. When you’re dealing with drug addicted kids (and young adults) you have to be very careful.

Even though we believed they were using drugs, we couldn’t make accusations without real facts to back up what we knew in our hearts. You see if the drug addict thinks he or she is about to be found out, they will bury the secrets even deeper and tell better lies.

The addict’s deceitfulness must be challenged with real information that can supported with hard facts. Otherwise they will retreat further and could be lost forever.

Tom and I couldn’t relax for a moment. We had to keep our eyes and ears open all the time. I covertly listened in on one end of suspicious phone conversations, intercepted mail, sifted through pockets, had nonchalant conversations with chatty school friends, and frequently searched bedrooms and backpacks.

It was around midnight. The crisp pine scent from the large Christmas tree in the front room filled the house. Chilly air wafted in through my open bedroom window. I could smell smoke from the smoldering fireplaces in the neighborhood. I was just starting to dose off when something woke me.

I heard a clanging and clattering in the hallway.

I got out of bed, opened my bedroom door, and looked into the long narrow walkway leading to the front room. I saw a thick black smoke-like substance stretching the length of the hall and hugging the ceiling.

The thing seemed to actually have arms that were reaching over the top of each of the three closed doors and was slithering through the tiny cracks between the door and its frame. It wasn’t trying to get into my room—just the rooms of my children.

I’ve looked into the eyes of evil before, and even then I felt peace and calm. This was no different.

I shut the door to my bedroom and crawled back into bed. I pulled the covers up around my neck and I prayed.

“Dear God, what is that?”

I heard a voice. “It’s the spirit of sexual promiscuity, and it wants your children.”

I prayed more.

Less than a month later Dallas left and would essentially be homeless for months. He and his sister nearly died from their addictions.

God gave me peace in the midst of the storm and in the face of evil. He gave me wisdom so I would know how to pray for my kids.

We'll Never Give Up!

These are tough economic times and people need jobs!

Okay…that isn’t exactly a shocker of a statement. We’re all living in this world, and the downturn has affected every one of us.

My mom has a friend who is proud to brag about the fact that she’s been unaffected by the financial meltdown. Several months ago Mom talked to her friend on the phone for the first time in a couple of years and the first words out of the friend’s mouth were, “I still have all my money!”

It sounds like money is a top priority in that woman’s life. Well…good for her.

But I digress. MOST people are struggling and many people need jobs!

My son Dallas is 25 years old and he (like all of us) has made a few mistakes. Many of us were never caught. Not only was he caught, but he also took personal responsibility and never, ever ran from the consequences. I’m proud of my son.

Unfortunately, he is having an extremely difficult time finding a job. I wish somebody would give this guy a break—a chance.

When my son was released from prison it was clear that he would need financial, emotional, physical, and spiritual support. Tom and I have stood by him, as has most of the family, and Dallas is so very appreciative.

There are agencies in and around our town whose mission it is to help men and women just out of prison. They teach life skills, help them get an education, and aid in the job search. Hope Now For Youth, and Teen Challenge are two organizations that have a particularly good reputation and success record. Sadly, however, they wouldn’t help Dallas.

If Dallas had been a gang member or a murderer he would’ve had agencies clamoring to get him into their program so they could turn him into one of their success stories. Dallas’s crime was too severe for some agencies to give him a hand, and not nearly bad enough for other organizations to invest the time in him.

My son has been off parole for 5 months, but his record will follow him for the rest of his life (although there is hope that it will be expunged someday). This is what I want you to know—if Dallas had never been arrested, he probably would have died from a drug overdose. He’s meant to be here.

I write this post not just for Dallas, but also for all the men and women with criminal records who can’t get a job. We complain about the revolving doors on prisons and county jails. It seems that “the system” isn’t incapable of turning men and women around.

What do we expect? Society won’t accept them and won’t give them a job. Many newly released prisoners have nowhere to go. Their families have long ago given up on them, the privately run programs refuse to help them, and the government has run out of money. People need food in their belly and shelter from the cold. Jail looks pretty good if you have nothing else.

Dallas WILL thrive and he’ll be stronger, better, and more talented because he’ll have to work harder than most. I know he can’t do it alone, however, so we’ll never give up on him.

That’s how we roll.