Or Maybe Being on the Right is not Always Wrong

Please stop.

To every Trump supporter (overly) basking in the afterglow of a successful campaign: Please Stop. Stop arrogantly throwing around words such as “miraculous” and “prophesied.” I’m pretty sure there are some instances in the Bible that God’s chosen king was chosen for the express purpose of bringing destruction and ruin to discipline his chosen people. Whenever I hear the term “God’s chaos candidate,” I think back to those… let’s hope that’s not our fate.

There are so many people who need their voice heard, who need to know that they will not be trampled. Listen to them.

If we proclaim love and peace but do not show it, we are useless.

To every Clinton supporter bemoaning the fate of our planet with hashtags and staged protests: Please Stop. Stop promoting further division with wails and sensationalist predictions of the apocalypse. Please share your sadness and your stories. Keep mindful. People tend to tune out others who are overly dramatic because theatrics are not needed to express emotions.

Trump is a man. There are checks and balances in place. And despite what is being said, not every white Republican is out for your blood. There are so many of us who do hear you, who will cry out with you if Trump acts unjustly.

To all of you who reluctantly voted when it seemed like there was only evil to choose from: Please speak up. Let others know that no matter what is being portrayed that you are a human, with human hopes and dreams and struggles.

You see, we can vote for a candidate even if we do not agree with all of their words.

  • Maybe you voted for a third party candidate because you wanted another choice, any choice. You didn’t throw away your vote. You voted with your brain and your heart, as we all did.
  • Not all Clinton supports are educated, a minority, or in the millennial generation. Maybe you voted for Clinton but you disagree with her stance on abortion.
  • Or maybe you voted for Trump because of his promises but you can’t stand the delivery. You may be white but that does not automatically mean you are a racist backwater bigot.

We’ve all made our choices. I’m not here to explain my choice. I’m here to speak, to show my humanity. I’m here to listen to yours.

Based on my profile picture, you may guess that I voted for Trump and be ready to chuck aside me and my words because you see only a rural, flannel-wearing white girl. Someone on the right so she must be wrong.

100_1815-4

Please stop.

It’s a photo, staged with trees in the background because I love nature. I don’t actually live there.

And that flannel jacket? It belonged to my late maternal grandfather, whom I came to know as an older teen and young adult, only after grief and alcohol had stolen away most of his years. Who joined the Navy to serve his country and see the world. He spent his childhood dirt poor but found purpose and life and love. Yet in his lifetime suffered more than most of us ever will: his wife died at 42 to aggressive breast cancer, his middle son to addictions, his youngest and severely disabled son before 30, his eldest daughter to the same cancer at the same age as her mother. This photo of me wearing his jacket is all the more apropos because today is Veteran’s day. I sometimes wear it as a tangible reminder of a man I wish I knew.

I can’t do anything about the color of my skin, but no one’s skin tone defines them. Jerks are going to find reasons to be jerks. Most of the time they just are without the reasons. I grew up in the rural heartland at a time when my school district was 99.9% white. My best friend was the girl who wasn’t. But I was born on the wrong side of the tracks with a last name to match. Do you know who the good ol’ boys and girls and most adults rejected, dismissed, and tossed aside? The poor girl in her brother’s stained hand-me-downs. So yeah, I can understand frustration and even anger at being assigned a role you never asked to play.

Your name, your skin, your socioeconomic class does not define you, but neither can you define anyone else by only those things. Nothing on this earth determines your worth or your fate.

We on the right know–now more than ever–that we have a lot of work to do to show you, and the world, that we are not all old uneducated, racist white men, but most importantly to show you that we are listening. If you lean left, we hear you. Please be open to dialogue with us, some of us may understand you better than you think. There is no logic in ignoring us.

via Daily Prompt: Or

For all those times I didn’t say “I love you”

I’m a romantic at heart, really.

Not a love-you-for-a-day, paper-craft project kind though.

No, the love I have for you is the soul-deep longing kind of love that makes me ache when you leave.

The kind of love that makes me want to give up my demons because I never liked them anyway.

The kind of love that doesn’t wait but plunges head first and holds fast, with branches that reach out and roots that go deep.

The kind of love that makes mistakes and can be a jerk and eats pizza, has curves, and stays up too late because you let me be human.

You don’t pin me to the heavens and the stars like another butterfly, dead and still in a glass-pane grave.

But still I wonder why you would ever choose me, why you continue to choose me when I can’t see the beauty for the me.

when I can’t see the beauty for the me

The me who has to walk away. The me who can be so full of pain she can’t breathe.

You give a love that soothes when my emotions implode and threaten to burn it all.

You give a love I can’t explain, that feels so near, yet far away.

My heart didn’t want you but I felt pulled anyway.

How can I explain? It’s as if, at the moment I met you, the path of my life diverged:

become who I thought I was or intensely, relentlessly pursue something beyond my reasoning.

I had to choose you because I wouldn’t be me without you.

I can’t promise forever through another DIY but I won’t lie: I love you too deeply and am too grateful to let myself slip by.

I don’t always say that I love you because it is an integral part of me, a known, a truth, the tatoo my heart beats to.

Iloveyou-Iloveyou-Iloveyou: the tatoo my heart beats to

 

 

Invasion

it started out as a distant tap tap

like bugs smacking the window glass

then it was a clang clang

prisoners hitting their bars

space wasn’t the vacuum we thought it was

they came, with little warning,

a faint tap

then bang

we were running away from the depths of our graves

 

 

to my boys: cherishing the now

I loved sharing chocolate with you while we snuggled on the couch.

I loved listening to crazy stories you dreamed up with me driving trains and you flying airplanes.

I love seeing through your eyes as you watch the world with wide-eyed wonder.

And when life feels too much for you, when it makes you anxious and afraid, I want to hold you in my arms and tell you, “It’s OK.”

I want to dream with you, and you with me, and show you how to reach beyond what you see.

I want you to go wherever I go, but there are some places that you can’t follow…

I hope that the war I face–that darkly pursues–never reaches you, even if it consumes me.

I hope you will forgive me for being your mother, for all my mistakes and wrong choices and character flaws, and that I haven’t turned you from hope.

And when we grow older, I hope you will hold my hands as my eyes dim, recounting days gone but not dead.

My sweet little loves, may you always know you will forever be my heart.

 

I’m not her anymore

I used to be one of those girls. One of those girls who was ready to prove that I was better than all of them, my eyes blazing with challenge.

I was more beautiful.

I was smarter.

I won him.

I was ready to track down his admirers, expose them in all my light that was as “beautiful and terrible as the dawn.” I aware, now, that I realized some time ago that there was no need to fight. I love him, I love him, but if he does not love me, he does not. I couldn’t be both the victim and the heroine. If he didn’t want the other girl, he would have to make the choice to walk away, block her number, let her fade away.

I don’t have to show her, or him, or even you… Who I am has so little to do with the ring I wear or how I don’t seem to care about the mess of my hair. I’d throw out all the mirrors–curse my reflection! My selfies, my ego, the competition is not at the heart of what God sees in me, nor am I mirroring him if that is all I see.

 

 

Ladies, let me ask you,

do you ever feel like you are fighting to make the world see

that you are not simply a mindless body?

Like some days you have to explain–not just to random men,

but to your father, your brother, and even your husband–

that you have thoughts and hopes and feelings and dreams?

And that these don’t all revolve around children and dresses and pretty little trinkets?

And no, you don’t want to put on make up or fix your hair in perfectly formed ringlets.

All too soon those things will fade,

and so too will all the accolade.

The truth is that beneath the facade

is not something that will leave the masses awed–

no gentle soul or sweet long suffering hides here,

naught but the bitter weight of every tear.

A scream is burning away my heart,

and some days I want to tear the world apart.

If the clock keeps ticking away the empty time

I just might throw off all pretense of rhyme

and grammatical correctness and logical arguments,

and run off to the wild and spread my wings.

 

 

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star: A lesson in child-like faith

As we watched the moon shine and the stars twinkle, my little boys were full of wonder. And like many little children, they were full of questions. Questions like:

Why do stars twinkle?

Why don’t stars have hands so they can wave to me?

Where is the star’s mommy?

I couldn’t help but think of when Jesus said that we are to become like little children.

Yes, be amazed.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s also OK to be full of questions, and to ask those questions, even if the answers to which are vastly beyond your understanding.

Do you see what is inherently implied in the last question? The star was created. A four-year-old looked at something both unknown and beautiful to him and still saw that undoubtedly there was a creator.

Chasing the Boy: In Pursuit of Passion

 

Being a woman is tough. All our lives, we are taught that good girls do not chase after boys. We are shown that we should be a princess, who has abounding beauty and innocence to captivate and tame their fathers and the most vicious of beasts. But we can never win over the (evil) stepmothers.

We are so set on attaining our beauty and dazzled by our own reflections (and keeping an eye out for The One) that we may be in danger of not recognizing where our true worth lies or realize the power of it could turn the tide of a battle we often do not see.

A man can’t fight through the onslaught to rescue you from your tower, from within your own walls, and bring you back to his palace to set you up as the queen. And expecting him to do so will only seal his failure because 1)it’s not his battle and 2)he can’t even save himself. We’re not born with innate queenly qualifications. I definitely didn’t behave like a queen. No, we have free will to make our own choices. But on what are we to base our decisions? Popular culture tells us that we are to follow our hearts.

Have you met my heart? She be crazy.

No, I decided to submit my heart another’s will. It’s a daily choosing that is no easy task with an innate rebellious nature (and many days I fail).

I want to look to God because He has already provided a rescue–He sent a savior. We don’t need to gaze out our windows awaiting Prince Charming to ride up with the glass slipper to prove we are a perfect match (and let’s face it: most of us are more like the stepsisters jealously vying for everyone’s affections). The best part about Jesus: He lets us choose. He lets us chase Him. In fact, He wants us to. Aptly stated: “We are the protagonists of our love story, not the spectators.” He gives us the freedom to fight.

One of the things I love most about my husband, is not that he’s never made a bad choice. It’s that in the aftershock he turns to Christ for his rescue. And sometimes making that choice is the toughest fight.

Look for someone who has the courage to cover you with love even on your bad days. Find someone you can trust and love through his moments of doubt because you know he will seek God in those moments. Pursue him (it goes without saying, but I’ll say it, passionately pursue him if you are already married to him).

Don’t wait for a Prince Charming to rescue you, look for the warrior ready for battle.

When you have a warrior at your side, you can both prepare for battle.

Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion.
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cclesiastes 4:9-10a (NASB)