You are a psycho. Everyone knows it You are just someone I use to know You are not a VERY stable person.
Your family is a cult. You will lie and cheat to get your way.
You attack anyone that disagrees with you
You are on the bi-polar kick today I see. You really need some help
I’m not saying that to be mean. You really need to get checked out
I just simply no longer loved you Less of you is more for me You are just crazy Get in the real world
Nope. I’m not going down your crazy rabbit hole.
You were the problem in this marriage. I now believe that 1000%.
You are not mentally stable and have major issues.
I pray for our kids you get help.
I’m sorry I hurt you. I hope you forgive me one day. I’ve never wanted to hurt you
You’re a sick individual.
If you only knew what some people close around you thought about your actions You failed our kids so much We both know who you are Getting a police report You’ve made all of this so much harder than needed
Your son doesn’t even want you to know where he’s going. Now that’s sad
I don’t care why you left. I’m just thankful you did.
You can be someone else’s bat shit crazy girl. I’m good
Your are not a good person and thankfully others have started to see this. You failed me and our kids.
I divorced you because your bat shit crazy, I didn’t love you anymore
I’m not mad at you. I don’t hate you. I still pray for you daily.
I wish you would just listen,
but you fancy yourself on thinking your the smartest person in the room.
You’ll answer to someone one day
Your a hateful person and someone I no longer have room for in my life.
It will be a glorious day when we no longer have much interaction.
Then you add your nasty family on top of that.
To be honest you can thank your family for 75% of divorce
No I know my neglect played apart I see that now
Your a nasty human Your petty
I hope one day in your life you will listen.
It cost you so much by just not listening to people
I need you out of my life because you are a negative person and then manipulator and just a badperson
I love you and want to work on US so bad
You are your daddy’s girl.
Daddy finally gave baby girl the wrong advice You are a liar You are the biggest fraud Your really starting to lose it You need mental help
lunatic
I regret the mean comments I definitely didn’t mean them
And wish I could take them back
You are sick. You need help You will never understand dumb ass They don’t like you I don’t want to see you
I don’t recognize who you have become. You are not the person I married
To be honest what am I losing? A manipulator, liar , a cheater
You are walking out on this family.
Hiding behind the BS child abuse narrative.
I hated our marriage. It was an disaster at best.
I'm glad you finally listened and left
I neglected you. I am sorry. Period Now you have to deal with that. It’s your choice
You are the liar
You absolutely are a bad person.
You are a liar
You are a liar and always have been You are a adult. Act like one
Same ole K. You can’t be trusted
11:33 on Friday and you are out and a bout You have self worth issues
You have self beauty issues
I really apologize for my words. I am being honest If I could take them back I would. Unreal you are all over the place
Integrity is really not your strong point
My only request is you come HOME. I will meet all your request You are safe We need to attend church regularly We need family time
The locks have been changed.
Your son plans to testify against you
You are such a fraud
Y’all are a cult and I plan to expose it
I will never neglect your love again I will never use a negative word to describe my best friend again I will apologize to our kids about tearing you down
And explain how that was wrong
For the most untrustworthy person in my life. You sure do love that word You can’t even do math Hope ur new man will love you from jail. You just wait.
I was never your love
I can honestly say, you never loved me like I loved you
Those words were anger word that are not meant Your value dropped long ago in my eyes.
I love you but
I absolutely hate everything about you.
You are just a bat shit crazy piece of poop.
I can't wait to be back in court
You are a complete psycho. You really need help
Your kids absolutely hate you. I wish it wasn't that way.
I really hope for all y'all sake it doesn't last forever.
Get ready to spend some serious cash.
I will sell everything I have to stop you
You're crazy I don't love you
Hate to see the non code house have to be torn down. Your choice Stop being an ass. Get over yourself.
It will take me time to understand you do want this. You could have stopped it
She knows more about me than you ever will know.
You know me better than anyone
You are and always have been a lair.
I can’t believe I stayed 20yrs with you . What a waste of my life. If you only knew what most people thought about you
Can’t believe you felt unloved.
You know I really don’t want the kids to see you arrested
by the police no matter what you say to them they’re going to arrest you.
Whether you’re right or wrong they are going to process you Then you’re going to sit in there for a minimum of
probably 24 hours before you can get bailed out
I can honestly say for 20 years, through it all ILOVED you, but I question that now
I hope you get married, pregnant or something so you will leave me the hell a lone
I love you k and I will with all my soul until that last paper is signed Just so you hear it from me first. I'm getting married again Oct 12th She knows about you. She’s an amazing girl and is beyond amazing to our kids.
She is the most drama free girl I’ve ever met I’m in love with her. We plan to get married in March of next year
I’m in MAJOR love with her. She is my new world.
Your kids absolutely love her and she is really nice to them
Plus I've never talked to anyone
while we were married or even attempted too
Your son hates you
So nice to not be married to a kid any more. The real world is so much better these days
It’s on now. I’m going after everything and everyone.
It’s officially a WAR now.
Wait the kids will be testify next go around
During this process, what I knew and thought about you
has been confirmed by me and others
I care NOTHING about you and I mean NOTHING
I’m definitely ok in the love department
I hope you get help so the kids can LOVE you too
you better be prepared
I pray you will find someone that will love you
I love GOD and have him in the right place in my life
If this is what it takes for me to feel true love or happy.
Than GOD give it to me.
It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life;
for I am not better than my fathers.
You’ve made discarding 20 years very easy.
I really feel sorry for you.
get a fucking life
sorry ass mom
If you could hit a re-boot button or re-do button, would you?
One of my internet friends has been tackling the phrase 'worship experience' lately along with probing the idea that worship is something we "feel" or an environment we can create on Sunday mornings.
As a person with a more reserved personality, this topic resonates with me and while I never feel that I have the answers, I am learning to join the conversation.
My churched background has afforded many opportunities to feel pressure from the platform or my gathering of friends to 'perform' worship in a way that is more visible and animated than my comfort level.
I have prayed beside people offering their prayers in tongues unknown.
I have been told that my faith was only genuine if I was willing to pick up a snake. (There were no snakes present in the Kroger where this conversation occurred, thankfully - but it was a real conversation)
I have scoffed at fog machines and cameramen running across the stage to get the next shot.
I have scoffed at three piece suits and kicked up sawdust.
I have heard seminary students be offered a little cash incentive to whoop and holler, to loosen up and help set the tone of a 'Baptistcostal' service.
I have felt the strain of an extended alter call when the desired emotional response was not forthcoming.
I have had a pastor fix his gaze on me specifically and say "Everyone raise your hands" when I was the only one in the room not raising my hands.
This has led to a strange sort of resistance anytime there's an audible directive from a worship leader or song lyric to "...just lift my hands toward Heaven and praise the Lord..."
If I was going to (which I probably wasn't) now there's no question that I won't be able to because you told me to... it's too much like *Simon Says now and not enough like genuine expression.
I start thinking about those Pharisee guys who prayed to be heard and contorted their faces as visual evidence of their spirituality. I think about closets and how that's where we're told to do our praying. I lean back into my personality type - one who brings a book to a football game. There's very little I get worked up about in the first place, my feelings are anchored to a concrete post of reasonableness and decorum.
And yet, when I see a withered old hand lifted to Heaven in the midst of a song, I find it beautiful and moving (internally- because, as I have established, I'm a stick in the proverbial mud)
I have heard an old woman's hallelujah and been encouraged that if the Lord was faithful to her, I can also trust Him.
I've been learning some stuff recently, here's some of it:
Worship can involve an emotional response from me. It rarely evokes a visible response.
Sometimes this response is present on Sunday morning, during the set time we sing and pray. Other times, it is Monday in my car or on the shower floor, and sounds more like questions or despair.
Many times, everything feels flat and doesn't seem to touch me at all.
I'm finding the consistent factor in that scenario is often me.
Did I go to bed at a decent hour on Saturday night? Do I have coffee gut? Am I actively participating or going through the motions? Are there issues I'm refusing to surrender to God? Did I greet a lot of people on my way in? Wouldn't I rather just go hide in the nursery or take a nap in the puppet booth this morning? (the answer to this one is almost always yes)
When the answer is yes, I might as well be watching The Rockafire Explosion. ( Confession: sometimes, my visible response in church is to smirk at the thought of our musicians dressed up as The Rockafire Explosion.)
I remember as a kid trying to see the circuitry under the drummer dog's sleeve. I remember one time the power went out and the animatronic band froze mid-song. I remember ascribing feelings and emotions to these robots based on what they had been programmed to sing and say. Even as a kid, it was easy for me to lose the forest for close observation of each tree.
Some Sunday mornings, it's the same. I'm looking at all the shoes on stage or everyone's facial expressions. Who fought on their way here this morning? Why does everyone seem to raise their hands on the same note - did they rehearse that part, too? The music becomes secondary, a backdrop for robot observation.
But... I am also finding that, if I was in the trenches with my brothers and sisters this week... if I see this one who has been waking up under the wet blanket of anxiety all week with his hands aloft in as much a plea as decree that God is good, or a tear steal across my sister's cheek because of that thing she's been walking through.. I have found that I can actually feel that.
I can be confounded by an abundance of animation in one's worship style, but I am struck by the beauty of the contrast of it, too.
Like watching a foreign film with subtitles; it is not my native tongue, but I am able to understand, especially the more of life I share in with my animated brothers and sisters.
Even when it comes from a struggle, I am finding that there can be an air of celebration when we purpose to lift our hearts as one, whether we lift our hands or not.
We aren't alone. We are here together, hopeful, grateful and unashamed.
Relationship is an essential key to feeling like a participant instead of an observer.
This is true in most things.
On Mother's Day, I was in church without some of my children. Their absence was more noticeable on this particular holiday and my situation is no secret.
I'm not sure this Sunday was my first awareness that everyone knowing my story was an act of public nakedness, but it was one day that I recall the vulnerability being heightened. Last year, I was given one of those little congregational awards for having the most children in attendance with me at church on Mother's Day. This year, I've been accused of being such a terrible mom that some of my children have stopped speaking to me. It's a story line I've been walking out in front of others, whether I wanted to or not.
And on that day, I felt a deeper sympathy and empathy for those who no longer have their mom. What I found was there were almost as many at church that day without their mom or with a strained relationship with their mom as those who were on their way to brunch with Mom.
Last year, I probably walked past just as many hurting people on my way to claim that prize without a thought at all about Mothers' Day for the motherless. Now, I see.
On Father's Day, when the importance of a godly dad was emphasized and the plight of too many single moms proved bleak in the shared statistics, one friend, realizing that I may be hearing a more discouraging message than my well-married counterparts, texted me a compliment about being a good parent (yes, during the service - we're modern like that).
It was encouraging that I wasn't lost in the shuffle of that Sunday's theme. Someone was mindful of me and wanted to lift my countenance.
Getting to know those I experience worship with and allowing myself to be known by them, too has deepened the experience for me.
Having others come alongside me, draping their own garments over what has been laid bare, has stripped a layer of my life-long reserve.
I still get distracted by moving lights or something on-screen. I still get kind of scoffy at "setting an environment", but as I am getting to know my brothers and sisters who help with that, I understand better that they are bringing what they have to the table on Sunday mornings. They are sharing their time and talents. They are giving their best, at the very least, I can give grace.
I could get caught up in motivations- sometimes, being honest, I still do. There have been worship leaders in my life who wanted to go to Nashville and it showed (and no big surprise, they went to Nashville). That used to bug me a lot more than it does now, but I've had enough time to see that these aren't really issues. They are choices.
If I have chosen to worship with a group whose leader wants a recording label, I can wish him all the success that Amy Grant or Mercy Me has known, and for God's glory.
I may decide his skinny jeans and trending hair is too distracting to continue to meet together starting next week, but in this moment, even as he's doing something showy, I must choose to focus on why I am here, too. If I don't, I am as guilty as Mr. Nashville of putting on a show, only it is a smaller, more secretive show. Honestly, his show is at least entertaining, mine is just pathetic.
Do I want the lens turned on me? Have I ever appreciated being judged as 'not worshipping' because my hands are in my pockets or my body language always naturally returns to a comforting and constricting arm cross? I must leave hearts to the one who can see them and focus instead on the boundless grace I've been given.
If you need me, I'll just be in the puppet booth, digging this log out of my eye.
This is not to say there's no place for making sure motives are right and worship is the true object of our gathering and activity, but this is not a scathing discernment blog. It is more so a challenge to self to practice one of the first rules in critical thinking: start with the benefit of the doubt, ascribe no ill intent without cause.
*~*
I am still the girl who gravitates to an outlying corner. I prefer holding up walls to hands. I will always be me, I bet. But I have had some expansion of my thinking on the subject in recent days.
I recently shared that I had finally embraced my "Type 9" diagnosis. One of the cautions for the nine personality types is to "Remember you have a body as well as a soul"
Perhaps my movement level is affected by forgetting that I've been given a body as well as a soul - or some level of shame over my body that is also to blame for my complete lack of dancing ability.
I'm not sure. But what got me to thinking about it originally was not the personality test. It was David Bowie's video for Black Star.
In that video, the dancers' bodies move in an unearthly way. It is almost disturbing. The movements are coupled with imagery that goes on to push the whole thing over the line into 'actually disturbing'.
I'm sure that 'unease' was part of Bowie's artistic goal. His inclusion of a mock crucifixion, for whatever other statement being made, created a link in my mind between bodily movement and spiritual themes.
It made me think of all the stories I'd heard about spiritual forces seeking to invade the human realm and footage of supposed supernatural "possessions" I had seen featuring human bodies moving in unnatural ways, but always with little control or direction.
I thought of the demoniac in the Bible, unable to stay clothed and bent on self harm.
I considered 'worship' may be the genuine article being counterfeited by dark entities. My thinking was turned to rocks and trees crying out...to the dancing, undignified King David and to that notoriously long list of instruments in Psalms which we are told to use in praise.
Then, this song came along and directed my thinking some more...
If the stars were made to worship so will I
If the mountains bow in reverence so will I
If the oceans roar Your greatness so will I
For if everything exists to lift You high so will I
If the wind goes where You send it so will I
If the rocks cry out in silence so will I
~*~
I've been given a body as well as a soul, and I have full autonomy.
I have hands that clap and raise and can offer comfort to others.
My voice can raise a hallelujah or whisper out a desperate plea.
I am not a special edition human, devoid of tears - I have them; sometimes from sorrow, but at other times, gratitude and joy.
I can allow my body to reflect what my soul is navigating. In doing so, I may just encourage someone else looking on "If God has been faithful to her, I can trust Him also"
I remember a recent moment when something felt different as we sang together
"...this is how I fight my battles..."
The lady singing that day shared that she hadn't really wanted to sing the song, even as more and more people suggested she should sing it. She had, quite frankly, been wondering where God even was these days. She shared some of her story and the reasons she had been struggling with questions too big for any of us to answer. And then, she sang the song in an act of obedience and faith.
Before the song ended, I thought some of our group might actually take to the streets, ready to fight every injustice we came across.
We do have a large number of military and retired military families, so there is always the risk of marching, but I believe the palpability came from singing through the hurt and in our singing with her.
"It may look like we're surrounded, but we're surrounded by You..."
Like the exchange of oxygen with trees, she was reminding us of truth and, in an instant echo, truth was exhaled back into her own lungs...
As I looked around the room that day, I realized that I was singing for all their sakes as much as for mine. I love them. I want them to be okay. I want to see God move on their behalf. You wouldn't have known it to look at me, but I felt something. Surely it was emotion.
And surely it was worship.
*~*
The last thing I'll share about is a personal paradigm shift: allowingwhat I'm singing to be personal.
I learned a long time ago that remembering my own pit and living with gratitude for my rescue was spiritually transformational.
In one congregation, we sang "How Deep The Father's Love For Us" almost every week. I remember my attention settling on the line "...ashamed I hear my mocking voice, cry out among the scoffers" (which is the purpose of that line- to implicate us)
Letting that line be about me has been transformational, indeed.
Remembering the pit from whence I was lifted is good, but I've been finding that falling into a fresh pit and needing new rescue is also an effective method for converting my worship into high definition.
I've been walking through a season of suffering and loss.
I've been accused and left exposed.
I've needed the services of a human advocate.
I've had case stated to a judge.
I've had my physical and financial needs met.
I've been shown mercy. And grace.
I've been met in the road by my dad - who came running from a long way off.
I have been given a robe and ring and there's to be a big party.
These things have come to life. They have given me a physical glimpse of spiritual concepts. I've experienced being defended, being in need and being provided for. I've seen new things about a father's love and experienced anew the deep, gulping relief found in being forgiven...again and again.
I think my little legalistic heart needed to go into an actual legal setting to appreciate grace all the more.
So, whether we are singing "...your love defends me..." "...you're a good, good father..." or any one of the many songs about the goodness we've received, I've got newfound appreciation for the words that are coming out of my mouth. They have been defined as I am being refined.
I'm still the girl quietly wringing my hands behind my back, but like a wooden puppet becoming human, I can't lie: I felt my heart leap at the wonder of it all.
There's a table, You've prepared for me in the presence, of my enemies...
2011
Don’t hit back; discover beauty in everyone. If you’ve got it in you, get along with everybody. Don’t insist on getting even; that’s not for you to do. “I’ll do the judging,” says God. “I’ll take care of it.” ~ Rom12
As I walk through this season of mourning, I stop along the way sometimes, wondering if these promise are still true for me, despite my own humanity. I believe that my heart was in the right place, but I am told, too, that hearts are wicked and deceptive above all else.
I hope that I have been obedient. I hope that the desire for peace and love is not a seed wasted. Motives are harder to be sure of when denied a share of the harvest.
Sometimes her list would require six, but usually, scrawled in blue Bic ink beside 'bananas' was a (7) in parentheses; a week’s supply of potassium until the next shopping day rolled around.
I try to remember now who did her shopping before it became our job. Likely an array of her extended network of family and friends, for though she didn't drive, Aunt Nellie June was well-known, and well-liked.
She needn't go out, we came to her. And truly, it was our pleasure to help; to just be in her orbit.
So it was, back when we were not just kinfolk but also neighbors, I would take the list she had made after consulting the weekly circular, along with her envelope of carefully counted money, to the Bi-Lo on the corner, and do her weekly shopping.
Her list was quite specific, calculated for maximum savings and minimal waste.
Seventy years in one primary location had worn a groove in her routine.
Amongst a rotation of seasonal produce and various household products, every week her list included the same fare:
Whole milk (PET brand only)
One pack of hot dogs (Oscar Myer or Carolina Pride)
Cool Whip (the plastic container to be recycled as food storage)
Pepsi (an anomaly in Coca-Cola's dixieland domain, but she was a woman confident in her choices)
Butter pecan or cherry vanilla ice cream (as much for her neighbors as for herself, but she did have a sweet tooth or three )
Bananas (6 or 7)
I still count bananas in the store, or tell my children how many to get when I ask them to walk back to Produce for things I inevitably remember I've forgotten (but only after crossing at least 2/3 the length of the store)
Mary and Roger served in the church I grew up in for many, many years.
Mr. Rodgers owned an old fashioned barber shop in town, complete with barber pole out front and Mayberry atmosphere inside.
Mrs. Rodgers was gifted in the art of hospitality and often opened her home to our family.
One of my favorite dishes Mrs. Mary served was a thick and creamy banana pudding unlike any found in the Corningware dishes of the other saintly church ladies or served at our myriad local BBQ restaurants.
I was too young to decipher her recipe back then, but the development of my own "kitchen presence" as a young bride coincided with the rise of Google, Food Network and Paula Deen.
I may have never learned the recipe's secret if not for the ability to cross-reference keywords against a database of tried and true Southern recipes; those iconic Chessmen cookies my Rosetta Stone.
Chapter 3: Let's Go Krogering
I am the sum of all my parts, as I believe we all are.
I have been shaped by different environments, exposures and experiences.
I am grateful for them all.
I am thankful for Aunt Nellie June and Mrs. Mary Rodgers as well as a host of other influential souls.
I am thankful for the time they shared with me, the space they created for me in their homes and kitchens and the recipes for life they left for me to follow.
Tonight, as I prepared for the Freewheeling Widows to drop by, I realized banana pudding would be agreeable to all.
In this way, these two precious ladies who've gone-on-to-Glory were welcome in my kitchen as I got ready for two precious ladies who are still going-along-with-me.
I went Krogering to count bananas and gather the following supplies:
1 Quart of Heavy Whipping Cream (the secret ingredient, shhh!)
One large box of instant vanilla pudding
One large box of instant banana cream pudding
One tub of Cool Whip or can of whipped cream
Chessmen Cookies and/or
Nilla Wafers (for the purists)
Bananas (6 or 7)
Chapter 4: Redeeming The Spotty Ones
I mashed up two leftover bananas that were too far gone for cereal but not yet brown enough for banana bread then added the pudding mix and heavy whipping cream.
I think bananas go spotty like they do to teach us about redemption, if we're inclined to learn.
I included both kinds of cookies because when I am faced with a decision where one person may be disappointed, I become paralyzed with indecision. As a result, I have developed a coping mechanism called 'overcompensation'. When I am in a hurry and can't make up my mind, I jump straight over 'either/or' to 'both and all'
Someday, it will sink in that I really cannot please all the people, all the time and should therefore just pick one already...but, until then, double cookies!
Seems completely healthy and reasonable, no?
I'm sure Cookie Monster approves.
I layered everything lasagna style and almost alphabetically: "cookies-bananas-pudding-whipped cream-repeat" then chilled the whole thing until the Freewheelers arrived.
We ate tiny glazed Ham on Hawaiiansandwiches and watched Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium before I scooped banana pudding into the Atlanta Braves helmet bowls I'd picked up on Kroger's clearance aisle - for only thirty-five cents each!
Southern Grocery Shopping Rule #1 :The hurry is never too big to bypass clearance. You never know, what you need may be on those shelves. What you don't know you need is probably there, too.
Chapter 5: Time and Togetherness
From Bi-Lo to Kroger, there have been many good-byes that came as a surprise.
I'd go back, pay closer attention, and take more notes if life weren't so insistent about this forward staccato marching we do.
We are allowed only to glance back, not turn back, so we plan for the future ever crossing new horizons.
Tucked in our pockets of memory, or transcribed on a notepad in shaky blue Bic ink, we bring with us instructions from time, left behind.
My freewheelin' gals took leftover sandwiches and pudding home with them, because I'm still learning to cook for just a few.
They also took a little bit of Aunt Nellie June, Mrs. Mary Rodgers and a piece of my heart, too.
We're getting together for Chinese take-out and a Dolly Parton movie soon, because time and togetherness are key ingredients to a life, well-recalled.
In their homes, and more intimately, their kitchens, I was always warmly welcomed.
Warm, probably because there was always something delicious being cooked.
Even at a young age, I was offered a helping role, a listening ear and the priceless gift of examples to follow.
There are days in those kitchens I wish I could visit again, recipes I wish I had watched more closely, and soft, fleshy old women I wish that I could still glean advice from.
This series of short essays and stories is an overdue payment of homage on the investments they made in me, a bank note of gratitude for those who are still, thankfully, with me.
