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i wouldn't have minded if she got pralines... about forgiveness
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Nov 15, 2005 8:04 am
989 Views
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About 13 years ago, I heard a story about a couple whose daughter had been murdered. This couple were devout Christians and believed to their very cores that they were to reach out to the murderer...to show him love and forgiveness. They went to see him frequently while he was in jail awaiting his trial. They continued to go see him while he was in prison.
I remember very clearly thinking, (praying) "Oh, dear God, I don't think that I could do that." I knew I'd love to have that depth of compassion and ability to forgive, but I didn't think it possible.
Have you ever heard the saying, "Be careful what you pray for. You might just get it!"
It was March, the first night of Spring Break, everyone was in a good mood. Amoreana had taken her brother and some of his friends to the grocery store to buy snacks to take to Tristan's 16th birthday party. They were camping at Tristan's out in the country. Tristan, with brand new drivers license in hand, picked up Raymond and two other guys at our house.
The boys waved goodbye after a hug from Ammo, as she had been nicknamed in Middle School. Amoreana waved goodbye as she got in the car with her friends to go out for the evening. Bek and I stood in the front yard, waved, and wished them all a good time.
About 12:30a.m. I got a telephone call from one of Amoreana's friends that she'd been in a car wreck. Before I could make arrangements for Bek, I got two more phone calls. The calls sounded pretty ominous.
I took Bek to Mom and Dad's and Mom told me she wasn't going to let me go to the hospital alone, so off we went. The hospital that I figured she'd been taken to was 10 miles away.
We were about 2 miles north of Arkansas City when I saw all the emergency vehicle lights off to the east about a quarter mile. I pulled to the side of the road and contemplated going to the scene. Mom and I decided that we'd just be in the way and it'd be better to see if she was already at the hospital and, if not, we'd be there when she arrived.
I introduced myself to the nurse and asked to see my daughter, if she was there.
The waiting room was full of teenagers and a few adults. One of the young men pulled me aside and said, "I don't what they're telling you, but Ammo's gone."
I immediately went back to the desk and told them I understood my daughter was dead and, if that was the truth, I wanted anything that could be salvaged from her body for transplant to be harvested immediately.
That may sound a bit cold, but it's something she and I had just talked about less than 2 weeks prior.
The next thing I know, I have a chaplain at my elbow leading me down to "The Quiet Room." He and a nurse explained to me that Amoreana was dead, but that her body was so damaged that nothing could be used. THAT hurt as much as knowing she was dead. I couldn't even carry out my daughter's wishes at her death.
The driver, Rhonda, was airlifted to Wichita. Later I found out that there was not just alcohol involved. Rhonda had a pretty heavy duty cocktail of drugs in her bloodstream. It wasn't just an accident. It was a tragedy waiting to happen.
When the dust settled a little on this tragedy, Rhonda and Jarod lived, Amoreana and Denver died.
Raymond, Bek and I went to the hospital and saw Rhonda. We assured her that we loved her and wanted her to heal and be whole. In fact, we went several times during the month she was there.
We went to see her until SHE found it too painful to see us. She was responsible for the death of the only person in her life that she could say was truly her friend. You see, Amoreana was the only friend that encouraged her to be involved in her children's lives. (The father had custody.) Not only did she encourage Rhonda, she helped her plan outings and went with her.
Rhonda spent 5 1/2 years in prison for Amoreana and Denver's deaths.
I haven't seen her since she asked me not to come any more... it hurt too much... but I assure you, if I saw her again, I'd take her in my arms and hug her and tell her she's still loved and forgiven. I want her to remember the good things and put away the pain.
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In case you were wondering...
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Nov 14, 2005 7:34 am
938 Views
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This isn't really a blog entry, but just an F.Y.I. for those of you who may be interested and were wondering what the song was in Love Letters. It was "At This Moment" by Billy Vera and the Beaters.
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Love Letters, Part 2
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Nov 12, 2005 7:01 pm
1098 Views
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Take a step back in time to before the walk.
I was puttering in the kitchen while “he” was in the living room chatting with the kids. He,Tim, came in to see if he could help me with anything and to steal a kiss without the kids seeing.
One of my new favorite songs came on the radio, so he put his arms around me and we danced right there in the kitchen. As we danced, Tim asked me about the song. I didn’t know the title or the artist, I explained, I’d been hearing this song on the radio at work for the last month or so and it touched my heart. I’d tried and tried to hear the title or the artist, but something would happen ‒ a customer coming in or the phone interrupted my listening. Billy somebody was the closest I’d gotten to getting the information.
He laughed at me, but it was ok. It felt so good to be in his arms.
Now, back to after the walk.
Tim was wonderful. Even though he was hurting, he asked me to sit on the floor in front of him, so he could brush my hair. Of course I said yes. What woman wouldn’t? He was very gentle, very sensuous in the way he brushed my hair. In fact, he was as near perfect that night as any man could ever hope to be.
The ankle was a bit better the next morning, but still painful. I encouraged him to go to the doctor and get it x-rayed, but he refused. We talked on the phone that evening and it was still bothering him, but he still hadn’t had it checked out. He promised if it was still hurting in the morning, he would.
I didn’t hear from him the next day, so I called the motel where he and the crew were staying only to find out that he had checked out. I was a bit worried, but not exceedingly so. I figured he’d finally gone to get the ankle x-rayed and the hospital was keeping him until the swelling went down so they could do something about it. Quite frankly, I’d thought all along that he’d broken it.
You might remember at the beginning of the first blog I said there were love letters written and not sent by me. From that you might have guessed that things didn’t turn out quite as well as I’d hoped.
Remember that song we danced to? Aaaah, what irony! What did you think I would do at this moment, when I'm faced with the knowledge that you just don't love me? Oh, it wasn’t that he didn’t love me. It was that he neglected to tell me one little fact.
Did you think I would curse you or say things to hurt you? I could never hurt someone I love intentionally. Nor could I hurt the person they love.
Did you think I could hate you or raise my hands to you?... How could I hurt you when, Darlin', I love you? Oh, I wanted to hate him when I found out what he hadn’t told me, but I couldn’t. I’d fallen in love with every fiber of my being.
Even though he was married and caused me to unwittingly break what is a core value for me, I found myself even identifying with, I’d take twenty years from my life... if I could just hold you again, so I could say goodbye.
Those love letters chronicle the roller coaster of emotions I was going through. At first, I thought I would send them to him, so he could really KNOW what he’d put me through. Then, I realized they were really for me, so I kept them. I re-read them from time to time. Early on, I cried every time I read them. Each time I read them again, I feel the sting of hurt and betrayal less and less. Now, I can even laugh at parts.
OH... by the way... while this was all still fresh, I was at a conference and went to the hotel gift shop and found the GREATEST card. It read, (with wedding bells and lacy ribbons on the front) So, you’re married! and inside, Your wife is going to LOVE this card! Got to admit, I laughed my .... ummmm... bum... off and bought it. (Still have it, too.)
It might have been fun to send, but I’m not a vindictive nor spiteful person. Tim might have deserved it, but I wouldn’t want to have caused her any pain.
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Love Letters
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Nov 11, 2005 10:30 am
1124 Views
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In all my purging... divesting myself of possessions... I came across some old love letters. Some were from my husband when we were newlyweds and he was in Basic Training for the Army. Some were from a boyfriend I had a couple of years after Randy died.
The most interesting one was one that was written, but not sent, by me. I guess I shouldn't call it a letter. It was actually several letters written over about a 3 week period. All in all, they total 17 1/2 pages.
I went to a club with a good friend of mine as we often did on the weekends. I was a young widow and she was a divorcee. We'd been friends in high school and found we still clicked as friends many years later. She had a collection of truly tasteless joke books and quite often we'd study up on new jokes before we hit the club. (OH, how I used to be able to tell jokes that would make sailors blush!) We had a lot of fun entertaining ourselves and our friends with the latest naughty jokes. (If you get me drunk in Houston, I'm liable to do my comedy act of the best of the best dirty jokes. Never do it sober anymore... and get drunk even less frequently.)
Cindy and I were playing pool, drinking a beer and chatting with friends and strangers. He was at the table next to us with his work buddies. They were in town on a construction job. He was over 6' tall, blonde with a thin but athletic build. In some ways he reminded me of Bo Duke, only better looking. My, my, he was gorgeous! And he kept bending over in front of me to line up shots!
As the night wore on, he and his friend challenged our table to play doubles. I was flattered that he seemed a lot more interested in me than in Cindy. She was tall, thin and pretty. I'm a couple of inches shorter, though still tall at 5'9", not thin and, well, I've always seen myself as average in appearance.
We moved from the pool tables to the dance floor and had a good time. Some of the dance music was a bit too much... too loud, too urban. Neither of us enjoyed the music and really wanted to talk where we could actually hear one another so we decided to go for a drive.
He drove. I gave directions and was a wonderful tour guide. That night turned into a whirlwind romance. It was crazy. It was fun. It was exhilirating and I hadn't felt that way since long before Randy died.
I finally let him come over to the house. My kids were still young and I wanted to protect them emotionally. My oldest daughter was particularly sensitive about some man "trying to take her father's place." Even she liked him. He said all the right things... kind, caring, affirming. I was amazed and smitten beyond belief.
We went for a walk that night and later wound up at the school. He was messing around on the basketball court and showing off for me. Once he came down wrong and hurt his ankle.
We went back to the house to check it out. I pulled off his boots and saw a suspiciously swollen ankle. He refused to go to the ER. (It couldn't be that bad.) We elevated it and put ice on it. Even with the bad ankle, we had a glorious evening and I let him spend the night.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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a little butter... a little sugar.... ummmm...
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Nov 7, 2005 9:53 am
936 Views
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I heard an amazing story on the radio the other day. The story of Robert “King” Wilkerson, one of the famed Angola Three, got me thinking.
“King” Wilkerson spent 29 of his 31 years in prison in solitary confinement. (By the way, he was released after a new trial. Seems his primary offense was forming a Black Panthers chapter with 2 of his friends, so here in America we have political prisoners too.) While in solitary, he did something extraordinary with his time.
Wilkerson saved a few pop cans and the butter and sugar that came on his food tray every day until he had enough to make praline candies using toilet paper rolls as fuel for his pop can stove. He calls them Freelines now.
That, in and of itself, is pretty ingenious, but that isn’t what impressed me most about his story.
He passed that candy to death row inmates. He wanted to give them something to brighten an otherwise depressing, sterile existance.
Now you may choose to think that a death row inmate’s life should be devoid of any joy. They are getting what they deserve. And that’s your prerogative, if you do. I respect your opinion.
However, I choose to see his actions as ones of compassion and grace. What is grace but an unearned, undeserved gift of love and compassion.
I don’t talk of this to glorify anything this man may or may not have done. So then, why do I call attention to it?
If a man in his position of powerlessness and meager resources can reach out to one less fortunate than himself, what is my excuse? What are OUR excuses?
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Emotional Manipulation
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Nov 6, 2005 7:06 am
1021 Views
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Aaaaahhhh... it happened again, as it all too often does. Manipulation in the chat rooms. It's usually by women, but I've seen a man or two do it too.
Here's the scenario. Man A comes into chatroom. Woman A says hello and strikes up a conversation. Well, women B, C, D, & E also say hello as well as a couple of guys. Everyone's just being friendly, and that's good.
Man and Woman A are exchanging niceties and may be getting into an actual conversation. Both say hi to new entries as they come into the room. However, when something of interest comes up to ... say Woman E... and she chimes into the conversation, Woman A gets jealous. Yes, jealous -- that nasty old green-eyed monster.
If Man A and Woman E exchange more than a couple of posts, Woman A starts talking about how she's being ignored so she'll just leave. Or, she might say that she's interrupting the conversation so she'll go.
The classic manipulation has begun.
It's so obvious that she wants Man A to beg her forgiveness and chat only with her. The reason it's so incredibly obvious is that there can be 20 other people in the room, all of whom tell her she's not and she should stay. They try to strike up conversations with her.
Does she pay attention to any of these other people? Of course not! She's staked out "her man" and, by golly, no one else better talk to him or she's pissed!
Now she'll usually milk the "don't go" crowd and bait the man again at least once, but she leaves.
Sometimes he follows. Sometimes he doesn't.
It saddens me that some people feel they have to resort to this kind of emotional manipulation to get the attention they crave. And it saddens me even more when others fall for it.
PS...Yes, once in a GREAT WHILE, Man and Woman A actually have a relationship going on. (I've accidently stepped on those toes before and apologized for it.) More often than not, they don't.
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Now about those velvet handcuffs...
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Nov 4, 2005 8:32 am
1007 Views
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There’s been a lot of joking off and on in The Boudoir about my blue (although some mistakenly refer to them as purple) velvet handcuffs. They do, indeed, exist. And, yes, I did make them myself.
Before you go off on the “CarMa’s kinky” bunny trail, let me tell you a bit more about them and how they came to be.
In case you don’t know, I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Sculpture and these handcuffs were one of the last pieces I created while working on that BFA in 2002. As with almost all my work, there’s a lot more to it than the visual experience of looking at the work and even the physical experience of touching the work. I’ve always had a very strong interest in psychology which is quite evident. (If you want happy little trees, find a gypsy with a crystal ball to conjure up Bob Ross. Don’t look at my art!) So, let me get on with the physical description.
The velvet cuffs have thick foam padding and are upholstered with lush dark blue velvet. Approximately 3” wide and connected by two feet of velvet-covered chain, they appear more like manacles than handcuffs. The cuffs are secured with tiny gold padlocks and the piece is exhibited with the keys in the locks. They are very comfortable, but are not actual restraints. It’s very easy to slide one’s hands out of them.
WHAT WAS I THINKING?!? I was thinking about how so many of us don’t live out our dreams. We work at jobs that bore us or we hate in order to make enough money to buy bigger and better toys. We may live in nice homes with nice families and drive nice cars. We may have perfectly manicured lawns and lovely little gardens and go out to great restaurants for elegant dinners. But... we pay the price for those things through sacrificing part of ourselves in order to satisfy others or society.
Thus the functional, yet comfy, handcuffs... complete with keys in the locks. We have the ability to change our jobs and our circumstances, but we choose not to. We have the keys to get out, yet we still choose to stay. We become complacent in our very comfortable restraints, satisfied to live in the comfortable prisons of our own making.
Our prisons are more psychological than real. They are our comfort zones and we don’t like them breeched.
I knew that when I exhibited them, I’d get a lot of snickers and comments. That’s ok. Those reactions are little nudges at the viewer’s comfort zone. And speaking of comfort zones... yes, just making them and exhibiting them forced me out of my own comfort zone a bit. And that’s ok, too.
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on vulnerability
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Nov 3, 2005 9:41 am
950 Views
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I came into the room to say hello to a friend. No sooner had I said hello than he asked me to go to IM. This was unusual, so I knew immediately something was amiss.
He couldn’t wait to tell me that he’d met a special lady. He wanted me, his best friend, to be the first to know.
Of course I was delighted for him, as he knew I would be. He had pretty much resigned himself to being alone, so I was thrilled to see that he’d opened himself up to the possibility of a new relationship.
The strange thing was I found myself getting a bit misty eyed. Why? Was I jealous?
Possibly, but not of her. I’d never had hopes of developing any relationship other than friendship with this man . If not that, what?
As I reflected on why I was reacting in such an inconsistent manner, something crept up on me. It was an emotion I didn’t recognize. If I recognized and acknowledged it, I had to own it. I didn’t want to own it! I didn’t want to acknowledge it had any place in mylife.
I’m a strong woman. I’ve weathered a lot of storms in mylife... the loss of my husband (I was only 31.); being a single parent of 3 headstrong children; the loss of my first-born child (She was only 18.). To admit that I’m lonely felt like weakness.
Oh, dear God, I said it! It was an incredible sense of lonliness that washed over me. That hint of jealousy was merely a symptom. As I acknowledged my lonliness, the tears began to flow.
I was reminded of something. Tears can serve many functions. They can be healing as well as a sign of mental or physical pain. Also, weakness and vulnerability are two different things. To allow oneself to be vulnerable can take far more strength and courage than to have a “stiff upper lip.”
This experience may just be a step in the process towards healing, wholeness and being truly ready to share my heart and soul with special someone... to allow myself to be vulnerable to and with the right person.
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Better behaved.... moi???
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Oct 22, 2005 9:32 pm
980 Views
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In light of the family lore previously shared about me as a child and that this is Southwestern College’s homecoming weekend, I’ll share one more story about my early childhood.
It was homecoming Sunday. Grace Methodist was full due to the students and alumni that were at Southwestern for this special weekend. It was tradition to come sing with the church’s chancel choir. The choir loft was overflowing with singers, sitting on the stairs and in folding chairs.
The church was packed too. Folding chairs were set up in the aisles to accommodate the large crowd. These weren’t new-fangled metal chairs. Oh no, they were the old-fashioned wooden kind that made lots of noise when you moved.
Mom had discovered that this little 3-year-old was much quieter and better behaved if we sat in the third row, directly behind the children’s choirs.
In the middle of the sermon, I stood up and announced that I’d listened to Rev. Viets long enough, I was going home. Now, I did NOT do this in my “church voice.” Oh, no, I said it rather loudly and proceeded to do just that... go home. I was small enough to go under the pews and squeeze through the chairs, but Mom was not.
Mom says she’d never heard a sermon or a service ended so quickly in her entire life as Rev. Viets ended that sermon and service that day.
This is one sin I’m glad my children didn’t repeat. Hmmmmmm... maybe I’d better wait and see if it goes unto the third and forth generation.
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So you think I'm strange NOW? ... <giggles>
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Oct 21, 2005 11:17 am
1148 Views
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I did wierd things as a child. I think I’ll share a few...
My mother used to make outrageous threats when I was a child. “If you don’t behave, I’m going to....” (fill in the blank). It might end with.... throw you in the trash can... or... flush you down the toilet... or... tell your father when he gets home (OK.. not so outrageous)... or... some other silly thing.
One day, Mom was working at her sewing machine. She kept hearing water running, so she decided, with 3 small children, she might need to investigate. When she got to the bathroom, there I was with my little 2-year-old butt wedged into the toilet happily flushing away. When she asked what I was doing, I looked at her and gleefully replied,
“Ha! Ha, Mom! You can’t flush me down the toilet, ‘cause I won’t go!”
It was then that Mom switched over to the garbage can thing. I’d fit in it!
Then there was the case of the purple puppy dogs. Quite frankly, I think I was influenced by my nutty (but favorite!) aunt on the color. She was a Southwestern College student at the time and their colors are purple and black.
I had little purple puppy dogs that lived between my toes. (No ordinary imaginary playmate for me!) I’d take them out and play with them from time to time. I was especially careful at bath time. I very gently removed them from between my toes and played with them during the bath. When it was time to get out, I carefully lifted them from the water and placed them on the edge of the tub until after drying. Then, naturally, they were returned to their normal location... between my toes.
One day tragedy struck! My mother got in a hurry and pulled the plug on the tub before I could place the pups on the edge. Poor babies took a trip down the drain and were never seen again. I was devastated. I think I cried for.... ummmmm... maybe 15 minutes.
Enough for now!... There’s more sorting and pricing to be done for the gambler’s sale tomorrow.
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