I am a victim of abuse. Just look at my right thigh—covered in a lumpy, reddish, purplish, bluish wound. It’s a fact from which I can no longer hide.
Every night for several weeks now, it’s happened. Every night. Sometimes more than once. As any crisis, the phases begin with my sudden awakening as I hear the dreaded sound. In sets denial. “Tell me this isn’t happening. Not tonight. It can’t be. I’m too tired for this.” Persistent truth turns my thoughts to the more plaintive pleading. “Please stop barking, Freckles. Please. Please just be quiet.” The truth is as loud as the barking outside my door. I clamber out of bed as the next stage settles in: anger. Seriously. That dog should realize that we aren’t afraid of deer attacking us and massacring us in our beds. As soon as I open the door and our little wag-tail dive-bombs my toes, licking and wriggling all over with delight, my anger melts into guilt. How could I be angry at her when she so desperately tries to please. “Be quiet,” I say sternly, holding her mouth closed tightly. That exemplifies resolution for my crisis. Suddenly I understand the full import of what is happening, I comprehend what I must do, I suck up and do it and in the end I am a stronger person. Except for last night.
Because last night, Freckles was the victim of an unjust accusation. I slid the heavy glass door open to scold her and discovered that while she licked my bare toes earnestly, the barking continued. Taska, on our property, let the whole world know that she had decided to run for best watch dog. About as conceited and ridiculous as Al Gore running for president. Of course I knew that we’d torn most of the deck off. All that was left was a narrow walkway in front of my door and a small walkway out to the hot tub. I thought I was stepping onto the walkway to peer out at Taska, but actually, I missed it by a few inches and stepped right off the edge of the porch. Thump. Down I went about three feet and landed easily on my feet where I stood, feeling slightly dazed. It wouldn’t have been a nasty accident at all, had not the walkway decking boards decided to give the side of my right leg an aggressive kiss on the way down. The result was something like an enormous hickey, spreading the length of my right left. And it hurt something fierce. Freckles licked my face as I climbed back up onto the deck. “Good girl,” I whispered, gritting my teeth. “Good girl. Don’t bark.”
We saw the light at the same time. Just a tiny green lantern flittering aimlessly across the driveway. “Bark!” went Freckles and dashed off down the steps. With a quick lunge she gulped down the firefly and met me at my door with a green sparkle stuck to her lips. “Be quiet,” I warned, before limping inside.
A private examination revealed a large patch of strawberries growing up my leg. I climbed into bed and went to sleep. Freckles didn’t bark.
By morning the strawberries had become a fruit salad. Blueberries, raspberries, blackberries. Very colorful. Perhaps even a few gooseberries had joined the ranks leaving my thigh feeling rather tender the rest of the day.
Now, if my father had done to me what that porch did to me, we’d call it abuse. And I’d be a victim. I’m thinking of exposing that porch for the monster it really is.
I hope Freckles doesn’t bark tonight.
Showing posts with label Freckles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Freckles. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I can’t seem to catch up and I hate to move on, leaving behind all the unimportant little things that happen. I’m silly, but dates just stick out in my mind and today makes exactly a year and a half in Arkansas. I realized I’m beginning to conform to the culture. Sunday night, Grandma Sandy offered me a Coke and I asked her “What kind?” She looked at me blankly before answering, “Well…Cherry.”
Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:
Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.
Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.
Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.
We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.
President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.
Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.
We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.
Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.
Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.
Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.
Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.
I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.
Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.
Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.
This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.
That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.
Just a few things of possible interest before I move on:
Freckles got herself caught in a trap. We rescued her, certain she’d be feeling pretty mellow for the next few days. No such happening. Apparently it was a pretty pathetic trap.
Jacindarella boarded a plane and moved to Peru, with a long-term goal of winding up in Bolivia.
Dathan moved back to Arkansas, one semester short of graduating with his master’s degree, under rather interesting circumstances—involving false accusations and an unjust campus judiciary system. That didn’t stop him from filming several new Homely Hobo videos.
We spent the month of January milking the neighbor’s cow while Olga was in Russia trying to straighten out citizenship issues. Josh Potts was right: milk comes from Wal-mart. The stuff I squeezed from the lumpy udder of Maxine was pure and undiluted labor: unfiltered, unpasturized, unhomoginized. It’s been sometime since my milking days.
President Obama was sworn into office and lied through his teeth when he swore to uphold and defend the constitution. Every action since has been in total opposition of his oath. Hillary Clinton was appointed Secretary of State and Kansas’ own witch of a governor, Kathleen Sibelius has been appointed to his cabinet. I shudder, I quake, I groan. One thing it certainly accomplishes is turning my mind away from politics and back to the nitty gritty of seeking hearts for Christ.
Mom and Papa celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. In honor of the special occasion, dinner and entertainment were provided by Wynkyn, Blinkyn and Nod aka Stop, Drop and Roll aka Larry, Curly and Mo aka Sin, Cosin and Tangent aka Knife, Fork and Spoon aka Uno, Dos and Tres aka A, B and C etc, etc, etc.
We’re now a family of night owls. Well, sort of. Papa was put on second shift at ConAgra, meaning he works from right after lunch until eleven at night. That’s a little different schedule from heading out for work at 5 AM. But we’re enjoying having the mornings together.
Tommy got himself fired for overstaying at our house. Over speaker phone. We almost felt sorry for him before he confessed that it was a set-up he and his boss had hatched to prank us.
Lydia turned twelve and in honor of her birthday she hosted a tea party. Unfortunately, she has no young lady friends her own age, so her special event was attended by a group of terribly excited young men—between the ages of 20 and 30.
Josiah finished the front deck for our house. Finished with finesse, I must add. It’s simply beautiful, even devoid of his original plan for a grand staircase. We hauled in a load of gravel and added a parking lot out front.
Nathaniel turned twenty-five. Twenty-five sounds so old. At least for my brother.
I set a new personal running record: five miles in fifty-four minutes.
Josiah’s been writing rap for some time now and it’s been steadily growing better. He brings pieces to me, pleading for help and the concept finally rubbed off. I never intended to show my first attempt in that genre to anyone but him, but he enjoyed rapping it so much he wanted to show it to Zach and then the cat was out of the bag. I’ve never labored over a piece of poetry, but that style certainly requires effort, so I take off my hat to those who make a regular habit of it.
Judy was admitted to the hospital for a blockage in her stomach and gave all of us something of a scare. I’ll confess I had no clue whether or not she’d ever come home again, but the Lord cleared up the blockage and brought her home safely. Of course, their car gave up the ghost not long ago, so life is a tight circle of daily happenings for them.
This week I navigated the streets of the Kansas City metropolis in snowy weather all by myself. Well, Josiah was with me, but he’s no help when it comes to navigation. It’d been nearly a year since I’d seen my grandma—my Mom’s mom, so we decided to make the trip. “This is so much fun,” said my eighty-two-year-old grandma who runs a hundred miles an hour (as long as her pacemaker battery is charged), “I’m so glad we get to spend time together without any adults present.” Because at twenty-one, eighteen and eighty-two, we’re all still kids.
That’s all the measurable changes. My mind has been busy running a million different directions. I started over again in the Old Testament in January and I just wrapped up Second Chronicles. I’m always in awe of the concept that I am God’s temple—and He has chosen to indwell me. I find myself lying awake at night trying to fathom God—His size, His majesty, His eternity, His beauty, His power, His glory, His love. It’s when people try to accuse me of being smart that I feel most stupid, knowing I lack wisdom and understanding and feeling foolish in my vain efforts to understand God or to plan His ways. But always, always His ways are good. Dissatisfaction and restlessness have been pervading my attitude for the past several months—some for my spiritual good, some reflective of my selfish tendencies. I can’t bear the thought of mediocrity, or status quo Christianity, so different from the life of Christ. I rage against the expectations of the world, and also of conservative Christendom that seems so content with so much safety, tranquility and comfort and would counsel me to be as well. Yet, how am I set apart and holy? In my raging, I forget that idealism can be a lovely thing when applied to oneself, but a devastating poison when prescribed for others. And I neglect to remember that God was no fool when He placed me exactly where He placed me and that my part is to joyfully submit to my authorities and to sing His praise with every tone in my body and trust Him to orchestrate the majestic symphony of time. I always come back to the same lessons, like a dog chasing her tail, alternately confused and enthusiastic. Obviously, I didn’t earn God’s favor.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
I had thought I’d be lonely, but I turned out to enjoy spending the day alone. The house was so warm and cozy in spite of the pouring rain that I wound up in shorts all day, working out, writing, reading, Bible studying and playing the piano. Yesterday’s musings now have a melody—I like it, I think. At least I like it today. Would I had recording equipment.
Freckles was rather delighted to see me in the morning and we took a romp together. I will never cease to be amazed how quickly she can cover the ground. With me running full throttle, she loped at my heals, periodically springing up to nip my backside. No doubt she thought the surprised gurgles I made meant I enjoyed her performance. By pinching her mouth shut I soon set her straight and we played with less awkwardness thereafter.
If Michael Card and I were exchanging brainwaves, we couldn’t have been thinking more alike. As I listened to his newest CD, “The Hidden Face of God” (a Christmas gift from Nathaniel and Lauren) I was blown away by the similarity of his thoughts and words to my own from last night. His music weeps with the simplicity and intricacy of agonizing truth. How real is the pain of the world. How real the deceiver who delights in our suffering. How real God’s infinite love for a world at enmity with Him—though He can’t bear to even look upon our sin. How real the grief and wounds born by Jesus, our Healer. How real the redemption through His blood. How real the hope to which I now cling—fully assured that through every heart-ache, every sorrow, pain or grief, the Lord is working for good, for beauty, for His glory.
Lord, aid my sin-dimmed eyes to see
Thy plan throughout eternity
The workings of Thy majesty,
‘Tis Thou defines reality.
When truth and my perception part
Renew my mind and cleanse my heart
To put my hope and trust in Thee
In theory and reality.
Freckles was rather delighted to see me in the morning and we took a romp together. I will never cease to be amazed how quickly she can cover the ground. With me running full throttle, she loped at my heals, periodically springing up to nip my backside. No doubt she thought the surprised gurgles I made meant I enjoyed her performance. By pinching her mouth shut I soon set her straight and we played with less awkwardness thereafter.
If Michael Card and I were exchanging brainwaves, we couldn’t have been thinking more alike. As I listened to his newest CD, “The Hidden Face of God” (a Christmas gift from Nathaniel and Lauren) I was blown away by the similarity of his thoughts and words to my own from last night. His music weeps with the simplicity and intricacy of agonizing truth. How real is the pain of the world. How real the deceiver who delights in our suffering. How real God’s infinite love for a world at enmity with Him—though He can’t bear to even look upon our sin. How real the grief and wounds born by Jesus, our Healer. How real the redemption through His blood. How real the hope to which I now cling—fully assured that through every heart-ache, every sorrow, pain or grief, the Lord is working for good, for beauty, for His glory.
Lord, aid my sin-dimmed eyes to see
Thy plan throughout eternity
The workings of Thy majesty,
‘Tis Thou defines reality.
When truth and my perception part
Renew my mind and cleanse my heart
To put my hope and trust in Thee
In theory and reality.