Sometimes I just don't have words.

Online reminders services are great.

Until they remind you your dead best friend's birthday is coming up. Not a fun way to wake up this morning.

Total Avoidance

**Dibs on title** Total Avoidance would be a great name for a short story. I'll have to write that as soon as I get on with this avoidance thing.

I am so not good at this shit.

I watched another movie over the weekend and I can't get it out of my head. It sounded funny. It was funny. It really was--at times. At other times it was completely gut-wrenching for me.

The movie is Two Weeks. "In this bittersweet comedy, four adult siblings gather at their dying mother's house in North Carolina for what they expect to be a quick, last goodbye. Instead, they find themselves trapped-- together -- for two weeks."

I've been trying to avoid thinking about it since I finished the movie. But it doesn't go away. I wrote about my best friend in the whole world dying and dammit I miss her.

I keep waiting for her late night phone calls and her 3 part messages on my phone. I hear her voice in my head constantly. I find little things all over my house that she sent me. Things that are just stupid to everyone else, but they tell me a story. They remind me that Jill cared enough about me to think of me and she'd send it or give it to me while I was visiting. A Starbucks sleeve, a Hershey's chocolate mug that says Jim on it. A little "shit shovel" for my brain. And she's gone. Fucking cancer.

What hit me most about that movie, a lot of it hit me hard, but there was a part--

Sally Fields is the mom dying of cancer. At one point her daughter tells the brother, "That's it. She waited for the grandkids."

And Jill waited for me. I brought her mom down stayed a week with her, laughed, cried, watched New Year's Eve fireworks from her hospital room, and left. Do you know how hard it was to leave knowing I'd never see her again? I kissed her forehead again and again and didn't want to move. I told her I loved her over and over and tried so hard not to break down. I couldn't hug her because it hurt her little body too much.

I started the drive from South Carolina back up home and it was horrible. I had lunch with a friend that day in Kentucky, thank you God. And Jill called to make sure I got there. She could barely breathe or talk, but she called to make I got there okay.

Was I that kind of friend to her? God, I hope so.

I always thought those little gift books were stupid. But with Jill's posty notes and handwritten funnies inside, I now know I'm the stupid one.

She'd slap me upside the head and change the subject if she were sitting here with me. She'd babble on and on about silly, fun stuff until she had me in tears of laughter instead of sadness.

I still have her phone number on my cell phone. I still go to her blog and read over and over few posts she put up. What do I do with that?

Jill

Jill and I met in 1998 in Aurora, Missouri at Union Planters Bank where we were both hired. It was an instant bond since we both "weren't from around there". She was from Illinois, around Peoria and I was from Northwest Indiana. We both talked fast and wore weird shoes, far as those Missouri folks were concerned.




Phil was gone a lot. We'd just purchased our very own semi and he was driving it alone. I'd come off the road so we could start trying to have a baby. I conceived Zane January 24, 1999. Jill was my labor coach and only friend. Many days, she's what kept me from going batshit crazy.

She even painted my toenails.

She was the only one physically with me at Zane's birth. She fed me ice chips and comforted me.

I'll tell you more about our adventures when I can get through them. Right now, I'm typing through my tears and I just don't think I can go there.

Jill had emailed me on my son's birthday in October 2005 to tell me that she'd had breast cancer for a year, had a mastectomy, chemo and was "allll better". I believed her.

In November, the following month, I had the chance to go down to South Carolina to visit her, I hadn't seen her in 5 years. So I went and we had such a good visit.

Then in September of 2006, she called me to tell me her lung had collapsed. She was scared and alone. Zane and I rushed down to take care of her.



A year later, October of 2007, she called telling me she was low on blood and had to get some on Halloween. Just like her. I did some research and found out this meant the cancer was no longer in remission.

I got another call last week, Jill's neighbor, saying that Jill was not doing well and might not have much longer. So I packed up and headed down there.

I spent a week there, thank God I got to see her when she was still coherent. I got her ice chips and I even rubbed her feet. We used our Lamaze signals for her pain this time.

We spent New Year's Eve 1999 together, my son's first and New Year's Eve 2007 together, her last.

I want to say more, but I can't right now.

LoveYouMissYouBye.

Rest in Jesus' arms sweety.

June 1, 1968 - January 8, 2008

Sticking With A Theme

Who me? Sticking with anything...are you kidding?

Sometimes God smacks me upside the head in a playful way with themes in my life. He gives me clues and I think he starts laughing at me the way I laugh at Phil when he turns circles in the kitchen because he can't figure out what it is he should be doing.

I posted this at the Misfits Blog about Emotion in writing on Monday. Today on a new-to-me blog, I read this from Responding To Emptiness:

God is a God of truth, and acting as if our situation or emotions didn’t exist dishonors him and does violence to our own souls. God created us as emotional beings, and he is not glorified when we try to pretend away our feelings—even the ugly ones. Worse, this response robs us of the opportunity to engage with God and to hear from him in the midst of whatever we are experiencing. How can he help us work through our feelings to something holy and righteous if we won’t let him shine light into our hearts?

Acting as if our emotions don't exist dishonors God.

God is not glorified when we try to pretend away our feelings.

Wow.

That's pretty intense, don't you think? Oh how guilty am I of shoving stuff aside? I remember clearly my Uncle Ed's funeral and how I was so numb. I pretended I could handle it, and people thought I did. People kept apologizing to me saying, "I'm sorry, I know how hard you fought for him." And I kept telling myself, "I knew this was going to happen. In May of 2005 I told his hospital appointed psychiatrist that he needed to be in a facility he couldn't check himself out of. The doctor told me the only places like that were state facilities and there was a 6-8 month waiting list. I said, and I'll never forget that day, "He'll be dead in 6-8 months." The doctor looked away and said, "I know. I'm sorry there's nothing I can do."

9 months 15 days later, he killed himself. And I knew it was going to happen. There wasn't a damn thing I could do. I was plagued by depression and nightmares in the weeks following his suicide. I knew I was grieving, but I denied my emotions. Until that night I wrote a very, very hard to read piece. I sent it to a few people (you know who you are and I'll love you for two eternities for going through this with me) I know it was hard for them to read, it was harder to write. But it was the first time I was honest with myself and God. I shared it because I had to.

On the outside, I'm not a very emotional person. But inside, where people can't get to, where they can't chip away at the core of my being, I am me. A very vulnerable, emotional person. One who is trying to learn to deal with the emotions that are a natural, God-given gift.

Things That Are Hard To Talk About

I wrote a story called Whisky Lilacs and when writing it, certain scenes were in my head like I was watching a movie. Today, I watched a video of the song Whiskey Lullaby by Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss that reminded me of the process in my head when writing that story.

Sometimes things are beautiful even when they're dark and painful. As a writer, I struggle to fully explain things like the cross, which is at once the most beautiful expression of love and at the same time, the darkest of moments as Jesus cries out to His Father, "Why have you forsaken me?"

Whiskey Lullaby is an example of dark beauty.

"...the angels sang a whiskey lullably"

Nothing to Read Here Part 3

Here's Part 1

Part 2

Chronologically speaking, I'm not doing well here and I'm going to have to back things up a bit. Most of the story I've told has been from 2005 until now, but there's a pretty big event that I skipped right over, it was what put me in the hot seat.

There's so much backstory that its hard to really know at this point what is important and what's not. Uncle Ed was only thirteen years older than me, he was my big brother that I didn't have. When mom and dad got married, they bought a house across the alley from Grandma and Uncle Ed and I spent the majority of my childhood there because my grandma spoiled me. She bought me Cocoa Puffs and microwave chicken patties and took me to the bowling alley on her league nights and let me have all the Coke and fried mozzarella sticks I wanted on top of giving me pocketfuls of quarters to play Ms. Pac Man. Uncle Ed and his buddies treated me like the kid sister. In one of his old yearbooks, all his friends signed messages to me. I was two at the time. I remember one said, "Give me smoochies, Michelle" because I'd toddle around kissing all my big brothers. I wish I had that yearbook now. Most of them were at the funeral and I miss them.

I wasn't a very nice kid growing up and I caused my parents dump trucks full of problems. I don't know why. Can you imagine me...being rebellious? Ha! I haven't ever been able to deal well with rules, its something that is just in my blood, something that makes me fight to break out. When I'd fight with my parents I'd go to grandma and Uncle Ed's. But the time I started driving, Uncle Ed had married and moved, so I'd drive to his house. I'm pretty sure I spent more time at his house than I did my own. Aunt Tammy had to go back to work weeks after Andrew was born and they paid me to come straight from school to their house to watch the boys, Frank was a toddler and Andrew, newborn. Uncle Ed worked midnights and slept from the time I got there until it was time for him to leave and then Aunt Tammy would come home. I can't remember how long I did this, but it seems like it was quite awhile.

I moved to Missouri in March of 1995 and Uncle Ed's third son, Kyle was just a little tyke. The week after I left home for the first time, Kyle was admitted to the hospital for a rare blood disorder and I got a call that I might have to come home for a bone marrow transplant if no one else matched. I was mortified that I was 600 miles from home, there wasn't anything I could do. Things worked out, Kyle's a teenager now and healthy as ever, but I still have a hard time with the whole not being there thing.

Zane was born late in 1999 and I wasn't clear on what religion I was and Catholic ritual says you baptize a child around six weeks of age. So I told Phil that I thought I should do it, otherwise I'd never hear the end of from my grandmother. This was the first time Phil and I had spoke of God, religion, denomination, etc...it didn't go well. At.all.

Phil refused to be part of it.

His grandmother, Grandma Barnes, wanted to meet my family so she drove with me to Indiana for the Christening and Phil met us there (he was driving the semi). I think the only reason Phil came was because Grandma Barnes was there and I often wonder if that's why she asked to come with me?

Phil refused to even come to the church. Uncle Ed stood in Phil's place. I understand now why Phil was so dead-set against the Christening, but I didn't then and that's a story for another day.

When we moved back to Indiana in 2000, we lived with Uncle Ed for maybe a half a year or so, I really don't recall exactly how long it was, but I loved being with him and the boys. I had missed them so much the six years we were in Missouri.

By 2004, which is the year I'm trying to get to for this event that was so pivotal in the story, Phil and I had bought a house about an hour from the rest of my family. Uncle Ed's downward spiral had started maybe in the previous year or two? Until September 2004, I was pretty unclear and had just heard stories of him acting strange and taking a lot of over-the-counter Rx narcotics.

He'd have withdrawls, which none of the doctors or hospitals saw for what it was. Sometimes I wonder if my brother, sister-in-law, Phil and I were the only ones to see things clear? Uncle Ed would take a ninety day script of Vicodin in just three or four weeks and shortly after develop "symptoms" uncontrollable shakes which he said was nerve pain. Please don't think I'm crass, cold or unsympathetic to his actual pain. Uncle Ed did suffer a horrible accident and several complications, and I know in my heart, he did have pain. However, I'm convinced that his shakes were not nerve related. They were the direct result of coming off of highly addictive narcotics. This is the kind of stuff I learned in September 2004.

It was a big weekend for our family. My cousin Jen was getting married! You know how Catholics love weddings, it was something all of us were looking forward to. In telling this story now, I realize that no one in the family really knows what happened that night except me. Uncle Ed didn't feel good. He didn't want to go to the wedding and told my mom he was going to stay home, my mom called and told me.

My stomach sank and a feeling of dread like I've never known wrapped me up and squeezed, breathing was difficult. I told my mom I wasn't going to the wedding either, I said it before I even knew the words were coming out of my mouth. I don't think she really thought it was necessary for me to stay with him, but I knew if I didn't he'd be dead. I saw it as she was telling me he was staying home, but I couldn't tell her that.

After a phone call to Uncle Ed, I was on my way to pick him up, he'd stay a couple days at my house. He'd just had something--a surgery, a hospital stay, I can't remember, but he wasn't released to drive, although he made short trips to the grocery store, etc...so it wasn't like he was completely disabled. Insisting that I be in control of his meds, I took charge. Things were already at a point that some of the family was aware he was abusing his medication, but from my perspective, no one really seemed to do anything. He handed over the pills willingly and we had a great talk, about God even, on the drive to my house. He started to dose off towards the end of the hour trip, so I let him sleep.

Phil had dinner ready when we got to our house and we ate together and talked, Phil had to work five in the afternoon until five in the morning, so he left shortly after Uncle Ed and I arrived. On our property is a place we have huge bonfires. In the summer and fall, Phil and I often have a fire and sit with a glass of wine for me, a beer for him and watch the fire, the stars, listen to the frogs, and talk. Uncle Ed wanted a bonfire and I thought it would be a great opportunity for us to relax and talk, but it was too early to start the fire. He asked if he could get on our riding lawn mower because it was relaxing for him and his yard was so small he couldn't enjoy the wide openness of the country. So of course I let him. Figured it couldn't hurt anything.

He didn't even make it around the yard once. This is the best picture I have to help describe the scene. Just to the right, where the tree is cut off in the picture...there's a telephone pole. If you look at the road in this picture, you can almost tell there's a ditch between the road and the yard, but it doesn't look that deep, the picture is kind of deceptive. Anyway, right before the telephone pole, Uncle Ed crashed the riding lawn mower into the ditch and was hanging over the steering wheel, unconscious.


More tomorrow.

Nothing to Read Here (part 2)

Here's part 1

From yesterday:

Except Jesus forgot one very important detail. He forgot to let Uncle Ed live.

The downward spiral of Uncle Ed's mental and physical health began without many noticing, I'm afraid. To pinpoint an exact date or time frame would resemble an attempt to duct tape water to the wall.

My Uncle Ed is my mom's baby brother. She was the oldest of four and at the young age of eleven, had to become an adult and raise herself along with her siblings.

I could surmise the downward spiral never actually started anywhere, it began before his birth with genetics. His uncle committed suicide, also.

I could presume that environment piled on genetics led to his demise. His mother was constantly saying, "I just wish I was dead." They'd come home from school to find her down on hands and knees, head in the oven, trying to kill herself. His father was sleeping with his uncle's wife. This is what led his uncle to suicide and the catalyst for his sister, my grandma, my mom's mom, to stick her head in the oven and take up Vodka. Kind of a family tradition, huh?

He was around three when his uncle died, when his dad married his aunt while still married to his mother, when his mom and dad finally divorced. DNA tests later in life, proved that the kids Uncle Ed thought were his cousins were actually his half-siblings.

Hatred and bitterness were just a way of life in this family. Dysfunction exists to a certain degree in every family, seems like we got a bigger dose of it than most.

I could assume, which I did for many years, that the role of the Catholic church played a part in Uncle Ed's ability to cope in a healthy manner. Maybe it was just my grandmother, the Priests, and the nuns twisting the Catholic doctrine, but really, when you're told enough times as a child that you're going to hell--you eventually believe it and then it doesn't really matter what you do because you don't have someone to save you, you don't have a loving God. What you have is a God with a big whip waiting to beat you every time you fuck up and a dead savior hanging bloody from a cross.

Maybe it was the fact that Uncle Ed got into an accident on 80/94, captured by Chicago news stations on film that some of us believe was actually his first suicide attempt. The footage looked like he ran his car right into a semi on purpose. He survived however, life really headed south at this point. He was in and out of hospitals and had a doctor who thought narcotic pain killers were Tic-tacs and doled them out without guilt. Uncle Ed was definitely addicted to them. He had several overdose attempts. I think it got to be something like 6 attempts in 8 months.

In late April of 2005, I got a call around 7:30 in the morning. I hate 7:30 in the morning, it seems to be when all of our family emergencies occur. Anyway, my mom called me and told me they found Uncle Ed passed out in his bedroom, unconscious. They called 911 and he was at the ER, unresponsive. His organs were shutting down and the doctor was suggesting that the family gather because he wasn't going to make it.

I live an hour from the hospital he was at. I woke Phil up, we prayed and I got in the car with my Bible.




More tomorrow.

Keep Moving, Nothing to read here.

Today Cara posted "God's Ways Aren't Necessarily Our Ways" and when I commented on her post, what came out took me entirely by surprise. Again.

I've got to hit this head-on--is there another way? It may be a one day post, it might be a series, right now all I really know is I need to get this out before it kills me.

Confession #1

I thought about journaling all this, but I felt like God was pushing me to do it here, live. Not for attention or sympathy, but I think because here, out in the open I can't pretend it doesn't exist. If I journal it, I can keep avoiding the issue.

So here goes. Confession #2

The reason I'm writing this is because I went through an excruciating time one year ago today. It was really longer than a year, but the climactic ending was on February 20, 2006. This is about my Uncle Ed's suicide. I've shared with very few people what happened leading up to that day. With my innermost, trusted friends I shared some disturbing journaling--I will not share that here. Ever. What I want to get to is this overwhelming fear I have, because I just can't stand it anymore.

I fear that God allowed all of the events of my Uncle's death to prepare me for something worse.

There. I said it. Out loud and in public. You cannot fathom how much I hate admitting that I fear something, but this is incapacitating me. All day, every day thoughts hammer my soul.

Who's next? Will my husband die? My son? My brother? My sister? My parents?

Realistically, I know they're going to die, we all are. But its the cause of death that is clogging up my days like cholesterol in arteries. The walls are closing in even though I'm fighting with everything I've got to get just one more inch further. I'm barely squeezing through and it's constricting my breathing, cutting me off.

The fact that I'm still grieving is of no surprise to me. Here's what gets me. My friend and I are going through Beth Moore's Believing God, both of us for the second time. One of thing stressed is the need to believe God for miracles, to know and acknowledge that during the study you will see a miracle. The first time I went through the course, I believed that my miracle was being present when Uncle accepted Christ from his bed in the ICU after another overdose attempt. The date was 05-05-05.

My miracle happened very early on and I spent the remainder of the study basking in the warm glow of miracle beams. (Read the following in typical Baptist church lady-ese) Oh God is good! My Uncle Eddie found Jesus and he'd want to dive into the Bible, read, learn, absorb, grow, and be with me forever telling the rest of the family about Him and His faithful love. We'd tell them all how Jesus changed Uncle Ed's life, turned it around, he'd be the poster boy for Jesus' redemptive ways. Praise the Lord, Hallelujah and Amen. I believed God and He came through and now Uncle Ed and I, we'd be like Abbott and Costello--but for Jesus. Oh the fun we'd have bringing people to Jesus. Life was full, promising, and everything looked beautiful. Me-the former atheist and Uncle Ed-saved after a suicide attempt both of us now living for Jesus. (End church lady talk)

Yeah.

Except Jesus forgot one very important detail. He forgot to let Uncle Ed live.






More tomorrow.

Write

I put my writing away for a long time. I should rephrase that--I put myself away for a long time. Who knows why? I've tried to analyze it but I draw a blank. I just know somewhere along the line, I wasn't "me" any longer.

I walked away from God for a long time. I couldn't stand the pain, the hypocrisy, the questions. After twelve years of doing things my way, I turned to Himand found I hadn't even been walking on my own two feet. He had carried me, never making a sound. I snuggled into His big arms and had myself a good, long cry.

I told Him I wanted what He wanted and I was ready to listen but he held me. I wonder if He didn't trust me? Or maybe he just wanted me to know, really know, that He wasn't going to abandon me?


When He put me down, my muscles weren't in very good condition because I hadn't walked in such a long time.

I remember one time I fell. I was really making some progress. Long strides, pumping my arms, moving fast. I guess I got going a little too fast. I was confident God had given me the ability to teach and lead women and I was full force into it. I didn't realize until later that what I thought God was asking me to do and what God was really asking me to do were two different things.

Thinking that women's ministry should be my focus, I arranged for the women of our church to go to a conference and I was all about doing everything to help them and to lead them. I chose which sessions I would attend based on which would help me best teach, serve and lead the women.

One was based on the book, "If You Want To Walk On Water, You've Got To Get Out Of The Boat." I figured I could help them learn to step out (as I had) and do what they had a passion for, do what they were good at, etc.

At the end of the session, Amy turned on the song by Casting Crowns, "The Voice of Truth" which just happens to be MY song. I was taken aback. She passed out index cards and instructed us to close our eyes and listen to the song. She had us keep our eyes closed while she asked a question. We were supposed to write down the FIRST thing that came to us.

"What is keeping you from getting out of the boat?" She asked.

"Others." I wrote.

"What is it that God wants you to do?"

"Write."

It scared me so bad I shoved that index card in my bag and got out of there. I came home from the conference and cried for about 3 hours as I relived that moment. Then I put it all in the back of my mind and went about MY business.

Months later, my life seemed to be in utter chaos and exhausted, upset and angry one night I literally fell to my knees and yelled, "What do you WANT from me?! What do you expect me to do?!"

"Write."

It was that quiet, still voice people talk about.

"What?" I said out loud, "You can't be serious."

And then I cried again for hours. I was still there on the living room floor when my husband came home from work to find me in a ball, crying. He was pretty shaken up and after I told him what was wrong--that God told me to write, he laughed at me. He said, "Everyone seems to know that except you."

Laughed at me!! I was furious. Then he said, "Well, then. I suppose you should quit this nonsense and write."

The next morning, I got down on my knees and apologized for being so stubborn. I was embarrassed that I had acted like such a fool.

"If you want me to write, do you think you could give me some indication of what it is I'm supposed to write? Is there a verse or something I could look at or something?" I prayed.

That little voice in m'head came again, "Jeremiah 29:11."

At this point I was pretty freaked out. I didn't really know I'd get an answer so quick. I was baffled because I didn't know what Jeremiah 29:11 said. I grabbed my Bible and flipped to the pages past Joshua, Job, Psalms, Isaiah and then the pages popped open to a page that had an index card shoved into it.

I looked at the index card and thought I was going to hurl.

"Others. Write."

I looked up and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I held it. I looked down to see the title of book. Jeremiah.

Not just anywhere in Jeremiah. Yep. Right there. Jeremiah 29:11.




See, I told you. I knew you wouldn't believe me. But its true. And its three years later and the butterflies are still on acid.

God Called Me

Writing is not glamorous for me. It is not something I share with just anyone. When I sit down and something pours out of me, it hurts. I'm not implying that it hurts metaphorically, it is an emotional challenge for me to put the stories in my head onto paper and when I think about being published, I swear someone slipped the butterflies acid and they're on a baaaad trip.


I remember in vivid detail everything that has happened to me on this road God has put me on and it would literally take a book to get it out there. And then you wouldn't believe me, you'd think I produced just that--a piece of fiction.

I have been writing as far back as my memory goes. The vast majority of my writing has been therapy. I found this from years ago, "If anyone ever reads this, Journ, I'm sure they'll come with pretty white coats to take both of us away." I talked with Journ daily; the only person who listened.

Without writing, I'd either be in an institution or dead. I don't write for pleasure, desire, passion, or because I want to. Growing up without God, I had nothing else. I had no one that I was aware of that was protecting me, watching me, guiding me. I had a bipolar father with post traumatic stress disorder having nervous breakdowns after watching Platoon, hiding beside his bed in the dark of the night because he thought we were under enemy fire, overdosing on tranquilizers, and aiming his loaded crossbow at me. I had an alcoholic grandmother, hiding bottles of vodka between her mattress and box spring, falling down flights of stairs where I'd find her laying in pools of blood.

Just two examples of my self-destructive, suicidal role models. I have forgiven them all, but that doesn't mean it all goes away. It is difficult for me to reveal these things because I know some of my family reads this blog, but they were there, they just don't talk about it.

I didn't have a therapist as a child. I had my journal. When memories come back to me now, in the form of a character or story, I want to scream in agony; I want put it all away again because I don't want to have to relive the pain. I don't want to be invisible again. I don't want to be let down any more.

Books gave me escape from my life and hope. There are a couple very special books I recall with much emotion.

Where The Red Fern Grows is my favorite book of all time. Why? The hope of love. The hope that I would have something in my life that I could pour my faithful love over the way Billy loved Old Dan and Little Ann and the hope that one day, I'd find the love that would die for me the way Old Dan loved and protected Billy; the way Little Ann died for Old Dan because she couldn't go on without him. The hope that I'd see a red fern one day.

Wanna know how good God is? Not only did He send His Son to die for me that way and love me that way, but he sent me a boy from the Ozarks. He sent him to me in a traffic jam in 1994 and I fell in love instantly. He gave me Phil to pour my love over. He sent me someone who would protect me and love me. Then he doubled His grace when He sent Zane, Phil's little clone.













~more tomorrow

The Finale or A New Beginning?

I hope it doesn't sound like I am bitter or in pain over the situation I've been telling you about. I was hurt, bitter, and confused. However, in the midst of this battle, I was also dealing with the single-most difficult tragedy in my life...the suicide of my "big brother." He was technically my uncle, but we were really like brother and sister. Growing up, he and my grandma lived just across the alley and I was there more than I was at my own home.

My pastor friend helped me more than I think he knows. He was one of the people God used to bring Uncle Ed to a relationship with Christ. I have thanked God repeatedly for that. The day of the suicide, my family asked me to call the pastor because they knew how much Uncle Ed respected him and also because he was such a great source of comfort to them. They'd never met a pastor outside of a church building and this pastor came to hospitals and to homes. For them, it was God's love through a man. Something they couldn't see in me, because I was just Michelle to them.

I was hurting on so many different levels that day. Two days prior, all of those accusations had been made against me. The last thing I wanted to do was to call this pastor. God broke me in half and crushed me and made me realize that day that it wasn't at ALL about me. It was about the room full of people who were hurting. The people who didn't understand God's promises. So I lowered my head and dropped down to beg for God's forgiveness...and I called him.

I can imagine what he was thinking of me. I don't want to speculate publically though. He visited with all of the grieving family and arrangements were made for the funeral. I was so grateful for him. I still am.

The day of the funeral came and I sat between in the middle of my grandmother and my step-grandmother. Smack between a 40 year bitter fued--one that unfortunately still continues. The funeral parlor was spilling over with people, yet it was silent. The pastor's delivery of the message was just perfect for the audience. He didn't skate around issues or candy-coat them. He said exactly what needed to be said. I heard one faint "Amen" from behind me and I silently thanked Him.

I've been to a lot of funerals, none as incredible as this. I still remember the silence. When the pastor was speaking, I didn't even hear a sniffle, no one blew their nose, and no one cried. Everyone was listening. The experience equates to the one I had on September 11, 2001. Air traffic halted and the skies were quiet. Until then, I had never even noticed how noisy the air was. With Chicago airports silent, the air outside took on a lucid, dreamlike quality. That's how it was in the room when the pastor was speaking.

I sent the pastor a thank you card and meant every word I said. I'm afraid he doesn't believe me because of the events that have transpired. I still love his daughther, his wife, and him. I miss them. I think of them often and I find myself wishing things would have been different. Wondering "what if" It will have to be enough that God knows my heart and knows that I am ever-grateful for what the pastor did for me, my family, and my friends. Sometimes I wish I could go back and have a "do-over." At the same time, though, if I didn't go through all this or if I had the chance to do it over I wouldn't have the lessons and experiences that God wanted me to have.

I've heard it said that there are two directions in a Christian's life: toward God or away from Him. I feel like wondering what if and wishing for do-overs is like walking away from Him. From here, I desire to only move closer to Him. It means that instead of wanting it my way, I lay it down at His feet, ask Him to take it, and I LEAVE IT there. Some things have to die in order to have life.

I heard about "dying to self" but until I had to lay down my pride, I didn't understand. Through these trials, God has ask me to do things I've never done, things that I'm not familiar with, and things I'm not comfortable with. Like when He called Peter out to walk on the water with Him. Peter didn't think about it at first, he just went. He looked around and got scared and started sinking. I was sinking for a little while there and drowning terrifies me. Jesus reached down and grabbed me and at that moment, I had no choice but stare Him in the eyes. He reminded me that He was to be my focus. And later, again like Peter, Jesus flat out told me that it didn't matter what He asked other people to do. He wanted to know if I was doing what He expected of me.

And here we are.

Now to the part you've been patiently wondering about. Thank you for coming with on this short ride. I appreciate your willingness to listen.

The burning churches. Well, I had a dream Monday before I woke up and started posting all of this. I had a dream about burning churches. I believe that is a seed planted for me to water. God will give the increase. This is what the seed looks like:

Churches burn with no sign of a starting point.

Two pastors go head to head--one says Satan, one says God.

They're both hearing voices.


In my head, this book is called Flash Point. One meaning of "flash point" is the point at which something is ready to blow up. Scientifically, to measure a flash point a small cup with liquid in it is heated gradually while being continuously stirred so that the heat is evenly distributed. At regular intervals an open flame is directed into the cup. When the liquid reaches it's flash point temperature, the contents will ignite.





My new verse came first:

My thoughts grew hot within me
and began to burn,
igniting a fire of words
Psalm 39:3

Then the dream. Then the title. Now I must get to writing...

Sleep deprivation, Psychosis and my dreams. Part Five. The Conclusion.

Read Part One Here.

Read Part Two Here.

Read Part Three Here.

Read Part Four Here.



I realize this subject is probably getting old. (That's if you're still with me on it) Even so, it seems like I've got issues to work out concerning the many facets of the situation.

Let's recap. I had a trusted pastor friend who basically (short version) didn't like the way I recalled my dreams and told me God doesn't use dreams anymore. I have come to the understanding that God doesn't use dreams to tell us about Himself or things to come, however, He can and does use dreams to teach lessons or give insight. Can Satan influence dreams? Sure. Can they be "of Satan" if I give them to God? I say no, because of the verse, "Greater is he that is in than he that is in the world."

What's this got to do with sleep deprivation and psychosis? "Child development researchers and other scientists have long observed that babies deprived of touch [tactile stimulation] are more likely to fail to thrive--and even die. The late Dr. John Bowlby's classic studies of infants raised in stark orphanage nurseries in Britain after World War II showed that babies deprived of a caregiver's loving touch more often than others failed to thrive and died. Dr. Bowlby called this "skin hunger"--a baby starving for cuddling, stroking, and holding." Article Here.

I wonder, are dreams to mental health what touch is to survival?

If I had the money, the degree, and the resources, I'd be pursuing this with passion. Studies have shown that without sleep (thus without dreams) people either display psychotic behavior or they actually become psychotic. Is that just like those babies? The infants who were not touched failed to thrive or died.

Satan knows what the Bible says. I'd be willing to say that he probably knows the Bible better than most Christians (if not all.) When Satan tempted Jesus in the garden, he used Scripture. This is so powerfully important and I've heard very little about the impact that has on our daily lives.

I said yesterday, I'd explore how I saw God's hand in all of this conflict and chaos. I think it all centers around what I've learned about God.

In 2 Chronicles chapter 32, we see King Hezekiah's illness, pride, wealth, works, and death. At the end of verse 31 we read, "God left him to test him and discover what was in his heart."

Romans 12:5 says that God has distributed a measure of faith to each believer.

In James 1:2-4 we read, "Consider it great joy, my brothers, whenever you experience various trial, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. But endurance must do its complete work, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing."

God gives each believer a measure of faith. In order for faith to produce, it must be tested by various trials so that the believer may be mature and complete. God tests our faith to discover what is in our hearts.

Repeatedly, I heard from my pastor friend that Satan's plot in this conflict is confusion. He also told me that it was ironic that just about the time God is going to do an "explosive work" at that church, something like this conflict occurs. He said that the devil wanted to make a turn in the road. My pastor friend told me all about Satan and what Satan wanted and how Satan worked.

I never once heard from him how God was working. I find that disturbing and sad. I couldn't count the hours I've spent in prayer and study during this situation. I begged and pleaded with God for His wisdom in this.

The pastor said this, "This [situation,] given proper patience, prayer, and submission, will become a blemish in history not a turn in the road the devil wants to make it."

My take on it--from my heart--is that Satan deserves no glory. There is One and only One who deserves recognition. The Lord my God.

There are so many layers to this conflict, so many whose hearts were tested in so many ways. I choose to focus on myself because I have access to the inner workings of my mind and thoughts and to pretend that I understand what lesson God wants someone else to learn or how He tested another would be foolish.

What I know--what I want to give God the glory for are the lessons He taught me.

I trusted someone else's direction for my life (the pastor's) instead of trusting Him. God was trying to show me that I didn't belong in the position the pastor appointed me. I thought Satan was trying to discourage me from being involved in women's ministry at that church because Satan doesn't like ministry. Sounds logical enough. It did at the time, anyway. I've learned that God was trying to get my attention by not furthering the ministry. I couldn't hear Him, though, because I was too busy focusing on what the pastor was saying and by giving Satan glory.

I allowed myself to be deceived into believing that people who go to church know what God wants. I thought God must want me in women's ministry if His shepherd put me there. This one hurts the most. I blame no one except for myself. The pastor appointed me Director of Women's Ministry and I grabbed the job and ran with all my might. That is not what God had for me. And instead of asking Him, I just assumed that His shepherd knew what He was doing. Oh how foolish of me!!

I thought that God's people should approve of God's call on my life. Now this was just stupid of me to believe. I look back and think that if I'd only have paid attention to (for example) the story of Moses, I'd see that God's people don't always know or approve of what God wants.

I thought others should understand what God was asking of me and I thought it was my job to make them understand. Again, stupid. See Moses again.

I'm still learning from this conflict. I questioned God when it first started, but now I'm finding joy in the trial. I'd rather focus on the fact that God is testing my faith to discover what is in my heart and to increase the measure of faith He gave me.



Now...what's the burning church all about? You'll have to come back tomorrow to find out. (Ok, so I thought I was done. I'm not!)

Sleep deprivation, Psychosis and my dreams. Part Four.

Read Part One Here.

Read Part Two Here.

Read Part Three Here.

The Holy Spirit lives in me, He guides me, comforts me, convicts me, and so much more. Was this pastor friend trying to tell me that the Holy Spirit doesn't know what's going on in my head at night? That He was somehow detached from my dreams? That He couldn't use my dreams to teach me lessons? That He couldn't use a dream to give me an idea?

That is exactly what this friend was telling me. And not just me. This is what he teaches in church. If God made us in His image, that would include our mind, dreams, and emotions. And I say that if I let Satan get a foot in the door, he has the ability to shut me down, discourage me, and fill me with lies. Which ultimately keeps me from doing God's will.


Was this Satan trying to discourage me from writing or God teaching me a valuable lesson?

Several times, I was told that the dreams I was having were Satan's way of trying to deter me from God. I was told that God absolutely does not speak to people in dreams anymore. When I read the Bible, I understand that He may not be using dreams as a way to prophesy but I also understand that God does not change. If He doesn't change, His character never changes, and His ways never change, why would He just stop using dreams as a way to reach people (like the verse in Job states?) Or as a source of comfort and reassurance as in the New Testament shows in different examples?

I was literally sick about this. I was having dreams. A lot of them. But this mentor of mine, my pastor friend was telling me the dreams were basically satanic. I asked how it is that Christ can live IN me--how I can be "of like mind" with other believers and yet, the dreams originate from Satan? How can Satan be IN me when Christ is IN me?

I understand the argument that Satan can influence my conscience mind, therefore my subconscious mind might recollect that influence in a dream but what about "the Spirit who lives in you is greater than the spirit who lives in the world." (1 John 4:4 NLT) If I am to take this at face value, then I see that it says that the Holy Spirit is greater than any demonic spirit who tries to influence me. Wouldn't that indicate that a satanic influence would stand no chance when filtered through the Spirit?


I had a friend tell me that she read parts one, two, and three and didn't understand. She thought I was "too deep." I laughed and told her I don't understand either. I'm trying to work it all out and I had no idea it was going to turn into a series. But I'm not done yet and I'm going to keep going.

Tomorrow I'll explore how I see God's hand in all of this. Especially in the conflict.

Sleep deprivation, Psychosis and my dreams. Part Three.

Read Part One Here.

Read Part Two Here.

That's what it felt like. He hit it dead-on. I was being accused and I had to defend myself. I was preparing my defense. I would be "on trial" Friday night.

The Exodus verse kept coming back to me and I kept questioning God, "How can I present my defense and remain quiet?"

God laughed and made me read the verse again. And again. And again. I felt a little silly after the umpteenth time and it hit me: THE LORD WILL FIGHT FOR YOU; you must be quiet. My focus had been on being quiet. I was still "preparing" for this meeting, this "trial," when I should have been focusing on Him.

When I finally realized my detrimental mistake, I began to learn and a whole new level of understanding was born. God is tough on me. There's no easy way out, no easy answers. If I want to follow Him, I have to understand that it is not all cotton candy and green grassy fields. Sometimes I have to follow Him into that valley--the dark place that scares the life out of me. I have to follow Him to places I've never been before. And I have to trust that He knows what He's doing even when I can't figure it out.

Now comes the part about the Psychosis.

Psychological researchers have tended to minimize the effects of sleep insufficiency, acknowledging that society may be getting too little sleep, but treating the effects of this sleep deprivation as nothing more significant than an inconvenience which makes people feel a bit tired now and then.

This view is incorrect. Recent research suggests that each day with insufficient sleep increases our sleep debt and, when this sleep debt becomes large enough, noticeable problems appear (Coren, 1996a).

Article here.

If we're not entering into REM sleep, we're not dreaming. If we're not getting enough REM sleep, we're not dreaming enough.

The voices that psychotic people hear are often critical voices, telling them that they are worthless or they are doing something incorrectly. Michael Musalek, a psychiatrist at the University of Vienna, has suggested that psychotic symptoms reflect the core existential dilemmas experienced by ordinary people, and that really resonates with me.

VERY interesting article here.

Does it sound like the enemy has a grasp on what we, as humans, don't want to admit?

Presumably, those who had the CBT [cognitive behavioral therapy], and were helped to think about relationships or other problems in a less negative or self-deprecating way, were the less likely to become psychotic?

Same article.

I was in a situation in which I was being pounded by some made-up doctrine and this pastor I trusted was telling me that I shouldn't be paying attention to what I dream and I shouldn't be paying attention to my emotions. I'm not a scientist by any means, I know that. I'm a nobody with problems. I look to God for my answers and try my best to keep my blinders on while I'm looking at Him.

It bothered me a lot to be told that I shouldn't pay attention to my dreams. It's not like I was making decisions based on them. I was simply writing them down and reflecting the meaning.

The Holy Spirit lives in me, He guides me, comforts me, convicts me, and so much more. Was this pastor friend trying to tell me that the Holy Spirit doesn't know what's going on in my head at night? That He was somehow detached from my dreams? That He couldn't use my dreams to teach me lessons? That He couldn't use a dream to give me an idea?

That is exactly what this friend was telling me. And not just me. This is what he teaches in church. If God made us in His image, that would include our mind, dreams, and emotions. And I say that if I let Satan get a foot in the door, he has the ability to shut me down, discourage me, and fill me with lies. Which ultimately keeps me from doing God's will.


Was this Satan trying to discourage me from writing or God teaching me a valuable lesson? I'll explore more tomorrow.

Sleep deprivation, Psychosis and my dreams. Part Two.

Read Part One Here.

I truly believe, with everything I have in me, that God allowed the conflict with our friend so that I would learn some lessons that cannot be heard, but must be experienced. This conflict started as a seed in our pastor friend's mind. It grew until the final harvest was a bitter battle. He accusing me of being "unbiblical" for even considering dreaming and I presenting this accusation to God asking if it was true.

I was told by a very wise man and good friend that I needed to pay attention. If our pastor friend was right, I needed to change things. I took it all in and it was a very serious matter to me. Never before had I been accused of being "unbiblical." And not just that. The list of accusations made was daunting to my tender soul.

Publically, I was accused by the of:

~Not being a Biblical wife (in other words, I did not submit to my husband and I did not have a "meek and quiet spirit")

~Casting frustration on "babes"

~Being over-zealous without knowledge

~Not having "patient endurance"

~I was told that I needed to spend time studying Biblical leadership in Hebrews 13:17

~that I needed to realize the roll of the husband and the roll of the wife

~that I should be learning in silence (that what was seen was "an awful lot of talking and not much learning")

~that I needed to spend time seeking God's will for my life

~that I needed to "be still"

~that I needed patience

~that I needed endurance


Behind my back, I was accused of:

~Frightening new believers

~Teaching unbiblical doctrine

~Being spiritually immature

~And something about these dreams. I was not ever approached directly by anyone who could fully explain what the problem seemed to be, so to this day I do not know.


Yet, I was not approached by my pastor friend about any of this.

I upset his wife one day, without meaning to. I apologized when I saw she was getting upset and I tried to explain myself. The apology fell on deaf ears. She must have told her husband because the next day he called a total of six other friends and urged them to recall anything I had done to anyone in the past year that seemed questionable because they needed to "take care of this for good." And he invited me over so they could "care over my soul." He told me it was non-adversarial. I told him that it didn't feel that way. He told me that I shouldn't base things on "feelings."

Now I'm not a Biblical scholar, but I am a student. I understood that if I upset someone, they were to come to me privately. Since this didn't happen, I didn't know what to do. Remember, I'd been away from God for twelve years and had just been walking with Him again for the past two-ish. I called on another pastor friend that we'd met on several occasions and also our associational director. I received excellent advice from both of them and I spent a good seven hours a day for a full five days, studying the Bible, praying and studying Biblcal "experts" in the areas of accusation.

Weeks before this avalanche, I was reading my Bible. I was in Exodus. 14:14. I couldn't continue reading until I underlined that verse. It says: "The LORD will fight for you; you must be quiet."

During this time, my husband accused me of being "consumed" with the situation and he was angry that I was spending so much time with my nose in books. He said it looked as if I was a lawyer preparing for trial.

That's what it felt like. He hit it dead-on. I was being accused and I had to defend myself. I was preparing my defense. I would be "on trial" Friday night.

The Exodus verse kept coming back to me and I kept questioning God, "How can I present my defense and remain quiet?"

Sleep deprivation, Psychosis and my dreams. Part One.

I had another dream last night. I haven't told you about the other dreams because frankly, I was afraid. I know, I know. You don't peg me as one to be afraid. True. I'm not...usually.

I knew this pastor; he was a very talented and gifted teacher. Our families became close friends and we enjoyed each other's company. Or so I thought. Now I'm not so sure if he was just pretending to like us because that's what he thought a pastor was supposed to do. I thought he was genuine, but I can't be sure about that now.

I remember my dreams. A lot of them. A couple years ago (I know the date but I won't bore you with those details) I had a very vivid dream about Jesus. It was refreshing considering I normally have nightmares. I keep a journal and I wrote down the dream before my eyes were even fully open. A couple months later, I was in prayer and that dream came and that pastor came to mind. I sent him a copy of the dream. He didn't respond other than say, "I got the email. I'm sorry I haven't had time to respond."

YEARS later, this pastor accused me behind my back of having some kind of affinity for the mystical. As if I was trying to use my dreams as prophesy or something strange like that. This was while I thought our friendship was real. I still, to this day, don't understand why a friend, a pastor, wouldn't come directly to me if he had something to say. No one's perfect, I understand. But this man constantly talked about confronting issues head on. He had no trouble "knocking on doors." He made the visits to the members who were going astray.

Then there was Phil and me. This friend said he trusted us more than anyone else. And he couldn't come to us to tell me he wasn't clear on where I stood? His accusations and lies cut me to the core. I couldn't fathom that someone who said several times to us, "I prayed for you guys and God brought you to me," could now be spreading lies.

We tried to ask him to meet with us to resolve the issue. He refused. The betrayal of a friend and a teacher was a lot for my soul to carry. I gave my pain to the Only One who is capable of healing. What this friend and teacher did made me question my ability to discern the things of God. I fell into a depression that I hadn't seen in quite some time. Fourteen years, to be exact.

(And I JUST realized something as I typed that. It was fourteen years TO THE MONTH, EXACTLY, that I had been that depressed. I'll have to write about that.)

When a trusted friend lies and allows people to believe lies, it hurts. There is no other way to explain it. The betrayal of a loved friend, a respected teacher, and a brother in Christ carries the ability to drive the knife the deepest. I questioned myself and my relationship with God because of this. I wondered if I was dabbling with things of the past. The dark past I've mentioned before. Maybe I lying to myself. Maybe I really didn't belong to God? Did I have these dreams because I belonged to the enemy? Was I allowing myself to be used by the enemy? People seemed to be afraid to talk about dreams. Why? I just didn't understand.

I was reading in Job chapter thirty-three one morning and happened upon these verses: (15) He speaks in dreams, in visions of the night when deep sleep falls on people as they lie in bed. (16)He whispers in their ear and terrifies them with his warning. (17)He causes them to change their minds; he keeps them from pride.

Tomorrow, I'll indroduce you to studies that have been done on sleep deprivation and psychosis, some of my thoughts, and more of the story.










Note: Curm are you reading this? Remember this? Joshua 5:10 says that while the Israelites were camped at Gilgal--healing--they kept the Passover on the evening of the fourteenth (day of the month) Does this fourteenth year signify a new beginning for me? I can barely get the words out. In the Beth Moore Study, "Believing God" she teaches on this very passage in Joshua. She explains that being uncircumcised was a way of wearing their reproach, their disgrace. "At Gilgal, God cut away the sign of their unbelief. They wore the mark of their new beginning." She goes on to say, "Often a wounding precedes our full reception of God's promises, but healing always follows." She also uses an analogy of pregnancy. (I'm paraphrasing and taking her example a bit further) The first 14 days of a woman's cycle are in total preparation for conception. A surge in a particular hormone on about the 14th day of the cycle triggers ovulation. A mature egg is released where it is then in a position to be fertilized. Now there is a new creation, a new beginning. I don't really care if it sounds ludicrous!! I find it totally fascinating!!