The Light of Love

 I’m having a tough time with the holidays this year.  In February, my dad joined my mother who entered Heaven in 2014.  There is such a large void in my life now and some days the grief is almost unbearable.

 

Having my parents as long as I did, along with them living with me for their final years, was a blessing, but a curse as well.  I was able to spend quality time with them and create lasting memories…but oh, how I long to hear their voices in the kitchen, their walkers coming down the hallway or them saying the Lord’s Prayer together each night.   

 

I miss both of them desperately, but remembering a story I heard a while back brings me a little peace:

One night a father asked his young son to retrieve water from the well that was at the far end of their property.  It was dark, and the son was frightened.  The father told the boy to hold the bucket in one hand and a lantern in the other and continue walking until he reaches the end of the light.  The son did as instructed, and before he knew it, he reached the well safely because the light never ended.  He filled the bucket, turned around and returned home, no longer afraid. 

We are all faced with darkness in our lives, but as long as we hold on to God, through faith, we will never reach the end of His loving light ... a light that shines over us with not only His love but of those we lost as well.

No Apologies

I wrote an article for Catholic 365; an open letter to Tim Kaine, Vice-Presidential candidate, who professes to be a devout Catholic yet supports the Democratic platform that promotes ideals contrary to the Catholic faith.  (Read the article here.)   Sadly, Mr. Kaine is not the only Catholic politician who publicly goes against the Church’s teachings.  I probably should have spoken out sooner, but sometimes fear (brought on by Satan) gets in the way.  

Yes, my friends, there are times when I bite my tongue out of fear …  fear of being misunderstood and fear of being maligned.  It was only after careful and prayerful consideration I decided to move forward with the commentary.  Alas, my fears came to pass.  Although some of the comments (on the Catholic 365 website and associated Facebook page ) were positive, there were a few negative ones (with grammar/spelling corrected) that tugged at my heart:

 “Move over God; Patti's in charge now. She'll be making all the decisions and judgments on everyone's behavior from now on, and will be doing your job for you. She apparently knows better than you do.” 

 “In this year of mercy and compassion, it seems unusual to find someone still focusing on condemnation and judgment of others.”

“Judge much? You may have your opinion yes. However, God is the final judge. Claiming he's not devout enough is not your role or anyone's. It's God's. Signed a Catholic.”

“Why doesn't Patti whatever her name is just make a move to have Mr. Kaine excommunicated? That'll show him whose boss and is making all the decisions.”

My response to those comments and those still coming in:

I will not apologize, nor do I regret speaking my mind.  I am a proud Catholic and will do everything in my power to defend the teachings of the Church, especially when it comes to the sanctity of life and traditional family values. 

In this Year of Mercy, I pray for those who have fallen away, but sometimes prayer is not enough.  We are taught in Galations 6:1:  “Brothers, even if a person is caught in some transgression, you who are spiritual should correct that one in a gentle spirit, looking to yourself so that you also may not be tempted.  “Luke 17:3 reminds us, “Pay attention to yourselves! If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him...”

I am not judging … far from it.  I too am a sinner.  If it weren’t for the teachings of the Church and for others helping me see the error of my ways, I would be plunged back into a dark abyss and never return.  I do not want that to happen to me or anyone.

 "My brothers, if anyone among you should stray from the truth and someone bring him back, he should know that whoever brings back a sinner from the error of his way will save his soul from death and will cover a multitude of sins. "

James 5:19-20

National Day of Remembrance for Aborted Children - 9/10/16

On September 10, 2016, Rachel's Hope - Escondido/San Diego, San Diego Silent No More and North County 40 Days for Life, co-sponsored the fourth annual National Day of Remembrance for Aborted Children.  It was held at St. Elizabeth Seton Catholic Church in Carlsbad, CA, and officiated by Father Michael Robinson who gave a touching homily and led us all in song. Joanne Strantz did a wonderful job as emcee and Rosemary Benefield and Tony DePaola provided valuable insights and information in our fight for life.

As with planning any event, there were "bumps in the road" (video camera and computer malfunctions), but God answered our prayers and the ceremony went forward beautifully. 

It was an honor to give testimony and wanted to share my words with you....
We are gathered here to mourn the innocent children lost to abortion and to raise our voices to heaven assuring them they will never be forgotten and proclaiming their precious lives matter. 

It’s also an opportunity for me to share the truth of what abortion does.  You see, two of the innocent children we mourn today are Matthew Thomas and Sarah Catherine - my precious son and daughter. 

We all are aware abortion takes the life of a child, but did you know there are life-long consequences for the mother and those around her?

I didn’t.  It took many years for me to understand that “To choose is to lose”.  Through choice, my children lost their life.   Through choice, I lost the chance to be a biological mother because I had a tubal ligation at the age of thirty.  I was punishing myself for the abortions … I didn’t deserve to be a mother.  I eventually adopted, but through choice, my adopted son lost the opportunity to have a brother and sister, my parents lost two grandchildren, my sister a niece and nephew, two men lost fatherhood and my husband two more step-children he would have loved as much as he loves my living son. 

My choice resulted other consequences as well.  I tried to ignore the loss through obsessive behavior, negative attention seeking and substance abuse which grew over time, culminating into self-loathing, a loss of self-worth and depression – which eventually led to my becoming suicidal and being committed to a psychiatric facility.

Sadly, my experience is more of the rule than the exception and does not limit itself to mothers but to all involved in the choice to abort.  Whether the choice was made out of fear, embarrassment or intimidation, the loss is there … sometimes not surfacing for months, years or decades later but always brewing in the dark recesses of the soul.  

Spiritually-speaking, I and countless others hid from God and some still do, convinced we committed,  “the unforgivable sin,”  believing He could never love, let alone forgive someone who had or encouraged an abortion. The shame and remorse is immeasurable.

Statistics show that approximately one-third of American women have had at least one abortion by age 45.  Yes, my friends, one-third. Other studies have shown about 1 in 10 of these women continue to attend church and many of them, as well as those complicit in the abortion decision, are still suffering in silence. They are our neighbors, co-workers, friends and fellow parishioners.

Which brings me to another reason I’m here…..to assure those suffering in silence all is not lost.  We have a merciful God who loves all of His children. Nothing, absolutely nothing is unforgivable in God’s eyes if we go to Him with humble and repentant hearts. I pray their wounded souls can embrace His mercy and forgiveness and reach out for healing thus receive what has been missing for quite some time …. Peace and Hope.

At this time, I ask you to stand and pray with me the Prayer for the Unborn:

Although our video camera malfunctioned, we were blessed to have a volunteer who recorded the majority of the service via cell phone.

FANTASY FOOTBALL FRENZY - A SHORT STORY

It had arrived:  What I had yearned for throughout the monotonous winter, spring and summer…NFL Fantasy Football season!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This year I was going to be fully prepared. I was going to have the team of teams. I was confident my husband would understand my need to watch the NFL live draft in April without interruption and more than willing to stay home for those two critical days, watch the kids AND pay for my hotel and room service. He would also appreciate the importance of hiring a live-in housekeeper/nanny/cook for the month of August while I pull up two years worth of player performance records, create spreadsheets, graph results and watch all pre-season games, monitor trades, cuts, and acquisitions.

Now, it was obvious to me this strategy was totally workable; however, my husband evidently didn't understand the intricacies involved in this endeavor. Relegated to mundane domesticity forced me to squeeze in prep whenever I could. I sincerely apologize to the man carrying the hot cup of coffee that I ran into while watching the NFL draft on my cell phone at the dry cleaners. I didn't mean to walk out of the grocery store without paying. I got a tweet about some shocking news regarding a contract dispute, and it could have involved one of my team hopefuls. And to my bridge group - I didn’t mean to say I couldn't play because I had a rare form of migraines that only attack in August and necessitate the need to stay indoors, alone, in the dark to keep them at bay.

As for my husband, I do not apologize to him for having to repaint the interior of our house on evenings and weekends. While intensively studying stats, I must not have heard the kids mention “walls” when asked if they could draw something with magic markers. Had he been more accommodating, that would have been avoidable along with the all the meal delivery costs. It wasn't safe for me to be around open flames and sharp utensils at such a crucial phase of my fantasy career.

 

DRAFT DAY

"Battle stations! It was time for me to put all my painstaking preparation into play. I was successful in convincing my husband that after draft prep and draft day, my dereliction of domestic duties would cease. He reluctantly let me use his office which housed his beloved antique oak desk, but most importantly, his state-of-the-art high-speed computer with quality video conferencing capability...how could I possibly be victorious with a five-year-old, slower-than-molasses laptop in the all-important player selection process. He even said I could lock the office door.

The time is drawing near...the combat environment needed to be perfect. Remove husband's paperwork from the desk and shove in a drawer - check (they weren't in any specific order, right?). Curtains closed – check. Phone ringer off – check. Computer on – check. Sweatband on – check. Jersey and jeans on – check. Draft analysis list – check. Note-pads – check. Handful of pencils with erasers – check. Bottle of wine, no, two bottles of wine – check. 2-pound bag of M & M's – check. Box of tissues – check. Portable toilet (just kidding)..., last but not least … A prayer for guidance – check. Now don't go off on me about that last step, it is absolutely appropriate asking for divine intervention.


I hugged my kids, kissed my husband and with the fearless demeanor of a quarterback facing a six-foot-nine, four-hundred-pound defensive end, marched into the office. The door closed - lock clicked. I had arrived - fully entrenched in my private draft strategy fortress. As Harry Connick Jr. said in Independence Day, “Let's kick the tires and light the fires”!

I stared at the screen, watching the commissioner pace nervously waiting for everyone to announce themselves … Worthy adversaries all. A white-board on the wall was pristine, except for black lines that created the draft chart. There were twelve columns and sixteen rows. Each column will show the team name.

Let me digress for a minute ... Before the season even starts, everyone involved tries to come up with a clever team name. I'm not one for cute nor am I one for something that has “mature” content. I wanted my name to spawn fear in my opponents, something that described my fantasy prowess. Yep, that's what I wanted but in a "mom" moment I thought it would be a bonding experience if I allowed my children to select the name. For crying out loud....what was I thinking? The Scoobydooers – really? Be afraid, be very afraid.

The first column of the draft board will hold the name of the team that won the coveted first-round draft pick (Please God, have it be me), the second for the second pick, etc. The order of the draft will be determined very scientifically. A neutral observer will pull a team name out of one hat (laughing hysterically when seeing mine) and out of another hat, the draft position. The process continues until all twelve of us are assigned. The carnage will then commence!  Each one of us in our assigned order picks one player for each of the sixteen rounds. It's time consuming, gut-wrenching thus the need for vino-fortification.

All combatants were finally present and accounted for. I sat quietly, perused my list of champions, and said a quick prayer, asking God for the first round draft pick. I know I should have just said, “Thy Will Be Done”, but this is football. Vino fortified, I grabbed a handful of M&Ms and shoved them in my mouth. The observer took the hats, reached in and called out the first team and position. There was no laugh, so I knew it wasn't me..fifth round. Whew! Still in the running. He continued this six agonizing times.  The first round pick was still somewhere in the dark recesses of the hat. I was still in contention....my hands were shaking, I took in more vino-fortification. He reached in again....chuckled and announced, “Scoobydooers." My heart skipped a dozen beats; I mumbled another quick prayer....draft number.......1. I almost fell off my chair. I jumped up and accepted my award. I thanked God, my husband, my children, my parents and my first-grade teacher (huh?).

There's only a brief celebration...the time of discernment had come. While the remaining losers got their measly draft numbers, I readied myself for the all-important first pick. I went to grab the meticulously prepared list that was going to send me to victory and hit my bottle of wine. My vino-fortification turned into the grapes of ruination, obliterating every neatly written name and position. (note for next year - white wine). I let out such a primal scream my husband almost broke down the door. I assured him everything was fine (sob), explained I was just a little emotional. Yeah, emotional … More like doomed.  I took a deep breath, relaxed and trusted God would help me mentally reconstruct the list before the draft begins. For good measure, I asked Him to forgive me for calling all the non number-one draft pickers losers.

The white board glared on my computer screen, the dry-erase marker in my square...the first square, as I am number one.... (mwahaha). I scribbled down names that I could remember (thank you, God). Then I heard, “Scooby, you're up!” yep you guessed it, now I had an abbreviated stupid name. Oh well, no time for vanity. I sat straight up in my chair, and with a commanding voice, declared my first choice....a highly respected running back that broke all the rushing records the year before. I heard groans coming out of the speakers, yep, got a good one (nanner, nanner, nanner)! Now I had to wait for the other eleven to choose. 

I was wringing my hands and sweat beaded up on my forehead (you were wondering why I put on a sweatband, huh?) The next guy picked a quarterback. A QUARTERBACK? No one EVER picks a quarterback in the first round. How stupid can one person be? Okay, I know, name calling is immature, and I planned in advance to address my draft attitude at reconciliation the following Saturday, but a quarterback???? Not just any quarterback either, he took MINE. Now, what? I knew I had another on my list but couldn't for the life of me remember his name. I resigned myself to the fact I would remember it when I heard someone else selfishly scoop him up. (sigh).

 
The selection continued and fortunately the others I remembered from the list were still up for grabs. Being the fantasy guru I was, I selected another running back. No moans this time, did I miss something? Was I supposed to get a receiver? More sweat, my jersey was sticking to the chair. I was going to indulge in more fortification but didn't want to chance it...I hadn't even cleaned up the mess I had already made - there was no time for that nonsense...one does have priorities. This excruciating selection process went on for hours. I won some and lost some. Along with my magnificent running back I was able to get some decent receivers and a formidable defense. My tight-ends were questionable. I drew a blank on the names. They drowned in that river of wine, so I had to wing it. One of my quarterbacks I had wanted for back-up ended up being my primary ...but that's the way the pigskin bounces. I finally had a team, the mighty Scoobydooers. One week to showtime. 



TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

I got up from the sweat-soaked chair and started the clean-up. That's when I saw it. The STAIN. A big blotch of red wine soaked through the oak. It looked like the State of Florida with the bottom of the state at the edge of the desk...the edge of the desk???? I looked down and there on his plush white (I warned him) carpet … A red stain, not looking like the rest of Florida; more like a red starfish with uneven legs (are those things called legs?). I saw my life flash before me. I knew my husband would kill me, or worse yet, make me quit my fantasy league. I quietly unlocked the door; it was dark in the house; thankfully everyone was sleeping. I foraged underneath the kitchen sink to find a magical potion that would miraculously sweep Florida off the map. Brillo pads were out – so were the remnants of bar soap (why do we keep those?). The only workable item was the heavy duty carpet spray. I tip-toed back to the room of destruction and began sopping up the remains on the desk and carpet then surveyed the damage. Again I said a prayer for a miracle.

The carpet cleaner worked (thank you God - and also my husband for going first class with stain guard). Expelling that little piece of evidence gave me a lift until I looked at the desk. Florida was still there, and maybe that's where I should head before morning. I then had a thought... if Staples or Office Depot was open twenty-four hours I could buy a nice, expensive desk cover as a surprise for my husband. Reality check - someone would hear the car starting, and I'd be exposed. Maybe I could move the printer....it would be more work-friendly having it closer to the monitor, right? What if I just put his stack of papers on it and when he discovered the blemish I could blame the kids? Red wine – cherry Kool-Aid....hmm. Then it happened.  A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I looked up and told God I got the message loud and clear.

I mustered up courage and climbed that long dark stairway. I summoned all the tears I could and woke the sleeping giant. He saw my tear-stained cheeks, along with the drenched sweatband and jersey. That sweet man grabbed my hand and said, “Honey, what happened, is everything all right?” I just stood there, letting the tears flow and snot drip out of my nose...then I opened my mouth and blubbered out the fateful words  .... ”irunedrdesk."

I wanted to get it out as quickly as possible. He stood up, quietly went down that long dark stairway and into the violated space. I was at his side with my head down like a scolded child. I didn't dare look up to see the blood pulsing through the veins on his forehead, a sure sign of dire consequences. His head shook from side to side and then he turned to me. Here it comes. I braced myself and said another prayer for bravery in the face of uncertain retribution. His forehead wasn't bulging out as expected. His eyes weren't glaring either. He surely must have been in shock. The silence seemed to last longer than the draft. Then he took my hand again (yep, he's throwing me out) and I heard him say in a calm, sweet voice, “I know you didn't do it on purpose, accidents happen, I'll buy a nice desk cover tomorrow.” At first, I was angry because he stole my idea, but that feeling was tempered by the relief of me still being alive, in my home and able to continue my championship season.

We walked out of the office hand-in-hand, turned off the light, went up the staircase to our bedroom. After we said our nightly prayers (mine included a massive amount of gratitude) and crawled into bed, I rolled over, laid my head on his chest, stroked his cheek and said, "Honey, we both know I've been distant lately and neglecting you. I think it's only fair that I make it up to you." I snuggled closer and whispered in his ear..................

"I'll share my winnings because I finally got a top-notch running back and I'm gonna kick butt!” I then rolled over and fell into a deep sleep ~ with dreams of the Superbowl.

What did you think I was gonna say????  Shame on you!

The Eulogy

Next month, I will be speaking at a memorial service for the unborn as part of the National Day of Remembrance for Aborted Children.  

Although not a stranger to public speaking, this event will be heart-wrenching because I’m, in essence, giving a eulogy for Matthew and Sarah, my two aborted children.  How does one find the words?  It’s not like a eulogy for a child who passed away from an accident or illness.  My children are gone because of me. 

It is times like this when “stinking thinking” starts.  I recall how Abraham Lincoln described hypocrisy – “A man who kills both parents then asks for mercy because he’s an orphan.” Once again fear rears its ugly head, causing me to worry the audience will be thinking along the same lines as Mr. Lincoln. 

Then I start to smile…yes, smile.  I remember that through the grace of God, the person allowing Sarah and Matthew’s death no longer exists. I remember the verse repeated so often while attending a healing retreat, 1 John 1: 9, “If we acknowledge our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from every wrongdoing,” and I need to remember “Be determined and confident. Do not be afraid of them. Your God, the Lord himself, will be with you. He will not fail you or abandon you.” Deuteronomy 31:6

Through God’s mercy, I was given another chance, and it would only be hypocritical if I squandered that chance … which is why I will be speaking. To honor not just my babies, but all lost to abortion.  To ask everyone to lift their voices to Heaven, proclaiming these precious angels matter and are loved, and commit ourselves to do all we can to end the culture of death in our society.

RESPECT

Recently, after voicing my presidential preference, I was asked, “Are you a racist … or ignorant?”  Although stunned, I answered politely and explained my rationale and said we would just need to agree to disagree.  I tried to laugh it off, and went on with what I was doing, but as hours passed, I began to get angry.  How could that person, who has known me for a while, blurt out something so hateful? 

 Since when:

Is it racist wanting to protect our citizens by suspending the influx of refugees until a secure vetting process is established?   I have compassion for those in need of safe harbor, but we need to be prudent.  We’ve seen the horrors of terrorism, and unfortunately are vulnerable to more attacks.

Is it racist to secure our borders and require foreigners wishing to enter the United States, in the hopes of a better life, to do so legally?  Giving illegal immigrants, from any country, a “free pass” is a slap in the face on those who follow the law.  Additionally, those wishing entrance, as with the refugees, need to be properly vetted.

Is it racist to ask for proper identification to vote?  We all are required to provide identification to fly, open a checking account, get and use credit cards, attend political conventions (!), the list goes on and on.  Identification is a means to avoid voter fraud thus maintaining the integrity of the election process.

As far as the "ignorant" comment ... well, let's not even go there.   

I have carefully considered both parties’ platforms and am following my conscience, faith, and values. I voice my opinion and debate the issues.  In doing so, I try to be respectful towards those whose opinions are contrary to mine, and I expect the same in return. (I do, however, enjoy posting few comedic Facebook memes from time to time to lighten the mood.)

Regardless what side of the aisle you are on: 

A Story of Courage and Love

Patti works as a sidewalk counselor and is involved with many pro-life organizations such as 40 Days for Life, Lutherans for Life, Savethe1, His Nesting Place and Horizon Pregnancy Clinic. She feels volunteering with these groups enlarges her world view on abortion and other life issues.  She strives to do her part to promote LIFE and trusts God to do the rest.

Welcome to my world – and what a wonderful journey it’s been.  I am so grateful for my life. It has been 59 years since joined my family of destiny.   When I say family of destiny, I mean that all of us have a family of origin, our biological family, and some of us have a family of destiny – that family that takes us in and although we are not biologically connected, we are indeed family in every other sense.   So my family of destiny was my adopted mom and dad and my adopted older sister.   I grew up San Pedro, the greatest little city in the world and graduated from San Pedro High, Class of 1973.  

I learned that I was adopted when my older sister blurted it out during a sisterly argument, “Well, YOU'RE adopted!”  I asked my folks if it were true, and they both said, “Yes.”  They told me the stork delivered me to the hospital, and they picked me out.   Not knowing where babies really came from as I was only 6, I just thought everyone was adopted!  

I grew up and finally learned where babies really came from and what being adopted meant.  I wanted to know more about my birth family.   Did my birth mother ever think about me?   Why did she put me up for adoption?  Didn’t she love me enough to keep me?   Was she forced to give me up?  Did I look like her?  

I often thought of my birth parents, and I began to become really serious about meeting my birth mother after I had my own children.  I wanted to SEE her, I wanted to thank her for the gift of life, and I had questions that needed answers!   During the 50’s adoptions were closed.  That means that any identifying information of the birth parents is not available, including family medical information.  

I knew that I may have a long hard road to find my birth parents if I ever did.   My adoptive mom was very helpful and provided me the legal documents that finalized my adoption.   I saw just two pieces of information.   A last name "Baby Longhenry" and the city where my birthmother was born - St. Paul, Minnesota.   I prayed for days and then I thought – I should just call 411 – logical first step.   I prayed and finally picked up the phone.  I called 411 and obtained four numbers of Longhenry's.   I called the first number and needed to go no further … the man that answered was my birthmother’s cousin, AND he was that ONLY relative that knew of the birth and adoption.   He was the one my birthmother had confided in!   I was floored and knew that this was my gift, my miracle from God.   He said he would call my birthmother for me right away. I waited and after two days, my biological mother called me, and I heard her voice for the first time.

Her name was Dotti, and she was living in Spokane Washington.  Unable to keep her secret (ME) any longer, she told her family about me and soon was on a plane to meet me. As we shared our lives, she told about the circumstances of my conception and birth.   I expected to hear a tragic but romantic love story, but instead I heard the shocking news that she was a victim of rape and could not cope with keeping the child of a rapist, so she gave me up for adoption.    My father never knew about me, and she never saw him again.  She didn’t go to the police -- she was too ashamed.  She never told anyone about the rape except her cousin in Minnesota  - the one I called on the phone - with his promise not to tell a soul.  

She found herself pregnant and alone.  There are those would say a child conceived by rape is disposable, of little value, damaged goods, bad genes.   In fact, many people who say they are pro-life except in cases of rape and incest.   Many of our respected senators and congressmen who say they are pro-life carry the same conditions along with some clergy.  Praise God my mother didn’t believe in exceptions.  She knew in her heart that I was precious to God and that my life had value.  It did not matter to her how I was conceived; she only knew she was pregnant with an innocent child

I asked her about how she felt carrying me for nine months.  Wasn’t I a constant reminder of what she suffered?  Did she resent me?  Did she consider aborting me?  She said that she was traumatized by the rape, but if there was anything good that could have possibly come from it, it was me.   She said when she found out she was pregnant; she knew she loved me.   From that violent and traumatic event, she considered something wonderful happened – me!    She wanted a healthy baby. She wanted a mother and a father for me, so she gave me to a family and trusted God that I would have a good life, and she always prayed that someday she could meet me.  I had thought that I was a burden to her, something to “get rid of, give away.”  How wrong I was and I had to face that I had not believed that every baby deserves a birthday.   I believe it now. Do you?

Dotti died within two years of our meeting, but I am thankful for the time I was given to get to know that very special woman.   I'm thankful that I was able to tell her what a brave, and loving thing she did for me and to tell her how very grateful I am for my life.  Members of her family told me that Dotti was not the same after we met.  She was at peace; she had more confidence and faith.   She was able to finally see and touch me, and meet her grandchildren.   Dotti was my miracle, and I was hers!    

I can’t honor my birthmother without also honoring my adoptive parents.   I don’t know whether they knew the circumstances of my birth, but if they did, they didn’t care.  They had a healthy baby girl, and they loved me completely and unconditionally.   I had the life every child should have, and my parents taught me by loving example.  I think the most important thing they did for me was to bring me up in the church.   I went to church every Sunday, including Sunday School.  A foundation my mom and dad gave me that has carried me through life – faith in God.   He is my strength, my refuge, and my life.   I know that there is nothing impossible with God.   These Christian values were of the utmost importance to my adoptive parents, and they instilled these values and Christian morals in me.   

I thank God each day for the wonderful life I have had.  I love to tell people about how much He treasures every life, no matter what the circumstances of conception.   I am not my father, nor am I my mother.  I am NOT the product of rape!   I am me.  I was created by a loving God, and my life is valuable.  And so is the life of every baby conceived -- of infinite value and a priceless gift from God.

 

A Strange Thing Happened in Dallas

This past weekend I traveled to Dallas, Texas to attend the Pro-Life Women’s Conference. Not being a great fan of flying, being nervous for three hours up yonder took its toll. I arrived at the hotel exhausted and ready to sleep. When I checked in the gal asked me if I wanted to keep the charges on my American Express card.  I thought it odd because I didn’t have an American Express but let it slide and gave her my Visa card.  Receiving the key, I took the elevator to the fourth floor of this expansive hotel, and I swear up and down my room was practically back in San Diego.  I got to the door and there was a “do not disturb sign” on it, and the key didn’t work.  I dreaded the walk back to the lobby (I also had a blister on my toe) so decided to call the front desk instead.  They apologized for the error and directed me to meet the bellman at a room on the twentieth floor.  I limped back to the elevator and once again that room was also practically in San Diego, but the key worked, and I was happy to settle in my home away from home. 

The time change messed up my already warped sleeping pattern, and I woke at 3:00 a.m.  I readied myself really early then ventured to the lobby where (thank God) they had a 24-hour coffee shop.  I enjoyed several cups of the life-saving nectar while reading from my Kindle, then decided to walk around and get acquainted with the area.  Before I knew it, it was time to check-in and get my registration packet.  After the room fiasco, you can imagine my response when told my packet had already been picked up.  I calmed myself down, thinking one of my Silent No More sisters secured it the night before.  I contacted them, and neither one had.  Hmmmm   The weekend was getting weird.  No one could figure out what happened but after I provided my registration verification I was issued another packet and went happily on my way to meet up with my friends, do some networking and listen to some outstanding scheduled speakers....trying to put the minor inconveniences aside. 

Due to lack of sleep the previous night, I was ready to turn in not too long after dinner.  All I could think of while going up the elevator was that comfortable bed.  I trudged the twenty miles (okay, maybe not that far) to my room and lo and behold, the key didn’t work.  I was a little miffed.  I called the front desk again, and they told me they PURPOSELY locked me out because there was some confusion as to who was supposed to be in that room.  They apologized and sent someone up to give me a new key.

Come to find out there was another Patti Smith registered, not just at the hotel but at the conference.  It was her room I originally went to; it must have been her American Express card (she’s grateful I was honest and didn’t leave my charges on her card – lol), and the conference staff thought one of the Patti Smiths must have been a duplicate.  Mystery solved.

With the number of attendees at the conference, I was not able to locate my “other self”, but strangely enough, she commented on a post on the conference Facebook page after she returned home.  I “friended” her and sent her a message, introducing myself.  She too had been locked out of her hotel room because of the confusion.  We chatted back and forth and then more strangeness.  We have spoken at the same type of pro-life functions (Knights of Columbus, Memorial for the Unborn, Defund Planned Parenthood) we both have Chihuahuas, she has family near where I grew up in Washington State, some of our past experiences were the same, and we are both writers and poets.  She also lives about seventy miles from me and will be at an upcoming conference in Pasadena (let’s see if we both get registered!). 

We are both dedicated to life but from different viewpoints.  I am post-abortive and speak out against abortion because of the pain and suffering I experienced afterward.  She is a child of rape whose mother courageously decided against abortion and gave her up for adoption.  Her story is amazing, and you will be touched when I share it in my next post. 

God works in mysterious ways, and obviously with a sense of humor by the manner He brought this new friend into my life.

Back in the Saddle Again

I’m sure the title of this blog post will bring a smile to fellow authors Murray Pura,  William Tasch, Jim Griffin, and Big Jim Williams.  The term is most certainly the best describer of my circumstances.  Losing both of my parents within two years of each other, an unexpected loss of a very dear friend and unnecessary family drama took a toll on me emotionally, but it also affected all aspects of my life, including my ministries and of course, my writing. 

I had started a collaborative effort with my publisher as well as outlining Series II of Grave Obsessions when my father began to fail.  I had a responsibility to my readers (and publisher) and knew they anxiously awaited finished products; therefore, I forged on for a while, but the joy and excitement usually experienced while weaving tales was non-existent.  The days leading to my father’s passing is when the keyboard started to gather dust.  It wasn’t a conscious decision to take a sabbatical, it just happened.  I continued to blog, but even then I threw in some old posts because I just couldn’t get enthused and to be honest, all I really wanted to do was not only get off the saddle but sell it along with the horse and barn.

Grief takes many forms as does stress.  When reviewing what I had written up to the break, I was appalled.  It was disjointed.  The words didn’t flow, they were just thrown on the page for word count and carried no emotion, excitement, or heart. 

I am now on a salvage mission, and thus far, it’s going well.  Granted, there is a great deal of rewriting to do, but the horse is rested and ready to sprint to the finish line.   

Thank you for your patience and understanding…..

 

Why Writer's Go Crazy

You think English is easy?

 

1)  The bandage was wound around the wound.

2)  The farm was used to produce produce.

3)  The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.

4)   We must polish the Polish furniture..

5)  He could lead if he would get the lead out.

6)  The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert..

7)  Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time                    

        to present the present. 

8)    A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

9)  When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

10) I did not object to the object. 

11)  The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row. 

13) They were too close to the door to close it. 

14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.   

15)  A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line. 

16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow. 

17) The wind was too strong for me to wind the sail.

18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.. 

19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.

20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

 

 

Let's face it - English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France . Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

 

And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the plural of booth, beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? One index, 2 indices? Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

 

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell?

 

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

 

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible.

 

PS. - Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick'?

 

 AND THERE'S MORE!

  

There is a two-letter word that perhaps has more meanings than any other two-letter word, and that is 'UP.'

 

It's easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP?

 

At a meeting, why does a topic come UP?

 

Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report?

 

We call UP our friends.

 

And we use it to brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver; we warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen.

 

We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car.

 

At other times the little word has real special meaning.

 

People stir UP trouble, line UP for tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses.

 

To be dressed is one thing, but to be dressed UP is special.

 

A drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP.

 

We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night.

 

We seem to be pretty mixed UP about UP!

 

To be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP in the dictionary.

 

In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP almost 1/4th of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions.

 

If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used.

 

It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don't give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more.

 

When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP.

 

When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP.

 

When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP.

 

When it doesn't rain for awhile, things dry UP.

 

One could go on and on, but I'll wrap it UP,

 

for now my time is UP,

 

so.......it is time to shut UP!  

I have no clue who wrote these, but whoever you are.....thank you for the chuckles!!!!



Have a Blessed Day!