Our Camping Adventure

A few weeks ago, Mitch and I got a wild hair up our butt.  I was browsing Facebook Marketplace and saw a big tent.  I showed it to Mitch and mentioned that tent camping might be fun…as long as we had cots, because if we slept on the ground, we would never be able to get up. Back up a bit… we sold our motorhome because of the gas prices. We just didn't want to go bankrupt trying to fill the tank up, so we let her go.  

We found an awesome camping spot right on a river.  We could fish from our lot.   We made reservations, then ventured to Big 5 Sporting Goods.  We bought a 6-person tent, two cots, and sleeping bags.  We already had a privacy tent for our porta-potty.  

We arrived at our campsite at around 3 o'clock in the afternoon to unload. We laid the tent out per instructions.  The guy at Big 5 said there would be no problem at all putting it up, even for those in advanced age (should I have been insulted?)

Fast forward three hours, the tent was still sprawled on the ground. Mitch walked over to the campsite next to us and asked the camper if he could possibly assist us. 

(We were being stubborn old farts, and we weren't gonna ask for help, but we finally had to give up and do so.)

The guy who came over was more than happy to help us out. We got our tent put up, and he loved it because it was so big. We put our cots and made our beds, and I was getting ready to cook dinner.

Mitch took the camp stove out and got ready to hook up the propane. Neither one of us bothered to look at the package that we got from the casino. The stove operated on butane, not propane. I told Mitch no problem; we could just build a fire, and there's a grate over the fire for the pot.

 We had firewood but no kindling or extra paper. (Can you tell we didn't prepare very well?) Please note a survival skill… a roll of toilet paper burns for quite a while, at least long enough to make the dinner lukewarm.

We were exhausted, so after our lukewarm meal we decided to go to bed. The sun was almost gone. It was getting dark, and I told Mitch to go into the box and get the travel lights that we had brought with us. He came back to the picnic table, shaking his head.  He couldn't find the lights.  Of course he was…they were still on a dining room table, so all we had was a flashlight from our cell phones. We decided to shake it off and just deal with it.

We lay down on the Big 5 cots that promised a good night’s sleep.  NOT  It felt like a metal rod was going up both of our backs. We tried to stick it out for an hour or two, but we just couldn't. It was just too freaking miserable, so we got up, went to the car, reclined our seats, and slept like babies.

The minute the sun came up, Mitch suggested we get the hell out of here. I wholeheartedly agreed.  He looked at the tent, then at me, and said he knew I was thinking the same thing. We decided to leave everything except the sleeping bags because we knew after this experience we would never go camping again.   

So as we drove by the next campsite, the guy  that helped us with the tent was up.  We called him over to our car and asked if he wanted our tent, and he said, "Absolutely-that's awesome." Mitch said, " Well, along with the tent, there were two cots, a privacy tent, and a porta-potty. It's all yours, and have a good day”.

We hit the gas pedal ... wanting to leave it all behind and feeling like idiots for trying to do something we should've never tried.  We are not kids anymore.  We need to accept our limitations.  Next time, we will rent a cabin!

  

THE DEVASTATION OF DEMENTIA ...

 
I've been missing my mom more than usual this week and reflecting on what my dad and I experienced as she declined. Not only did she have cancer, but she also had dementia. While the cancer was eating away at her body, the dementia was doing the same to her mind. Seeing that beautiful, vibrant woman waste away physically was devastating, but the added emotional turmoil of dementia made it practically unbearable.

 As both diseases progressed, I retired to help my dad with her care. We knew what to expect with the cancer; however, the dementia was not as predictable. There was joy, laughter, and lots of love -- switching to anger, paranoia, and extreme confusion. Her mental state would fluctuate from one day to the next and, sometimes, one minute to the next.

We were in constant contact with her doctor and hospice, and although they offered good advice, they kept repeating one statement: "Do not take what she says or does personally." Well, that sounds easy enough, but it's hard not to when your loved one uncharacteristically lashes out, physically and/or verbally, or worse, runs away. During those episodes, we found ourselves in a chaotic mass of bewilderment, despair, hurt, anger, resentment … You name it, we felt it. Although we mentally realized this wasn't Mom but dementia … convincing our hearts was a different story. She didn't remember the outbursts ... one ray of light in those dark times; otherwise, she would have been mortified and inconsolable.

Dementia is unrelenting and cruel and can take an emotional and physical toll on everyone involved. Without the resources available to us, the love and support of family and friends, and most importantly, our faith in God, we would still be picking up the pieces.

I don't know why I was compelled to write this, maybe someone out in the blogosphere needs to see they are not alone, or perhaps I'm reaching a new stage in the grief process. What I do know is that even though dementia made some days more difficult than others, they were all days spent with an incredible and beautiful woman I loved so very much, and for me, that's all that matters.

 

 HAVE A BLESSED DAY!

An Adoption Story

A drug-addicted woman left a seven-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl in a dilapidated motel room to bail her boyfriend out of jail. She never returned. It took three days to discover those two frightened children, and during that time, they survived on food the little boy found in dumpsters. The abandonment was reprehensible but paled compared to the abuse and neglect they endured since birth. To make a long story short, they were both placed in foster care and eventually released for adoption.

• That little boy is my son, Bobby, placed with Don (my late ex-husband) and me.  Due to various circumstances, his sister was placed with another family based on the recommendations of therapists. Through a coordinated effort with his sister's new parents in Connecticut, we ensured they maintained contact through phone calls, letters, and summer visits.

  When Bobby first moved in, there were trust issues. He considered our home temporary like all the others and resisted getting attached. We were prepared for that but not the fear.  He hid food under his bed fearing he might not have any the next day.  Whenever we brought him new clothes or shoes, he slept with them under his pillow for the same reason. Due to prior severe punishments, he was also terrified of dirtying or damaging his clothes.  

  Considerable time passed before the fear subsided and only when the judge signed the adoption papers did he finally accept he was wanted and a forever member of our family. That happened thirty years ago today.

  I'm not saying it was an easy road.  Memories of abuse haunted him, which evoked angry outbursts and self-destructive behavior as expected with post-traumatic stress.  He thrived with love, prayer, patience, and therapy but most importantly due to his strong determination to heal.

  Words cannot adequately describe my love for that precious eleven-year-old boy and the love and pride I have for the man, father and grandfather he became.

   

 

Bobby wrote the following for his school's anthology when he was in sixth grade, the story of his life up to that point:

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

 THE LONG ROAD HOME

(A True Story)

Bobby – Grade 6

ACCEPTING GRACE

 

I am a big fan of Max Lucado's writing, and this one is thought-provoking and a favorite of mine:

It happened too fast. One minute Barabbas was in his cell on death row playing tic-tac-toe on the dirt walls, and the next, he was outside squinting his eyes at the bright sun. "You're free to go." Barabbas scratches his beard. "What?" "You're free. They took the Nazarene instead of you."

Barabbas has often been compared to humanity, and rightly so. In many ways, he stands for us: a prisoner who was freed because someone he had never seen took his place. As far as we know, he took his sudden freedom for what it was, an undeserved gift. Someone tossed him a life preserver, and he grabbed it, no questions asked. You couldn't imagine him pulling some of our stunts.

We take our free gift and try to earn it, diagnose it, or pay for it instead of simply saying "thank you" and accepting it. Why do we do that? The only reason I can figure is pride. To accept grace means to accept its necessity, and most folks don't like to do that. Accepting grace also means that one realizes his despair, and most people aren't too keen on doing that either.

Barabbas, though, knew better. Maybe he didn't understand mercy, and surely he didn't deserve it, but he wasn't about to refuse it. We might do well to realize that our plight isn't too different than that of Barabbas. We, too, are prisoners with no chance for appeal. But why some prefer to stay in prison while the cell door has been unlocked is a mystery worth pondering.

SPEAKING OUT FOR LIFE

 

January is Respect Life Month.  It was in January 1973 that Roe v Wade passed and legalized abortion. We saw Roe v Wade overturned this past year, but the fight is not over. The legality of abortion is now up to each state. Until abortion is unthinkable and no longer legal, our voices will continue to be strong. 

 

To put abortion into perspective:

If you were silent one minute for each child killed by abortion, you would be silent for at least 114 years.

I usually attend and share my testimony at the March for Life in Washington D.C., the Walk for Life in San Francisco and smaller local events. I have conflicts this year, and it breaks my heart that I won't be able to participate. I love seeing and spending time with my Silent No More brothers and sisters and friends/mentors Father Frank Pavone, National Director of Priests for Life, Georgette Forney, President of Anglicans for Life, and Janet Morana, Executive Director of Priests for Life both co-founders of the Silent No More Awareness Campaign. 

 

As I reflect on the many marches and walks, my mind always wanders back to what happened while at West Coast Walk for Life a few years ago. After giving our testimonies at the pre-walk rally, my friend Leslie and I were asked if we would be willing to join in a panel discussion on Immaculate Heart Radio and talk about life before, but most importantly, after, our abortions. 

After the segment finished, a priest on the panel thanked us for having the courage to tell our stories in front of so many people, let alone to a national radio audience. Others have made similar comments, and some have even asked me if I get embarrassed because so many ugly excesses consume my past.  

 

I hate to burst anyone's bubble; I'm not courageous by any means. Through time I have grown accustomed to speaking in front of large audiences; however, for the first few years, I was a nervous wreck to the point of almost backing out. God, however, is quite persuasive. He has called me to share my story because, unfortunately, many women are like me. It's an opportunity to reach out to them and comfort them, knowing they are not alone and no matter how bad they think they are ... nothing is unforgivable in God's eyes. As far as being ashamed or embarrassed … Yes, I was - but I found the more I exposed my past, it became a blessing. As a caterpillar morphs into a beautiful butterfly, evil miraculously emerges as good.  

 

God uses my Silent No More sisters and brothers and me to share our experiences, speak out for life and be beacons of hope for those who have had or encouraged abortions - guiding them toward healing.

 

"So do not be ashamed of your testimony to our Lord, nor of me, a prisoner for his sake; but bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God."

2 Timothy 1:8

 

 

The Gift - A Memory from Christmas Past

 

My writing time spans from around midnight to five o'clock in the morning. Some nights, I don't have the right words or the drive (shame on me), but I stay up anyway. Last night was like that. While reading and listening to the tv (multitasking?), I started thinking of a particular Christmas overseas. We were living in Casablanca, Morocco, on an Air Force Base. 

I was in the third grade and not old enough to go Christmas shopping alone. Dad planned on taking my sister and me, but I was impatient (a character flaw I still struggle with!). The route home from school went through military housing. On the way home one afternoon, it was trash collection day, and one of the cans along the way did not have a lid. I peeked in and, lo and behold, discovered an ashtray. It was round with green paint and gold specks. I looked around, making sure no one was watching, reached in, grabbed it, and put it in my lunch box. Mom will love this, I thought. 

When I arrived home, I hid it under my mattress until I could sneak into the bathroom and make it look new. I washed that darned ashtray about a gazillion times until the paint shined and specks shimmered, all the while oblivious to the fact there was a crack on the unpainted bottom. I excitedly told my dad I didn't need to shop for mom, that I already had her gift, and told him what I had done. All he said was, "That's a really nice gift."

 

Christmas morning took forever to come. I sat, anxiously waiting for my mom to rip through a mound of paper and tape that could have wrapped a battleship (I still use too much.) She looked down at the ashtray, gently turned it over, then turned it back. She rubbed her hand against the sparkly green surface and smiled. She said it was beautiful and would cherish it forever, and she gave me a great big hug. My heart jumped with joy, knowing I had made her happy. I was confident she never suspected it was used or found in a trash can. That secret was between dad and me.

 

That was one of my favorite Christmas memories, especially upon finding out she was aware of the origin of the gift shortly after she opened it. She saw the crack on the bottom and mentioned it to my dad when I was out of earshot, and he told her what had transpired. It didn't matter to her ... she proudly displayed that ashtray for years. She never said anything to me until I was an adult. 

 

Thinking about that Christmas brought me to tears, not just because this was one more Christmas without her and my dad, but because they loved me so much. Not only did they ignore the source of that green and gold ashtray, but they forgave the pain I caused them in later years when I took a detour to the darker side of life. I was in a garbage can too, but God, in His mercy, pulled me out - and He, along with mom and dad, helped me wash off and shine as if brand new.

The End of the Light

 

The mortuary that took care of my mom held a memorial service right before Christmas 2014 for those who lost someone during the year.  Before we lit candles in memory of our loved ones, one of the presiding ministers told a story that touched my heart and instilled a sense of hope. 

One night a father asked his young son to retrieve the well 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 reached 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.

By Mary Saying "Yes"

 

Saint John Damascene tells us, “The day of the Nativity of the Mother of God is a day of universal joy because, through the Mother of God, the entire human race was renewed, and the sorrow of the first mother, Eve, was transformed into joy.”

As Christmas approaches, my heart overflows with gratitude towards the Blessed Mother because:

By Her saying, "Yes," we have a Savior ~

By Her saying, "Yes," we have direction ~

By Her saying, "Yes," we know how to live righteously ~

By Her saying, "Yes," we have hope ~

By Her saying, "Yes," we are loved unconditionally ~

By Her saying, "Yes," we are never alone ~

By Her saying, "Yes," we can look forward to eternal life.

Sadly, many women and men find the Christmas season difficult because they said, "No" when faced with an unexpected pregnancy. I used to experience deep sadness at Christmastime because it was the most prominent reminder of how I failed God, my children, and myself. I thought of my babies every time I saw baby Jesus in the manger or in the Blessed Mother’s arms. The regret was paralyzing.

If it hadn’t been for an after-abortion healing program, I would have continued to find myself saddened when viewing a nativity scene or images of the Blessed Mother with Baby Jesus and consider myself a failure in God's eyes. I now fully embrace Christmastime; I have a collection of nativity scenes and statues of the Holy Family and the Blessed Mother with Baby Jesus displayed throughout my home.

Through healing, I understood that because of Mary’s “Yes,” redemption for what I considered an unforgivable act was there for the asking. And because of God's loving mercy and Mary’s inspiration of faith and courage, I can speak out to prevent others from saying “No.”

“…for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, being justified as a gift by His grace through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus” …  Romans 3:23-24

If you are struggling with your decision to abort, please visit the Silent No More Awareness Campaign for healing resources.

You are not alone.

Twenty-Five Reasons I'm Grateful for Sobriety

 

Twenty-five years ago today, I was institutionalized for being suicidal. I had reached my limit…hit my bottom.  The psychiatrist asked me why I wanted to die, and I told him I was already dead inside; I just wanted to finish the job.  The first thing they did was take my shoelaces away.  Not being trusted with shoelaces made me realize how sick I really was. After being considered no longer a danger to myself and adequately detoxed, I was sent to the alcohol rehab unit, where I began recovery.  Praise God, I have been sober since then….and if I feel the need to drink, all I have to do is look down at my shoes.  I don’t ever want to lose those laces again. 

I have learned many things since that day, including not taking myself so seriously. With that in mind, here are 25 reasons I’m grateful for 25 years of sobriety. (All True)

 1.  I no longer call people at 3 a.m., pontificating about the world’s affairs.

2.  I can stand upright without leaning against a wall or another person.

3.  I bowl better.

4.  With coffee, I am now wide awake and functional instead of wide awake and drunk.

5.  My language doesn’t emulate a drunken sailor (most times).

6.  I don’t have to worry about who I might have offended the night before. 

7.  I wake up in the morning without feeling like my mouth is stuffed with cotton.

8.  I use vanilla for baking, not a substitute for bourbon. (Yep, I was a sicko)

9.  I no longer think I'm a dancing queen.  (I’m surprised my dancing wasn't mistaken for seizures.)

10. I don’t go to work and spend most of the day in a bathroom stall, dozing. 

11. My glasses actually help me see.

12. After a night out, I come home with everything on (coat, shoes, jewelry, etc.).

13. I no longer talk as if my ears were plugged.

14. I no longer get reminded of what I had for dinner when it "comes up."

15. I can shoot a game of pool without hitting someone with the cue stick.

16. People now let me play darts.

17. I no longer need to sleep on the bathroom floor “just in case.”

18. I no longer mistake Bengay for Colgate (that was painful)!

19. I don’t have to wake up wondering how I got home.

20.  I can lay on my bed at night and not feel like I'm in a spin cycle.

21.  My hands no longer shake, making putting on eyeliner a breeze ... plus my eyebrows are even.

22.  I no longer faint when I open my American Express bill.  (I had the habit of buying rounds).

23. My perfume actually works.  I no longer smell like Eau d’bourbon.

24. Nyquil is no longer my go-to after-dinner drink when the liquor cabinet is empty. (It did have a shot glass on the top.) 

25.  With all my drunken antics, I am most grateful Facebook wasn't around yet!

THAT IS WHAT LOVE FEELS LIKE

In 2014, my dad and I had the difficult task of going through my mother's things, the hardest being her clothes and purses. Certain outfits brought back beautiful memories; however, taking them out of the closet brought back the stark realization that she was gone. On the lighter side, we had to check each item painstakingly. Later stages of dementia resulted in her hiding jewelry and money in pockets, hems, etc...and the Kleenex! She always feared having a runny nose with no tissue available, so her purses and jacket pockets were stockpiled. If we had unfurled and stacked each tissue (I'm not kidding), I think we would have refilled three boxes.

Anyway, we accomplished our mission. The closet was empty, boxes filled, her blouses, slacks, and jackets hanging on the clothes rod and a portable clothes rack. After loading the van, we headed to a local homeless shelter that housed both men and women, as some of her jackets and sweatshirts could be used by either gender. I located a volunteer, and before he followed me to the van, he unlocked the closet where they stored clothing donations. I looked in and chuckled. I told him the closet wasn't big enough. You see, my mom never discarded anything (she also had 700 beanie babies!), and close to the end, she would order something that she never had a chance to use. The volunteer must have thought I was exaggerating until I opened the van doors. He returned to the shelter, calling for some residents to help unload.

Several men jumped at the opportunity. A man approached me as I began unloading some of the smaller boxes. He was unkempt and toothless. At first, I hate to admit, I felt the urge to turn around and run. He took the box I was holding and put it on one of the food carts they were using for transport. I thanked him and, with an embarrassed look on his face, said, "I wasn't always like this." While both of us continued to unload boxes, he told me of his many attempts to get clean and sober, each relapse causing him to lose more until nothing was left. Proudly he exclaimed that his most recent period of sobriety was the longest yet, and he truly felt the Holy Spirit. I congratulated him and said I would pray for his continued success. I told him I struggled with addiction and shared a little of my story. As I was sharing, I realized how blessed I was. Although we shared the same affliction, the consequences he suffered were much more severe. All I could think of was, "There but for the Grace of God go I."

The van was empty; the job was done. The shelter volunteer and residents offered thanks and wheeled the carts to the storage area. I started towards the driver's side of the van. The man I was chatting with came back out of the storage area and asked if he could hug me. It wasn't a little one ... it was an extended, long bear hug. He backed up and, with a toothless smile, said, "and THAT is what love feels like," and walked away. As I started the drive home, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing but a few stray hangers hanging from clothes rods where my mother's clothes hung. Instead of feeling empty, I was enveloped in peace and fulfillment. 

Yes, my friend, that's what love feels like.

A Lesson in Worth

Some stories have such a special message they should be shared more than once.

This is one of them ...

The Pearl Necklace

Author Unknown

A cheerful girl with bouncy golden curls was almost five. Waiting with her mother at the checkout stand, she saw them: a circle of glistening white pearls in a pink foil box. "Oh please, Mommy. Can I have them? Please, Mommy, please!"

Quickly the mother checked the back of the little foil box and then looked back into the pleading blue eyes of her little girl's upturned face. "A dollar ninety-five. That's almost two dollars. If you really want them, I'll
think of some extra chores for you, and in no time, you can save enough money to buy them for yourself.  Your birthday's only a week away, and you might get another crisp dollar bill from grandma."

As soon as Jenny got home, she emptied her piggy bank and counted out seventeen pennies. After dinner, she did more than her share of chores, and she went to the neighbor and asked if she could pick dandelions for ten cents. On her birthday, Grandma did give her another new dollar bill, and at last, she had enough money to buy the necklace.

Jenny loved her pearls. They made her feel dressed up and grown-up. She wore them everywhere--Sunday school, kindergarten, even to bed. The only time she took them off was when she went swimming or had a
bubble bath. Mother said if they got wet, they might turn her neck green.

Jenny had a very loving daddy, and every night when she was ready for bed, he would stop whatever he was doing and come upstairs to read her a story. One night when he finished the story, he asked Jenny, "Do you love me?"  "Oh yes, Daddy. You know that I love you." "Then give me your pearls."  "Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have Princess-- the white horse from my collection. The one with the pink tail. Remember, Daddy? The one you gave me. She's my favorite."  "That's okay, Honey. Daddy loves you. Good night." And he brushed her cheek with a kiss.

About a week later, after story time, Jenny's daddy asked again, "Do you love me?" "Daddy, you know I love you." "Then give me your pearls." "Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have my baby doll. The brand new one I got for my birthday. She is so beautiful, and you can have the yellow blanket that matches her sleeper."  "That's okay. Sleep well. God bless you, little one. Daddy loves you." And, as always, he brushed her cheek with a gentle kiss.

A few nights later, when her daddy came in, Jenny was sitting on her bed with her legs crossed Indian-style. As he came close, he noticed her chin was trembling, and one silent tear rolled down her cheek. "What is it, Jenny? What's the matter? Jenny didn't say anything but lifted her little hand to her daddy. And, when she opened it, there was her little pearl necklace. With a little quiver, she finally said, "Here, Daddy. It's for you."

With tears in his eyes, Jenny's kind daddy reached out with one hand to take the dime-store necklace. With the other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue velvet case with a strand of beautiful genuine pearls. He had had them all the time. He was just waiting for her to give up the dime-store pearls.

  

We all hold on to

dime-store pearl necklaces...

feeling unworthy of anything better.

Our Father's hand is reaching out for 

those cheap pearls to replace them with

His greatest gift ...

Seeing our worth through His eyes.

Remembering Dad

 My dad passed away on 2/24/16 and my heart still hurts. To say I was blessed with a wonderful dad would be an understatement, and it would take at least a year of blog posts to convey my love for him adequately.  With that in mind, I'll share a mere two or three precious and memorable moments:

   ~       Some family friends had a go-cart, and we all went to a large, empty parking lot one day. Dad was quite worried when I got behind the wheel because I was only nine or ten.  He made the unfortunate decision of monitoring my motoring skills by walking in front of me. Lowering my helmeted head and envisioning a bulls-eye, I floored it...chasing him all over the parking lot.  (Evil child, evil child). I'm sure a YouTube video of that event would have accumulated a gazillion hits!

 ~        I was involved in a freak accident at a baseball game when I was twenty-three. The bat slipped out of the batter's hand and flew into the stands, landing on my forehead. (I had a concussion, four skull fractures, and twenty-eight stitches). Being the consummate comedian, he would tell me my black eyes reminded him of the Tareyton cigarette commercial, "I'd rather fight than switch." I did look like a boxer that had gone too many rounds!

This last memory affects me to this day...

~      My dad loved Honky Tonk music; in fact, he passed while listening to one of his favorite CDs.  As a child, I remember him down in the basement, blasting Big Tiny Little, Knuckles O'Toole, and Eddie Barns, to name a few.  On Saturday mornings that music was a "call for duty."  My sister and I knew the minute the music started that it was time to "Police up the Area" (clean the house). A while back, after my parents moved in with us, I came up with the bright idea to create a CD with Dad's favorites since he didn't have a turntable anymore. (Not too bright, Patti). He played those CDs all the time, which explained why my house was always spotless.  To this day, if I need any encouragement to clean the house, I put on his CD.  Memories come back, and I use my falling tears instead of Pledge to dust. 

Dad, you and I went through a lot in my sixty+ years, but what warms my heart and humbles me the most was your unconditional love.  The period in my life when I fell as far as anyone could, the days when I caused you unrelenting embarrassment and heartache, your hand was always there to pick me up, and your arms were there to hug me.

I Love and Miss You So Very Much...

 

Meditation on the Lord's Prayer

 

My grandmother's worn Bible is filled with underlines and sidenotes. Inside I found a neatly folded paper typed with an old manual typewriter. At the bottom, my grandmother wrote: From "Lift Up Your Hearts," by W. Russell Bowie. I did an internet search, and that book was published in 1940. 

This meditation is a treasure; I'm sure Nannie is happy I'm sharing it.    

 

Our Father, who art in Heaven,

 Help me to believe this day that there is a power to lift me up, which is stronger than all things that hold me down.

  Hallowed be thy Name,

 Help me to be sensitive to what is beautiful and responsive to what is good so that day by day, I may grow more sure of the Holiness of life in which I want to trust.

 Thy kingdom come,

 Help me to be quick to see and ready to encourage whatever brings the better meaning of God into that which otherwise might be common ground of the uninspired day.

  Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,

 Help me believe that the ideals of the spirit are not a far-off dream but a power to command my loyalty and direct my life here on our real earth.

 Give us this day our daily bread,

 Open the way for us to earn an honest living without anxiety, but let us never forget the needs of others, and make us want only that benefit for ourselves which will also be their gain.

 And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

 Make us patient and sympathetic with the shortcomings of others, especially of those we love, and keep us sternly watchful only of our own.  Let us never grow hard with the unconscious cruelty of those who measure themselves by mean standards and so think they have excelled.  Keep our eyes lifted to the highest; so that we may be humbled, and seeing the failures of others, be forgiving because we know how much there is of which we need to be forgiven.

 Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,

 Let me not go carelessly this day within reach of any evil I cannot resist ... but if, in the path of duty, I must go where temptation is, give me the strength of spirit to meet it without fear.

 For thine is the kingdom and the power, and the glory forever and ever.  Amen.

 And so in my heart may I carry the knowledge that Thy greatness is above me and around me and that Thy grace through Jesus Christ, my Master is sufficient for all my needs.

 Amen

My Beautiful Grandmother
"Nannie"