Monthly Archives: April 2010

The Write Type?

I was trying to get clever with my title but this is the best I came up with.

This entry is not about Dan.  There is a lot to say about him.  Our roller coaster has been on its track and in motion lately, for sure.  But I have a different ponderance today.

You know there are just so many hours in a day.  And so much to do.  I like coming here and telling the story where it can benefit others, and where I also receive support from you all — this is a wonderful medium.  But … I really want to WRITE.  I don’t mean “write” as in create a string of words, generally.  I mean WRITE as in hold a pen in my hand and put ink to the page.  It’s a different process — writing — than typing is.  There’s just something intimate about it for me.  And I want to go back to my daily journaling.  But then, I might show up here even less than I do now.

This is not really some big problem or anything.  Just what I’m thinking about today.  And so if I’m gone again for awhile, it might just be because I’m writing.   And that’s a good thing.

More on Dan soon though.  Today he’s in a local rehab place doing ok.  Today.  Amen.

Hope you’re all doing well.  I will visit your blogs this weekend and check up on your lives.  God bless

The Ups and Downs

  You all know this feeling.  I don’t like roller coasters at amusement parks; I surely don’t love them in life.  Glad I got my hug the other day, because Dan has come and stolen from my house since then.  Smallish things.  But nonetheless.  He lied to his sister to get access to the house and then stole something from his brother’s room.  He would have taken my bike the other day except that we got home before he could do it. 

Everybody, raise those hands up and… “AAAHHHHHhhhhhhhhhh”

I Hugged My Boy Today!

Well, “Boy” of course is a relative term. He’s so tall. But I was at a local shopping center and there was Dan. Gosh, he was filthy. But he smiled and gave me a great big hug. That made me very glad. I told him that I would be home tomorrow, and that if he wanted to come by the house to take a shower, I’d run his clothes through the washing machine and make him a meal. He said yes, he’d like that (we’ll see). He asked if his friend could come but I had to say no. I’ve known that particular friend for a long time and don’t trust him for a minute. (I love him, but I don’t trust him, you know?)

That was a gift. It’s funny because I ran into all kinds of interruptions trying to get to the store. Perhaps there was a reason. A little Angel bringing me and Dan together for a few good moments between mother and son. Thanks, God!

You Never Let Go

One Man’s Journey

So my son’s life is his journey.  In don’t know his purpose.  I don’t know God’s plan for him — the details I mean.  Here I am awake at almost 1AM.  Can’t help it.  Can’t sleep.  He’s out there somewhere.   But I’m praying to let it go.  Because I don’t know his journey, his purpose, God’s plan.  There are so many possibilities.  Just as Jesus went to his death to give us life, so perhaps my son walks a death path to provide something that I cannot imagine … somehow.  If he comes out of it, he might save others with his testimony.  Or, among his drug-user friends, he might say something that turns someone else around.  Or his example stops others from going to drugs.  I have to find meaning in what feels meaningless.  And only God can provide that.

I have so much to say and yet so little.  My heart is breaking and I’m numb.  I know what’s right and think that nothing is right.  I miss my son and hope he stays away and I want him home.  Yep.  One big bundle of everything. 

Tomorrow, I will take a walk in the sun and live fully.  It’s the only real choice.

God bless.

“Hope” — a poem

I have a kinship with poet Emily Dickinson.  Here’s one of her pieces on HOPE.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –


And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –


I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.