This morning demands I examine the use of expletives in our language. Now, I’m no expert on the fine art of cursing, but I do know this…when you hurt yourself these words leap off your tongue like a the lead dancer in a ballet. It is not such a bad thing if you are alone when it happens, but there are times when you are in public. You end up being hurt and embarrassed at your rather skillful use of gutter talk.
I awakened a few minutes late this morning. Having to pee and being tardy provided me with two good reasons to hurry to the starting gate of the morning race – the potty. (I’m back in the bathroom again…what is it with me and the toilet room???) As I posed myself for the quick approach, leaning forward, I propelled myself down the hallway toward the facilities.
I must tell you this...I am not the tiniest of woman, so my linear force was something to behold. Midway down the hall, the window fan, which has been sitting quietly on the side of the carpet, suddenly leapt in the path of my right foot. Well, at least, I must believe it leapt or how else could I have missed it for two months and today suddenly forgotten it was there ?!?!?
I know as human animals, we have all stubbed our toe at one time or another. This was NOT a routine, run of the mill, toe stubbing. This was like a nuclear attack on the metatarsals. I experienced a blinding pain, and I think I saw THE white light. (I did not go into the light, or I wouldn’t be here writing about it now!!!) At that moment, without any conscious thought, the word I try never to utter came ripping from my soul!! F*&) !!!
I ponder – where did that come from? Does that word sit and wait for an opportune time to jump into the scene? It spilled forth like an aria whose only lyric was, “Oh F*&) !!, Oh F*&) !!” As I hobbled the remainder of the way to the potty, the chorus of ‘Sh**, Sh**, Sh**” rang out in perfect rhythmic accord. Once I regained my sensibilities, and got my glasses to see the damage, I again entertained the thoughts of why these particular words spill forth subconsciously and without regard for your sense of decorum and honor.
I managed to shower, the hot water causing new waves of nausea to ride on, but I had regained control of my foul utterances.
As I now sit in my classroom writing this, I remember back to Super Bowl Sunday 1998. I remember the date well, because my mother passed away the Friday before the big game. I was on the phone planning Mom’s services for the following day. It was time for kick off. My three and a half year old twins were doing some dueling with little plastic swords they got while on a pirate cruise the summer before. There were many demands on my psyche and my emotions, so I only watched the sword fight with minimal attention. I noticed my son was getting the best of my daughter in the competition. He gingerly smacked her cheek with the flat side of the sword, and I knew from the teenage ‘Oh NO you didn’t!’ look that flashed from her eyes that some serious hurt was going to ensue. ( I almost expected a little teeny girl curse to escape her post-toddler lips.)
The scene before my eyes was surreal. My daughter did a cross-body, bottom-to-top, swashbuckling move in Zorro-like fashion. The sword had a tiny piece of plastic edge that was protruding enough to act as a blade. From the far side of his right eye lid to the far left side of the other eye, this little sharp nipple opened a gaping wound in my beautiful son’s face. Blood began gushing from the wound. The site caused utter panic in all of us. My daughter began jumping up and down screaming, “I killed him, I killed him!!!” My son began running, as if he could out run the blood pouring into his eyes. I told the minister I needed to call back later and hung up the phone. I grabbed something from the fresh laundry that was waiting to be folded to apply pressure to the bleeding and called the neighbor to come watch my daughter while we went to the emergency room. He cried the entire ride there as his father held him. He kept screaming, “I want Mommy,” as I drove us at lightning speed to the nearest hospital.
We arrived and the ER was empty. Thank God!! He was taken right in and they assessed the damage. It was determined he would need stitches, LOTS of them! They wanted to wrap him in a binding blanket, but we felt that would only make him panic more. His father decided to hold him down instead. A mother’s heart aches at a child’s fear and pain. I knew he was feeling both, as was my daughter who was still at home. The doctor approached him with the sutures and said, “Hold him still.” At that, my beautiful, blonde-haired three year old baby screamed at the top of his lungs, “Get the F*&) off me !!!”
Time stood still. I remember the audible sucking in of air and the ‘OY!’ of shock escaped me. I stared at my son, then at his father, and finally at the doctor who was staring back. I asked his father, “Where did he learn that?!?!?!” I didn’t think he knew that word. His father made light of it saying the twins spend a lot of time in his auto repair job exposed to the customers and their fine grasp of the ten most popular English curse words. (I thought being home would be better than daycare?!?!)
Well, it was embarrassing, but not the end of the world. His face healed as did our humiliation. I’m left still with the questions of the day… Why does that word seem so appropriate to our pain? Does it lie in wait for an opportunity to jump into our reality? Is there nothing to be done to restrain its frenzied onslaught? Why is this fact a truth in all languages? Why does it just feel so good to let it rip? I’m amazed, awed, and utterly distracted by it. Oh well, time to ice my toe and get back to work, so F*&) it! LOL
Debbie 3-12-10
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
One More Daily Ditty…
Challenged to write just one more time,
I decided that I would like to rhyme.
I think I may, I think I might,
Try to push the pen again tonight.
What shall I write, I do not know,
I know for sure, it will not be snow.
This week again we turn the clock back.
I lose another hour sleeping in the sack.
To see more sun and longer days,
I pray, oh boy, let it be May.
Seven months have passed us by.
Only three months more, oh my, oh my!
The big state tests are yet to do,
When they are over, we’ll feel brand new.
Classes are over for today.
There is nothing left for me to say.
I’m going home, I can not wait,
Only to come back tonight from six to eight.
Debbie 3-11-10
I decided that I would like to rhyme.
I think I may, I think I might,
Try to push the pen again tonight.
What shall I write, I do not know,
I know for sure, it will not be snow.
This week again we turn the clock back.
I lose another hour sleeping in the sack.
To see more sun and longer days,
I pray, oh boy, let it be May.
Seven months have passed us by.
Only three months more, oh my, oh my!
The big state tests are yet to do,
When they are over, we’ll feel brand new.
Classes are over for today.
There is nothing left for me to say.
I’m going home, I can not wait,
Only to come back tonight from six to eight.
Debbie 3-11-10Mentoring
This word had relevance to me before I knew the word existed. As a child, my life could be described as desperate, desolate, lonely, abusive, and silent. I did not share anything, was never non-compliant, or disruptive. As some point, perhaps I’ll have the courage to share here what only one other person besides me knows. I’m sure there were others who knew or suspected what was going on in my life, but no one had the inclination to do anything to change it.
I was blessed to have a neighbor who reached out to me to bolster my reserve. She made herself available to me whenever I just needed a place to sit and ‘be’ for awhile. Her ability to affect a change was limited by her proximity, but she was there. She saw me. Sometimes that’s all a child needs. To be seen, recognized, and greeted – something so simple and free, gives a person a sense of being valued. I will always be grateful for this early gift in my life.
My mentor welcomed me into her home and into her life. From her, I learned some fundamental cooking skills, how to knit, and crochet; I learned candle-making and all that entails. We spent hours sitting in the sun relaxing and talking, but we also gardened. She never asked me to do any of these things, but provided me a role model and willing instruction IF I asked a ‘how to’ question. I often found myself being a sous chef, garden assistant, or wrapped in the yarn of a craft project. Around eight years of age, she gave me my first paying job. I loved putting her candle room in order. She knew I had nothing, so she insisted she pay me. It was a small sum, but it created in me a sense of empowerment. If I worked hard, I could earn enough to care for myself, which is how I continue to be today. We sang together and she encouraged my talent by signing us up for community choral groups. I was always the youngest, but found encouragement from this new circle of song birds.
Gratitude is not a strong enough word to express how important I feel about her contribution to my faith in God. She never said I ‘had to’ do anything. Her enthusiasm and love for things encouraged me to want to participate. She would say, “I’m going to Sunday school IF you want to come along.” She always allowed the decision to be mine. My life had no choice, no options, no open invitations, so when she gave over that power to me, it helped me grow and have a sense of importance. I went to church and Sunday school with her, participated in singing opportunities, went through two years of confirmation classes, and did it all without ever being forced or cajoled. Faith was an opportunity for me to be loved on a much deeper level and I ran with it.
Through high school, I pulled back from my constant friend to test the waters of independence. I was comfortable venturing out because I knew my safe harbor was there for me if I needed to return to it. I would show up on her door step unexpectedly with a million things to share and I was always greeted with a welcoming smile, loving arms , and a kiss on the cheek. She was my home base; with an open heart, willing ears, a comforting shoulder, and a place where advice was offered only when asked for.
As I left for college, I was amazingly ready for my escape, one I’d dreamt about since I was a child. I still had gaping holes of need exacerbated by my father’s death, but my faith was a part of who I’d become. I railed against it when my father died unexpectedly, turned away from it when making life changing decisions, and felt guilt and remorse. As much as I rebelled against it, it was firmly a part of me…of that I was blessed.
After working away from home for a few years, I returned to teach in the district where I grew up. It was strange that I was returning to teach- never a career I ventured a thought about. Teaching the emotionally disturbed, as they were referred to then, in retrospect makes perfect sense to me. These are the kids I most wanted to help. Those abused, lost, forgotten, neglected, angry kids whose needs were greater than they had possibilities of getting met in their current living arrangement. Like me they needed to be seen and valued, recognized as worthy, and shown the world of possibilities that existed for them. I was poised and ready for that job. It was my turn to be the mentor to these kids who felt no one cared. The lessons of my youth were more valuable than anything I learned in all my vast educational experience. Looking a kid square in the eye so that they know you know and understand, smiling, referring to them by name, inviting them into your world, and just being available when they are ready are the lessons of love I learned in my childhood. They are free; easily given, and have been the greatest blessing to me.
I’ve gone on to encounter new mentors, angels, who have left loving wing marks on my soul. From each, I’ve learned lessons that are surely better shared then kept inside. I live in gratitude for these gifts from God. It will be my mission to pay it forward with conscious awareness and love to those I encounter. Perhaps someday, someone will remember me as their mentor, too.
For Barbara, and my other angels…
Debbie 3-11-10
I was blessed to have a neighbor who reached out to me to bolster my reserve. She made herself available to me whenever I just needed a place to sit and ‘be’ for awhile. Her ability to affect a change was limited by her proximity, but she was there. She saw me. Sometimes that’s all a child needs. To be seen, recognized, and greeted – something so simple and free, gives a person a sense of being valued. I will always be grateful for this early gift in my life.
My mentor welcomed me into her home and into her life. From her, I learned some fundamental cooking skills, how to knit, and crochet; I learned candle-making and all that entails. We spent hours sitting in the sun relaxing and talking, but we also gardened. She never asked me to do any of these things, but provided me a role model and willing instruction IF I asked a ‘how to’ question. I often found myself being a sous chef, garden assistant, or wrapped in the yarn of a craft project. Around eight years of age, she gave me my first paying job. I loved putting her candle room in order. She knew I had nothing, so she insisted she pay me. It was a small sum, but it created in me a sense of empowerment. If I worked hard, I could earn enough to care for myself, which is how I continue to be today. We sang together and she encouraged my talent by signing us up for community choral groups. I was always the youngest, but found encouragement from this new circle of song birds.
Gratitude is not a strong enough word to express how important I feel about her contribution to my faith in God. She never said I ‘had to’ do anything. Her enthusiasm and love for things encouraged me to want to participate. She would say, “I’m going to Sunday school IF you want to come along.” She always allowed the decision to be mine. My life had no choice, no options, no open invitations, so when she gave over that power to me, it helped me grow and have a sense of importance. I went to church and Sunday school with her, participated in singing opportunities, went through two years of confirmation classes, and did it all without ever being forced or cajoled. Faith was an opportunity for me to be loved on a much deeper level and I ran with it.
Through high school, I pulled back from my constant friend to test the waters of independence. I was comfortable venturing out because I knew my safe harbor was there for me if I needed to return to it. I would show up on her door step unexpectedly with a million things to share and I was always greeted with a welcoming smile, loving arms , and a kiss on the cheek. She was my home base; with an open heart, willing ears, a comforting shoulder, and a place where advice was offered only when asked for.
As I left for college, I was amazingly ready for my escape, one I’d dreamt about since I was a child. I still had gaping holes of need exacerbated by my father’s death, but my faith was a part of who I’d become. I railed against it when my father died unexpectedly, turned away from it when making life changing decisions, and felt guilt and remorse. As much as I rebelled against it, it was firmly a part of me…of that I was blessed.
After working away from home for a few years, I returned to teach in the district where I grew up. It was strange that I was returning to teach- never a career I ventured a thought about. Teaching the emotionally disturbed, as they were referred to then, in retrospect makes perfect sense to me. These are the kids I most wanted to help. Those abused, lost, forgotten, neglected, angry kids whose needs were greater than they had possibilities of getting met in their current living arrangement. Like me they needed to be seen and valued, recognized as worthy, and shown the world of possibilities that existed for them. I was poised and ready for that job. It was my turn to be the mentor to these kids who felt no one cared. The lessons of my youth were more valuable than anything I learned in all my vast educational experience. Looking a kid square in the eye so that they know you know and understand, smiling, referring to them by name, inviting them into your world, and just being available when they are ready are the lessons of love I learned in my childhood. They are free; easily given, and have been the greatest blessing to me.
I’ve gone on to encounter new mentors, angels, who have left loving wing marks on my soul. From each, I’ve learned lessons that are surely better shared then kept inside. I live in gratitude for these gifts from God. It will be my mission to pay it forward with conscious awareness and love to those I encounter. Perhaps someday, someone will remember me as their mentor, too.
For Barbara, and my other angels…
Debbie 3-11-10
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Dry Days...
Unlike yesterday with my potty inspiration, some days it is difficult to put pen to paper and write. Ideas do not necessarily flow like water from the spigot. (Why are all my analogies in the bathroom?) You turn the handle in your brain and nothing, just nothing, comes out. The old idea well has done dried up!!! You lean down to examine the opening for the missing flow. Just nothing! Then, suddenly, a drip hits you in the eye. The drip blurs your vision demanding you clear it and take a closer look. You try to come to some agreement with that thought so more will come. You chew on it, ruminate over it, examine it with the eyes of a micro-scientist, turn it over and over, and realize it is just not enough of a drip to be worth the time it would take to tap about it.
As your brain is engaged in the hard work of pondering…life happens and suddenly there it is – your idea for the day. Sometimes it is an event that stirs your soul, other times it is a moment that strokes your heart strings, and then there are those that make you laugh until you nearly pee your pants. (Not such a stretch for us over 50 chicks like me…and here we are in the potty again…geesh!!!)
As a teacher, there are things we do on a daily basis that if given a nickel each time, we’d all be rich. (Those teachers out there reading this…I know you’ve used this line. Uh huh...) You know what I’m talking about; making circles out of masking tape, telling, retelling, reminding, then asking if homework was done, and warning the kiddies of the dangers of eating paste, paper, and rocking on their chairs. Do they listen – NEVER!!!
So as I was lost on the vast plains of idea nothingness, I catch a glimpse of one of my cutey's chairs in rocked back pose, as if in full forward swing on a swing-set, or like a little child-sized pellet in a catapult. Being that I was lucky enough to scavenge upholstered chairs to go with my scavenged tables, we sit in relative educational luxury. This little guy’s chair antics hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other boys around the table. Now on any given day, a spill from these high-end, soft-on-the-tookus chairs is particularly a difficult event, because upholstered chairs tend to hold onto jeans and corduroys like Velcro on a space-suit. Well…this particular acrobat hadn’t considered the dangers of slippery workout pants on upholstery. Might as well have sprayed his tush with PAM. Slow motion in your head now. (Otherwise known in writing circles as Exploding the Moment) My head rotates slowly to the right. Eyes scanning the table to assure what I’d asked the students to accomplish was in fact being attempted. With African Tribal music providing background ambiance (I know there is a whole other blog there waiting to be written..), the gentle whirring of the fan rotating back and forth assuring the creature comforts of my boys, a serene setting was being enjoyed by all. At that, my wind-pants-wonder-child suddenly rocked forward slowly from his back swing and he disappeared from the scene. His chair snapped into position at the table as if it knew its place in our educations world. Back to normal speed now, if you please. Riotous laughter erupted throughout the room. Our acrobat found himself sitting in a slippery little pile under the table. Good-natured as he is, he just popped back up, inspiring even louder laughter and giggles all around. He looked like a little jack-in-the-box sans the corny song.
After assuring no injuries to vital organs or his cranium had occurred, we continued to get the jollies over his skillful slippage. My class environment is very loving and supportive, and just like any family, it is full of teasing and good natured joking. He provided us material for many stories today. One such suggestion was to write a parody on Alice in Wonderland with this little guy slipping into a hole under the table, or being sucked into the sound of Africa CD so he might find himself among giraffes, gazelles, and lions. (Good thing he was wearing running pants, huh?)
As the giggles abated - I, of course, jumped onto my dormant pen and thoughts and began to write. Thank God that we have a safe enough classroom environment where we can laugh at each other and ourselves knowing there is love, and support and good-natured fun. We are truly blessed.
Future blog topics to consider:
• Seat belts for work out wear
• Pratt falls 101
• Why do we laugh first, check for injuries second?
• What does the above say about our perverse sense of humor?
• African Tribal Rhythmic Dancing
Debbie 3-10-10
As your brain is engaged in the hard work of pondering…life happens and suddenly there it is – your idea for the day. Sometimes it is an event that stirs your soul, other times it is a moment that strokes your heart strings, and then there are those that make you laugh until you nearly pee your pants. (Not such a stretch for us over 50 chicks like me…and here we are in the potty again…geesh!!!)
As a teacher, there are things we do on a daily basis that if given a nickel each time, we’d all be rich. (Those teachers out there reading this…I know you’ve used this line. Uh huh...) You know what I’m talking about; making circles out of masking tape, telling, retelling, reminding, then asking if homework was done, and warning the kiddies of the dangers of eating paste, paper, and rocking on their chairs. Do they listen – NEVER!!!
So as I was lost on the vast plains of idea nothingness, I catch a glimpse of one of my cutey's chairs in rocked back pose, as if in full forward swing on a swing-set, or like a little child-sized pellet in a catapult. Being that I was lucky enough to scavenge upholstered chairs to go with my scavenged tables, we sit in relative educational luxury. This little guy’s chair antics hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other boys around the table. Now on any given day, a spill from these high-end, soft-on-the-tookus chairs is particularly a difficult event, because upholstered chairs tend to hold onto jeans and corduroys like Velcro on a space-suit. Well…this particular acrobat hadn’t considered the dangers of slippery workout pants on upholstery. Might as well have sprayed his tush with PAM. Slow motion in your head now. (Otherwise known in writing circles as Exploding the Moment) My head rotates slowly to the right. Eyes scanning the table to assure what I’d asked the students to accomplish was in fact being attempted. With African Tribal music providing background ambiance (I know there is a whole other blog there waiting to be written..), the gentle whirring of the fan rotating back and forth assuring the creature comforts of my boys, a serene setting was being enjoyed by all. At that, my wind-pants-wonder-child suddenly rocked forward slowly from his back swing and he disappeared from the scene. His chair snapped into position at the table as if it knew its place in our educations world. Back to normal speed now, if you please. Riotous laughter erupted throughout the room. Our acrobat found himself sitting in a slippery little pile under the table. Good-natured as he is, he just popped back up, inspiring even louder laughter and giggles all around. He looked like a little jack-in-the-box sans the corny song.
After assuring no injuries to vital organs or his cranium had occurred, we continued to get the jollies over his skillful slippage. My class environment is very loving and supportive, and just like any family, it is full of teasing and good natured joking. He provided us material for many stories today. One such suggestion was to write a parody on Alice in Wonderland with this little guy slipping into a hole under the table, or being sucked into the sound of Africa CD so he might find himself among giraffes, gazelles, and lions. (Good thing he was wearing running pants, huh?)
As the giggles abated - I, of course, jumped onto my dormant pen and thoughts and began to write. Thank God that we have a safe enough classroom environment where we can laugh at each other and ourselves knowing there is love, and support and good-natured fun. We are truly blessed.
Future blog topics to consider:
• Seat belts for work out wear
• Pratt falls 101
• Why do we laugh first, check for injuries second?
• What does the above say about our perverse sense of humor?
• African Tribal Rhythmic Dancing
Debbie 3-10-10
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Love
My first thoughts this morning were of love. I sat on the potty laughing at my foolish thoughts, after all, who am I to entertain this kind of thinking, let alone at 5:30 AM. Philosophers, poets, theologians, script writers, couples writing vows, music lyricists, and a myriad of others much more knowledgeable than I have tackled this topic throughout all time. I’m sure even cave dwellers had a thought about it as it is so intimately a part of whom we are as a species. I laughed as I remembered a book I had as a young girl – “Snoopy says, Love is…” Even then, I was working on a clear definition that felt right and said it all.
I remember the first boy that gave me that wondrous sense of butterflies in my stomach. He lived across the street from me, so the object of my childhood infatuation was in close proximity. My 7 year old heart ached with love for this boy. It also broke as he went off on loving adventures that didn’t include me. His mother was a mentor and confidant to me. I remember going to her as I grew up declaring , “I think I’m in love!” She would simply smile her smile and shake her head as she replied, “No, Dear, you aren’t in love.” This went on as I returned to her time and time again with my heartfelt declarations of a new budding amore. Each time her response was the same. My frustration grew and I felt like she didn’t understand, so I stopped listening to her. This was a huge mistake. One I’ve paid for dearly. It wasn’t until much later that I would come to understand what she had been telling me all along.
Love, when it is real, requires no declarations to anyone, although you feel like shouting it aloud to anyone who would listen….and even those who couldn’t give a rat’s patootie about your love life. Love simply is. You can not force love, make it happen, expect that it will be returned to you. You can not demand it and you can not measure your feelings based on those of another. If it is not there, it is simply not there.
“Love is”…Snoopy had it right and so did my neighbor. You know it when you feel it. The verb changes from ‘I think’ to ‘I know.” Our thoughts always seem to have a desire to be voiced and heard, but that which is known takes it’s place on an easy chair in our soul and just rests there.
Love is a gift freely given to another. It can not be denied. Once its beautiful melody has pealed in your heart and soul – it remains a bell that can not be un-rung, no matter how hard a person might to try to deny it. The resonation of this love so fills your spirit; that the world seems to still so it might catch a little twinkling of its beautiful sound.
How many of us are truly lucky enough to find a love so pure, so unrelenting, so free…? Unfortunately, not many, I fear. Many settle for a version of ‘I think’ and then live lives of quiet, martyred desperation. A sense that there must be more burns inside them and scorches a mark on their soul and leaves a bad taste in their mouths. They work hard at doing the right thing, holding steadfast to vows taken long before they knew who they were or what they needed, doggedly being relatively happy or happy enough. These people seek moments of joy outside themselves trying to fill the gaping hole inside where love should live. Stubborn, determined not to fail or give up, they do not live, but merely exist.
Love, when discovered, can patch those empty holes, breathe new life into spirits walking through life as if they were already dead, and show what living fully and completely feels like. How can someone deny such a love, reject it, and opt to remain dead inside? Does fear of what people will think, fear of change, fear of the unknown, a deep rooted cynicism based on feelings of never being good enough really hold that much power to keep them in the dungeon of poor choices? I can not understand that sacrifice of the human spirit and that of life and love that rests in a decision such as this.
Our time on Earth comes but once. It is often too short a time. Love is the greatest of God’s gifts to us. We must be willing to open ourselves to it, recognize its beauty, and embrace it when it comes to us. Putting fear aside, we must walk in the beauty of God’s choice for us. God has a plan for us filled with love, peace, fulfillment, and other wonderful things. I will not deny Him.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Reflection on Liberty
Yesterday signaled the completion of the Iraqi elections. Insurgents still try to deter the fledgling ideas of democracy. They do not realize the nature of freedom comes from within a soul and once freed, can never be caged again. I watched with a new sense of wonder, the birth of a free nation. So different that the United States beginnings in some ways, yet the basic desire is the same, to live as a free people making choices and living with the rights and hope we have come to enjoy here. The new government will undergo growing pains and changes, but the core value of a renewed life will drive them on.
Many died attempting to cast a ballot. Many United States soldiers have given their lives to this call. I wonder how many Americans, living a life full of the benefits our great nation provides us, would vote in an election if they knew they might die if they attempted a trip to the polling center? How many of us would lay down our lives to protect this country? How many of us would put ourselves in harms way in another’s battle?
Today, I celebrate the Iraqi people and their courage. I pray for their determination to see through the challenges they will encounter in the formation of their new government. Mostly, I honor the efforts of our United States service people who have put themselves in the way of deterrents to offer this country their chance at growing a life such as we have. These service people work extremely hard and are often not only not recognized, but forgotten by this country for their efforts on the behalf of us all. We need to remember they are there so that we, too, are free.
Many died attempting to cast a ballot. Many United States soldiers have given their lives to this call. I wonder how many Americans, living a life full of the benefits our great nation provides us, would vote in an election if they knew they might die if they attempted a trip to the polling center? How many of us would lay down our lives to protect this country? How many of us would put ourselves in harms way in another’s battle?
Today, I celebrate the Iraqi people and their courage. I pray for their determination to see through the challenges they will encounter in the formation of their new government. Mostly, I honor the efforts of our United States service people who have put themselves in the way of deterrents to offer this country their chance at growing a life such as we have. These service people work extremely hard and are often not only not recognized, but forgotten by this country for their efforts on the behalf of us all. We need to remember they are there so that we, too, are free.
Time
Lives of dedication,
The unity of calling.
Our lives crossing,
Perfect timing,
Mutual thinking,
Desires revealing,
A magical spark,
Long ago buried,
Re-ignited by you~
Cutting across time and space,
Our communion is sacred.
Like ships gliding past each other closely,
In the space where twilight becomes evening,
And evening becomes a new dawn.
Precious moments,
Anticipated and longed for.
Time spent sharing,
Hearts desiring,
Bodies yearning,
Souls experiencing,
A magical spark
Long ago buried,
Set ablaze by you~
Cutting across time and space,
Our communion is sacred.
Like ships gliding past each other closely,
In the space where twilight becomes evening,
And evening becomes our new dawn.
Debbie 2010
The unity of calling.
Our lives crossing,
Perfect timing,
Mutual thinking,
Desires revealing,
A magical spark,
Long ago buried,
Re-ignited by you~
Cutting across time and space,
Our communion is sacred.
Like ships gliding past each other closely,
In the space where twilight becomes evening,
And evening becomes a new dawn.
Precious moments,
Anticipated and longed for.
Time spent sharing,
Hearts desiring,
Bodies yearning,
Souls experiencing,
A magical spark
Long ago buried,
Set ablaze by you~
Cutting across time and space,
Our communion is sacred.
Like ships gliding past each other closely,
In the space where twilight becomes evening,
And evening becomes our new dawn.
Debbie 2010
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