Whisper of God...

Hello blog. It's been a long time, baby. Despite your insistent tapping, I haven't missed you much. It isn't that I don't care. I do. It's just, well... I haven't needed you. I know that sounds incredibly one sided. Maybe you needed me. But I didn't need you.

Don't be sad. You should be pleased. You've help bring me to a place where I don't feel the need to purge my thoughts, my fears, my concerns, my worries. Things seem to be sorting out lately on their own. You, Sort of Blog, has made that possible.

So thank you for that.

And despite my newly found independence, how wavering it may or may not be at this point, I don't want to cut you out forever and all together. I do enjoy our little chats. You're fun to read and manipulate and hold late nights in the dark corners of the couch. Tap. Tap. Tap.

So here's what's new with me...

-I'm full-force back into the swing of school. New students and old, I don't foresee any major hurdles in way of instructing and getting these little minds motivated and on board. Relief.

-I'm an organized freak in my classroom this year. The mounds of papers that engulfed me last year or neatly organized, filed and labeled. And I can find them!

-We're paying off bills despite the economic hit The Wife's work took this month. She's looking for a new job and seems to have one in hand. We'll see.

-I'm motivated to take root in my own schooling, profession and lifestyle.

-Home ownership is in our very near future we hope and pray!

-Despite my recent back relapse (on muscle relaxers now!), I feel great.

-I've dedicated myself to eating healthy and working out. This is another reason I've been absent, my friend. Working out takes up a lot of time.

-I've lost nearly 30-pounds. My once tight 36 pants are piled high on the floor for donation. I'm sporting 34s and they're starting to get roomy. (And all my Large shirts are headed out the door, too)

-I'm running (not right now because of the back) a 27-minute 5K. I ran a 6-minute mile on Thursday (and then hurt my back; yes, a connection).

-I had McDonald's yesterday and didn't beat myself over it.

-I've discovered that I love, love, love racquetball. I'm just really, really, really bad.

-I feel more confident.

-I'm smiling more.

-I talked to my mom yesterday and I didn't want to scream. And hadn't changed one bit.

-I hear the whisper of God.

-I had a baby dream last night and saw the baby's face. Hum?

What about you?

Mom's visit...

FACTS: My parents’ marriage was built on love. Love probably remained during and after the divorce. Love isn’t enough. My parents abused their twenty-plus year marriage. Infidelity, jealousy, mistrust, rage, and cruelty plagued their unity. Drugs and alcohol, always main staples, dug deep those last years. Addiction is a family affair. My mom liked to smack me around some nights. Still, I would hide her keys so she wouldn’t drive. I was reminded that I was unplanned and unwanted. A daughter is what she wanted, she’d scream to me and my brother. And though I tried to protect him, he wasn’t too little to be clouted. Police, like the gray goose centered on our porch, were familiar at the house. My father was far from innocent. My mom when pregnant was made to change in the closet, away from his seeing eyes. Thirty years ago, the ocean looked more appealing to my father than watching the birth of his first son. He yelled a lot, too. He insulted me. He seemed to hate the son that wore his name, threw, and walked like a girl. As a small child I didn’t know the definition of fag, though I remember that’s what my dad called me when fighting with my mom. I was an honor student, but never earned the 10 bucks my brother was promised if he brought home an A. Still, he was smarter and more talented. He didn’t go to school, do his chores, or follow the rules. But my dad loved him because he could throw a football and kick a soccer ball. He was so proud of my little brother’s athletic ability; he liked to tell me whenever I accomplished one of my goals. I was proud of my kid brother, too. I loved him deeply, and I tried my best to raise him to be a good, respectable, and loving person. I cooked his dinner. I checked his homework. I woke him up to walk him to school. When he was in trouble with a teacher, I sat in the office with him. And when he was in rehab, all those times, I was there to trough through therapy. Love isn’t enough. He would steal from me. He would punch me. He would insult me. And when the foundation cracked, and the walls had tumbled, I stood in the rubble of a house alone. Everyone else had gone their separate ways before I had the chance to realize that perhaps I wasn’t as strong as I had thought…

TRUTH: Though the above, and so much more, has carved into me, I’m a forgiving person. I’ve learned to forgive through the Grace of God, His love, and His forgiveness. Years I tried to sweep it under the rug, but eventually the rug lumps, unable to hide the dirt and grime. Forgiveness has allowed me to open the door, and sweep it out. At times, particles take flight and the breeze brings bits back in through the open windows. I continue to sweep it back out. I can talk about these things now, not to look back and shutter, but to stand strong and continue to rise.

WITNESS: Forgiveness has made it possible to love, to love myself. That self has grown to love, trust, and respect others, including those that crushed me. Relationships have flourished and I’m stronger for it. Forgiveness of others, and forgiveness of self is all powerful.

FAILURE: My mom failed to find the strength to forgive, to forgive herself. Love that I know resides is trapped in self-denial. It is my fault she does not have more money, because I told her not to destroy my father. It is her brother’s fault that she is depressed, because he died. My brother destroyed her because he killed a man for drug money. It’s the police’s fault that he is in jail, that she can’t have a license for a few too many DUIs. He lost her house, because her mother refused to rescue her from debt. Her abuse boyfriend is blamed for all her items lost in storage, because he wouldn’t go get a job. Even after the visit, I know we do not have a close relationship because I’m a judgmental, “always make the right decision,” only see things black-and-white, opinionated, complacent son.

HOPE: My mom stands in the shoes I once filled. I blamed others for my failures and pain. I held onto a past that could not be changed. I allowed myself to be the victim, rather than the survivor. She is broken, lost, and afraid. I was once those things. Because I know, I still hold a distant hope that she’ll find her bottom and rise above—as my father and my brother have done, each in their own possible ways.

CLEARITY: I cannot change my mother, just as I could not change my father or my brother. I cannot support her, because it only enables. I cannot engage in her denial, because it enrages me. I cannot help my mother, because she does not want help. I cannot protect her, because she is self-destructing. Her support, engagement, help, and protection is in the misery she carries, the stories of denial she tells herself— misery and denial that keep her up at night.

LOVE: Despite it all, I will always love her. Will love ever be enough.

**This is what I've gathered from my mom's visit. worth every penny I spent.

It's safer...

I've been sitting here trying not to think about how my mom hasn't called to tell me she made it safely home on her flight. She was to arrive at 7:00, but you know how the airlines work these days...

I have no expectations after this trip. It's safer that way, for me.

Still, you'd think rules of common courtesy would apply. A person buys you a ticket for a vacation and you don't spend a dime during your visit, so you call when you arrive home to give a quick, "I'm home safe." Maybe a, "Thank You."

But it's safer not to have expectations.

Even if she does call, it's safer. I'll keep her at a distance, because if I've learned nothing else from her visit, it's that though I have changed, she has not. And all that has been revealed cannot be summed up so simply. I have much to think about.

Without expectations, because it's safer...

My own promises...

Shall I tip in a toe, walk out and swim to the forever horizon? I'll be at peace while the sharks nip at my ankles. Their love is for blood, not born to protect. Instead, I'll face the reality to my right. She once shed blood and held me tight, whispering motherly promises for my future. Her son's blood spilled for those broken promises that he's held for far too long. I'll skip them like shells into the deep blue, stand strong on the shoreline, and create a future for myself.

Of her love

My mom arrives tomorrow. I bought her a plane ticket for her birthday, a olive branch to perhaps mend broken ties with her. We'll see how it goes.

To prepare, I've been cleaning and completing a list of projects that I've want to start and finish for some time. Nothing like a deadline to get you motivated.

And nothing like stress to get your house clean... when I'm stressed, I clean. And cleaning is what I've been doing. I fucking shampooed carpets today. I organized my files, moved furniture, refinished and painted furniture... I even vacuumed the feather duster.

I invaded the closet to measure the distance between each hanger-- all shirts alined, organized by color, and my shoes lined like militants prepared for battle.  I wish I had more feet so I could wear them all!

Our little pantry, the refrigerator--the labels face forward, alphabetically (though I switched back from size of container).  I ironed my jeans and shorts before putting them back in my drawers.  My underwear all neatly folded, stacked and next to my rows of socks packed tight like peas in ponds.  She'll be in those drawers if I leave her along.  I want her to see that I'm worthy of her love.

Who does these things?

Yes, stressed. I have no idea what this week will bring. I'm not sure how my mom will look. I'm not sure what words might be minced. I'm not positive I won't put her back on a plane the moment she arrives.

To drink

Ocean breeze and green trees, the rain has stopped and I can smell growth, birth, and renew. Lightening bugs dance against a dark black curtain as bright stars seek to be seen through the bright city lights. This is home, now. The hollow door closes calmly behind. The silver chain echoes as it bounces back against the jam and molding, exposing my variability to myself. No chains, nor distance can keep me. And smell of mom's cookies that she never baked lingers. I find a corner of the room, hidden from the light, to shed my first tear. I'd swim in it if I could, laps upon laps, gone forever into the blue horizon. Dive deep and fly away. Free from the pain that gravity brings. Its reality presses against my chest. And another falls. Mankind has spilled enough tears to fill an ocean. And yet, the earth is thirsty for more. Why do we make each other cry? To fill the glass. To drink. Drunk off the sorrows of others, the light shines through. The seed sprouts. And the birds sing.

Pain. It doesn't really hurt.

Through this dark veil

I know that love and forgiveness are the answers. I must remember that wounded people commit dark acts in dark places. That is where addition takes people. There, they truly become lost souls— totally separated from their higher power and those who love them— from their true self.

The addiction rules and it is cruel and very, very ominous. I remind myself that he, in his deepest soul, is still that little boy I helped to raise. He is still the boy that I loved and still love. And he needs love more than ever. I wonder how incomprehensible his act must be to himself, because I know inside him is that goodness that once shined through.

I have become grateful for these struggles. I can truly empathize with the families on TV and those sitting across from me at the conference table in my classroom. Their criminal stories ring true when I hear their cell doors lock or when they breathe their last breathe. I know deeply in my heart that someone somewhere is suffering a loss while others cheer in praise.

Addiction is a curse that takes on many shapes. It’s never a pretty form, but God has made a way for me through this dark veil. I use the lessons learned for good, for understanding, for teaching. I turn to the light to help heal my pain and shattered dreams for my brother. The addiction destroyed that. But I am not destroyed.

Nor will his son.

Protruding vomit hitting pavement

It's the Fourth. The holiday of big bangs and patriotic parades.

Independence Day was always filled with a mix of emotions. I looked forward to our suburban parade of drum cadences, fire trucks, and the presenting of the colors.

But I dreaded the party that followed, a tradition that had made my parents famous. It was an event that was often talked about months after the clouds of booms and bangs drifted out of the night's sky.

In our small back yard, we raised the volleyball net, fired up a multitude of grills, and iced the variety of kegs.

Patronage to the patriots!

Invitations were never sent. It was common knowledge that if you knew my parents, you knew that you were invited-- and your kids, too.

The parties started out innocent enough. The kids all chocking down hot dogs so they could beg their parents for money for the local carnival. The oldest of all the kids, I lead the group down the old dirt path to the park where we'd all inevitably argue which death trap we'd ride first.

Years later, I wounder how that traveling carnival ever met safety code requirements. Or how it is that no one was ever lost in the masses.

Hours would pass. Rounds and rounds of the Egg Roll ride, the Spide, and the Ten Top. Spent from standing in line after line, and broke from playing too many rounds of darts, all the kids would head back to our house... knowing that the climate had changed.

As darkness approched, so did the slurs of speech, droopy eyes, and staggered stances.

One year my mom insisted that I brush my teeth three different times before I went to bed. It was 8:00. At nine, I learned of adultery when I walked in on two of my friends' parents having sex in my bedroom-- not with their spouces. My mom tour her ACL trying to fight her pal for making eyes at my father. The next year, he was arrested for DUI during a beer run after the kegs went try.

Wendows were broken. Cars were crashed. People fought. It wasn't unusual for a member of the party to fall off our roof trying to get a better view of the fireworks over the trees that grew taller each year. It didn't even seem odd the year someone was arrested for trying to saw down those trees when they had finally grew to totally obstructed our view.

As bombs bursting in air, the sound of protruding vomit hitting pavement rang in the background.

My parents knew how to honor the Founding Fathers. This was the way to honor America.

An adult now, I've chosen to do things differently. My holiday are not about inebriation. An intiment cookout with a small group of friends and a few beers will suffice. I don't even need the booms and bangs. Sparklers in the backyard suffice. This year, impromptu front pourch cookout with the neighbors did the trick.

But I wonder about the kids I use to walk that dirt path with to the land of cotton candy and elephant ears. Did they find in a way out like I have? Or are they falling off a roof top somewhere, right now, vomiting on pavement. Are their children watching with giggles, hiding in secret their fright and shame?

I'll only brush my teeth once tonight.

God Bless America.

That damn cat...

I know a man isn't suppose to cry. Not in front of his wife. And not over a silly cat.

But he was my buddy. He was my friend. He understood me. And now he's gone.

Jo Jo was a Sweetest Day gift for The Wife the year before we were married. Though I had picked out a rough looking kitty that I though we could doctor back the health, crawling up the cage he shared with his brothers and sisters, Jo insisted that he was going to be mine. In that moment I knew he was be too; he had spunk.

He seemed to complete our little family from the start. Hidden away in my beat up car, Jo meowed hello to The Wife and sat beside she and I as we ate fries and shared a shake during her lunch break. She loved him instantly, which made me love him, too. And like that, Jo became our first little baby.

He lived with me before The Wife and I were married. He'd welcome me home from class each day. In those early years, he was small enough and liked to sit on my shoulder while I did anything in the house: cook, clean, brush my teeth... except when I'd try to type a paper. He'd jump on the keyboard because he wanted me to pet him. And all attention was on him when The Wife and I were together--- he demanded it.

Of course in those days, Jo wasn't Jo. First he was Kitty Meow Meow, then Suki, and then Josephinia. Nothing seemed to fit. After his first vet visit, it was discovered that Josephinia was a boy. And Josephino he became... as well as Jo, Jo Jo, Jo-cat.

We believe this sexual identity crises contributed to his often anti-social and sometimes bipolar behavior. Like me, he didn't like many people. He definitely didn't like folks touching him (or me for that matter, including The Wife). And like mine, the mood swings were frequent and unprovoked.

More than anything we liked to nap. Jo was a napper. We could nap like champs. He liked to sleep on my chest; I think because he listened to heart. I soon became dependent on his purring to fall asleep. We also liked movies, tv, and reading.

Though I wouldn't let him do it often, He also liked lick the outside of a cold glass while I drank soda or ate ice cream. Often he'd sneak without permission. Sometimes I'd find him on the kitchen table or on the counter looking at me sadly, because he knew he wasn't suppose to be there and was now in trouble.

Jo was an inside cat, but like to roll around on the porch and watch birds from the window. He liked playing with puff balls, cotton swabs and The Wife's nail file. He liked to sit up high, on places I'm sure was too tall for him to reach. He liked hiding in the closet, and had more than once spent the afternoon locked in my armoire after sneaking in when I accidentally left it open.

Jo got me through some tough times. When I was in the worst of the cancer treatment, and I just wanted it to all end, he was there. He seemed to cry out every time I thought of dying. When my brother was arrested for murder, and I stayed in bed for nearly a week, he remained close. In March, when I hurt my back, he knew to lay beside, not on me. When I'd hide away to shed unmanly tears, I only let him see because I knew he understood. He let me pet his nose, even though it annoyed him, because it made me happy.

It's strange how an animal can become so much a part of you. I missed him when I was away. I looked forward to seeing him when I got home. Sometimes, I'd rather hang with him than friends.

It seems Jo was dealt a pretty shitty hand in the genetics department in way of a healthy functional body. The doctor insisted that he was going to continue to have pain unless intense surgeries followed. Some signs suggest he's probably always had a bit of pain, but as he grew older, it was growing worse. The surgeries would also be very expensive and they may have not fully cured him from the pain.

Still, I feel terrible guilt that we couldn't afford the nearly $5,000 dollars to try.

So I held him. I petted his head and told him that I loved him. He looked at me as I petted his nose one last time. He made one last cry before putting his head down on my arm. Then, I let him go.

But really, I don't think I ever will... I love that damn cat.

100 things about me...

Here are fifty things about me…

1. My dad wasn’t present the day I was born because he got hot on the way to the hospital and wanted to take a swim in the ocean.
2. I know this because my mom still brings it up and, and they’ve been divorced for over ten-years.
3. I have a degree in Inner Disciplinary Studies with an elementary education endorsement.
4. I have two label makers- one for my classroom and one for home.
5. I have a collection of Garfield collector plates that I adore.
6. I smoked pot for the first time my senior year of high school because when my friends lit up, it reminded me of happy memories of riding around in the car with my parents during my youth.
7. My first car accident took place the day I got my first car.
8. I wasn’t high at the time.
9. My favorite pet growing up was my mutt-dog named, Midget.
10. She died on my twentieth birthday.
11. When I graduated from high school, I didn’t think it was a big deal because I thought everyone should do it.
12. The Rush Chair of a fraternity told me they wanted me to pledge because I had a really high GPA.
13. The only reason I pledged was because someone said I wouldn’t.
14. I think that my frat-boy days were some of the best days of my life, because it helped me "lighten up."
15. I really like the color black.
16. I am a pretty reserved person.
17. I once got kicked out of a fraternity bar, because I was stripping on a table while pouring beer down my chest for a bunch of girls.
18. After complaining that a table was too sticky and dirty, I licked beer off of it.
19. I like beer.
20. I was very afraid of balloons as a child, because the loud noise when they popped scared me.
21. I really don't like balloons now, but it's because they're not good for the environment.
22. Autumn is my favorite season, because I like sweaters and football marching bands.
23. I played the trumpet in my high school marching band.
24. I still do, but I’m not good anymore.
25. I love things clean, and do it often.
26. I think a girl smoking is the biggest turn off.
27. I never locked my door when I lived in my college dorm.
28. On more than a few occasions, I’d come into my college dorm to find a drunk chick waiting, naked, in my bed.
29. I always dressed them and made them coffee, because I’m a nice guy.
30. I think the three new Star Wars movies are overrated, but I still love them because they’re Star Wars.
31. I chew my fingernails incessantly.
32. I was diagnosed with dyslexia in the fourth-grade and really couldn’t read until then.
33. The following year I was labeled, Gifted and Talented.
34. Now that’s what I teach.
35. I’d rather teach “regular” kids.
36. One of my favorite movies is Billie Elliot because deep down, I want to dance.
37. In Junior High I always had a line of girls wanting to dance with me, because I was the only white guy that would dance.
38. All the black kids would chant, “Dance white-boy, dance white-boy, dance." I would!!!
39. I’m really into gay rights, because people teased me relentlessly as a kid.
40. They thought I was gay.
41. For a time I thought maybe they knew something that I didn’t.
42. I knew the truth, and soon came to realize that people are just mean.
43. As a child, I collected the paper place mats from restaurants.
44. I cried all the way home when my mom took me to see An American Tail as a child.
45. I was a very sensitive kid and cried at a lot of things.
46. I rarely cry as an adult, but when I do it;s hysterical and uncontrollable.
47. Then I start to laugh, and then I cry again.
48. The last time I cried was in my car after my student’s funeral.
49. I always hated cats.
50. Marriage changes everything.
51. I now have two cats now and love them to death.
52. The first tape I owned as a kid was Michael Jackson’s, Thriller.
53. I even had a zipper jacket.
54. I use to have a six-pack, because I use to swim a mile almost every day.
55. I’m the only person that I know that gained weight during cancer treatment.
56. I’ve never lost my cancer weight and feel that until I do, I’ll never be cured from cancer.
57. I don’t like using contractions when I write.
58. When I was in eighth grade I had my wallet stolen from a cross-dresser during a field trip to Washington DC.
59. I was raised a Methodist.
60. I believe in God, but question organized religion.
61. I love to organize.
62. I believe George W. Bush isn’t the complete dumb-ass most think he is, but I believe that he is slime.
63. I voted for him the first time.
64. I use to honestly think that I’d marry Debbie Gibson.
65. I have broken every one of the 10 Commandments, except for the no killing thing.
66. I was certain that someone would kill me before I turned twenty-one, which is why I planned to loose my virginity at sixteen, get married at eighteen, and have three good years with Debbie before I was killed.
67. I was going to take Debbie’s last name because I thought my own sounded funny with, Debbie.
68. My freshman year of college I was on six different drugs for anxiety, depression, and compulsion.
69. I’m not on any of those drugs any more, and I’ve only had one anxiety attack in seven-years.
70. I love afternoon naps.
71. I have never watched an episode of Law & Order.
72. I never sleep nude because as a child, my grandma told me that God would watch over me while I slept.
73. The first time I tried to complete this, I stopped here because my friend wanted to know if I wanted to drink some beer.
74. The seocnd-time I tried to complete this, I did, but it was all lost because my Internet dropped.
75. I should really start to back-up my stuff.
76. I love movies, and I'm not picky.
77. I love books.
78. I've been called a book snob, and I think it's a complement.
79. I dated the same girl pretty much throughout high school.
80. I first saw her carrying a gong across a stage during a band concert and I told all my friends she'd be mine.
81. She was a junior in high school and I was an eighth grader.
82. We started dating the next year.
83. I said the same thing about my future wife when I met her freshman year of college.
84. I was still with the gong-girl.
85. I consider myself a feminist.
86. I started blogging because of this girl.
87. She's my best-friend and I consider her family.
88. I'm not always the greatest friend, but I try.
89. I'm not good at not being able to fix or help someone.
90. Most of my closest friends have been female.
91. I'm alright with that.
92. I'm not alright with snakes.
93. I shut off, which I think is typical of men.
94. I'm not what you'd call a typical man.
95. I drive a Ford Focus.
96. I want to get my PhD in educational policy.
97. I also want a weimaraner, and name her, Smith.
98. I like to, "drop it like it's hot," when "it's getting cold in here."
99. I might need a support group for NPR addicts.
100. This was a pain in the ass.

Duct-tape...

Yo. It's beautiful here today. It almost made me want to call some friends and go play some ball at the park down the road.

I used to play ball with my father. It never failed that my dad, at first sight of spring, would yell for me to get my mitt and meet him in our 15x15 suburban backyard. Oh how I grew to dread the warming weather that followed winter.

I hated spring. For me it defined allergies, name calling, pain, and often blood.

It meant that I would soon be belittled by my father. He’d call me names like sissy and I’d be told I threw like a girl. It meant that I would inevitably embarrass my father enough with my inability to meet his athletic standards that he’d actually aim to blast me with the ball-- or so it seemed. For us, father-son bonding always ended with me in tears and running to pack my bags for yet another attempt at running away.

--One year he duct-tapped my oversized glove to my too small hand so it would no longer fall off when attempting to catch simulated fly-balls.

--Another year, dad was so dissatisfied with my pitch (and I played T-Ball) that he duct-tapped a sharp splint to my arm, as to prevent it from flapping when I threw. I threw like a girl in those days.

--When I got into the habit of throwing my bat after hitting (surprised that I could hit?), he duct-tapped the bat to my left hand.

--The year I was between shoe sizes, my new T-Ball cleats fell off at the beginning of spring. And again, the duct-tap came out.

--He once grew so tired of my slouching, he duct-taped a pole to my back (I'm not even kidding).

--Bloody noses were always plugged with a ball of duct-tape.

Duct-tape seemed to be the spring theme. The sound a ripping tap from the roll still gives me chills.

For us, bonding didn’t occur until after the name calling, the yelling, the tears and yes, the blood. I would be beyond upset, feeling like a failure because I was unable to please my father. He’d be beside me telling me that he was sorry. He’d tell me that he was proud of me. He’d sometimes even tell me that he loved me.

Those words always took away the pain; they still do.

…And sure enough, the ominous pair outside my window is no longer. The little boy has run off in tears. Dad seems upset as he throws his glove at his fleeing son.

Why do fathers do this to their little men?

I suppose it’s good for us. Maybe this is why I don't let people push me around today. Perhaps this is why I stand for what I beleive. Maybe this is the reason I'm not afraid to say, "I love you."

Just don’t think I’m going outside to play catch anytime soon.

The river can be wild...

Life isn't always a raft ride on the lazy river. There are rapids. And sometimes we're throw from our foundation. Out of that raft and into the water.

Wet.

The river can be wild. We freak, gasp and reach. We'll grab for anything-- something that offers us familiarity. A sense of strength, and a hope for stability and safety.

A bolder.

Yet the answers to life's obstacles aren't always those familiar, strong, hopeful things. No. Stability can be our demise. The stream beating us against the strength of a great rock.

Let go.

Having faith that the rapids will once again fade to calm waters is difficult in the haze of affliction. Few of us ever let go.

I'm trying.

It is a truth I claim for myself...

After yesterday’s post, I had an awakening. Having to add “God” to my category list to index my post exposed how far I had drifted. For nearly three-months I’ve posted about everything pertinent to my life: randomness, friends, family, mom, sex, The Wife… but not God. And though I’ve been asked many times about my faith, the result of my posting, I’ve avoided the subject.

I regret not allowing others to be involved in my Christian faith. I want you to know that I am a Christian. I strive to remain close to God in all my days and to keep Him at the center of my life. As of late, that strive has been unfortunately weak. As a result, I have been weak. I have been lost.

True. I am a Christian that struggles. Yet I know that all Christians remain in struggle and bounded in guilt that follows. Created by perfection, Christians are not. Like a wrongful children, we turn away, ashamed to face our Father. Some pretend to be otherwise—superiority— a front for mortification.

The Lord is my Savior. In my relationship with Him, I will
allow Him to manifest Himself in me, as He defines me. I
will ask the Lord to guide me. I am a follower of Jesus
Christ. I will share with others the glory He brings.

I search for what it means to be a Christian. For me, the definition is expansive: Anyone who has accepted Jesus Christ as their Savior, has asks Him for forgiveness, and seeks to follow Him. Arguing over a theological shopping list, I feel, leaves every bough of our faith drawn asunder. God is Love. Jesus saves. He is the way.

Simple enough, I feel.

As a Christian I remember that Jesus was the son of God and that I am a child of God. Therefore, it is imperative to investigate the story of Jesus, asking who He was and what He did, to help guide my life. And though my academic pursuits have precipitated variance, I find guidance from The Bible.

What Jesus has taught me:

I see Jesus as being a man who was totally at one with God.
I should strive to be at one with God.

Christ was Divine.
I should recognize that Jesus connects me and makes me at one with God, the Divine, the
Christ. Living out of balance with God enslaves me. Living in union with Divinity frees me.

He lived what He spoke.
I should not be a hypocritical Christian. I should walk the walk and talk the talk

Jesus’ entirety was an embodiment of unconditional love and forgiveness.
I should love unconditionally and forgive with the same heart.

I must be reminded that it is not what I do that makes me a Christian, it is about all He has done for me. He has forgiven my unspeakable sins. He has saved my sullied soul. He has always loved me despite my inability. He has guided me through the depths of blindness. He has remained truthful despite my lies. All He asks that accept Him and reflect onto others all that He has showered upon me. He is my Lord. I am His servant.

This is not a truth I can claim for others. It is the truth I claim for myself.

My God loves. My God is the advocate of justice, fairness, decency, goodness, integrity, and uprightness. The simple act of proclaiming my Christian beliefs is a useful exercise in spiritual boldness, and like many of my previous posts, therapeutic. Doing so, I hope, will assist me in living a more spiritually honest life; I hope it will hold me accountable, so as not to mar my testimony.

More I hope that you see that God and faith in Him is about more than doctrine. It is about the unconditional love, understanding forgiveness, and surmounting happiness He provides to those who are obedient to Him.

Doesn’t he rock?

Gasp. The horror. What's a vagina for...?

Parents across the country... commiserated over the Internet about how, thanks to Ms. Spears, they were facing a conversation with their 8-, 9-, and 10-year-olds about sex. -- The New York Times

Gasp. The horror.

I suppose some good is coming out of J.L Spear's teenage pregnancy. What an amazing concept... talking to your child about about sex.

My folks weren't nudists, but they weren't shy, either. Growing up, I saw them naked. It wasn't odd, much. Seeing all that flesh to raise questions.

As I developed and gained the cognitive ability to formulate questions and devise "answers" to those questions, I thought that when a girl got older, she simply lost her penis. You know, it fell off in the tub or something.

This was my "answer" for why my mother didn't look like me, my dad and brother.

So one day I asked, I think while eating breakfast, when her penis fell off. I think I was five at the time, because it was the same year my friend had told me that pussy was cold like ice cream (I wasn't certain what pussy was, but I was certain it wouldn't feel cold like ice cream. I mean, I'm just saying.)

My mom must have been shocked, perhaps amused, when I asked. "Did you keep it." But she never let on. She simply answered, "I never had a penis."

"Huh?"

She explained.

"Then what's a vagina for?"

Again, she explained. And though it sounded like it could be a nice thing, I certainly didn't want to use it to make a baby. And eww. Girls at school annoyed me.

Though I did like ice cream?

And that's how it went. Sex was an open subject at my house. Of course as I got older, and more shy in my adolescents, information was received often without my posing a question.

I never asked how to protect myself against AIDS-- oral sex was not a safe guard. I had never thought standing on one's head would keep a girl from becoming pregnant. I did want to know where I could find condoms for free, but was later happy to have the information. And knowing that there was a Planned Parenthood in our town sure did come in handy when a friend thought her boyfriend had given her an STD. Another thought she might be pregnant. My friends were tested before they became sexually active with their partners. I made sure of it.

I had become the sexual information source because no one else was handing out the information. Thankfully, I knew what I was talking about.

My point, it's never too young to start discussing sex. If a child is old enough to ask, they're certainly old enough to know. And in my experience in working with small children, they have a lot of questions and thoughts about sex.

But like me at a young age, they don't really have the right answers.

Do you really want your kid growing up to think penises fall off of girls? Or worse. Much, much worse.

Besides, who isn't going to want to try the new ice cream?

That old house...

Last night was restless. My rambling brought me to an early childhood memory I hadn't crossed in years:

Money was tight and for cheap entertainment my parents would browse the local real estate listing for old country homes in need of repair. Gas was cheap in those days, so after my parent's Saturday breakfast of coffee and cigarettes, we'd all pack into the car.

Headed for the country, we'd rock to 96-X, with the windows down. Stop lights provided the perfect forum to shout hillside desires: a big garden with a scarecrow we'd make out of dad's old postman uniforms; a big barn with a tire swing where we'd spend afterschool afternons; a large field for dirt bike and four-wheeler drives; a seat window to over look the pasture where our horse would graze.

Most of the houses we visited run together like a miscellaneous mosaic. An old uninhabital house on the hill is the only tangible memory.

Its siluett resembled a house children would fear in a horror movie. Even the old rock drive seemed to whisper, "turn around," when we headed for front stoop. The door that once defined the bonderies of inside and out had fallen years ago. It provided the only "welcome" mat on the large wrap-around pourch. Most of the windows had been broken or stolen. The fragmented kitchen floor offered a human checker board for my brother and I to hop, jump and king-- until an army of rats chased us out the back exit, that also lacked a door.

It was in this house I discoved that toilets did not flush into a hole in the bottom of the floor. There were no toilets in the bathrooms, nor holes where I thought toilets should have stood. Holes were else where, however. The livingroom ceiling offered a skylight of the fourth bedroom. Old rusty pipes and primitive electric wiring was exposed where the old plaster once covered the walls. Where there was still plaster, mold had grown like dark wall paper.

But the land was green and large. It offered a back yard pond and a chicken coop. I'd gather eggs for my mom's famous Sunday breakfast. The horizon over the old stone wall that marked the perimeter of Scarecrow's future garden offered my brother a field of motor bike dreams. About the only thing not requiring poetic license was the tire swing that hung in the old red barn. My parents had even promised me the room with a seat window, the largest in the house.

It wasn't until late last night that I realized that that old house was a metaphor for the marriage of my parents.

It was ugly and scary. It had been eroded by the years of weathering pain, guilt, and resentfulness. Jealousy had covered its degenerated walls with a dark haze, and chased away any sign of laughter or joy.

Yet it had once been a glorified and polished gem. Any fool could see that. My parents could even anticipate the return of its acme. My brother and I were certainly game.

But mom and dad never bought that house. They never fully committed. Doing so would require work and effort that neither were willing to give. Perhaps they couldn't? The lack of trust and abundance of malevolence was omnipotent. Triumphant.

Today, I'm sure they bull dozed that damn house a decade ago. The pond has been filled for years. A Super Walmart, complete with parking-space-acreage, is all that remains. Almost ten years later, I'm sure it all is as ugly as my parent's divorce.

Perhaps my wife and I will gather eggs for this Sunday's breakfast.

Happy mother's day...

I just went through my saved voiced mails and threw out the useless.

One of them was a mean little ditty from my grandpa for not sending my mother a mother's day card for, you guessed it... Mother's Day.

I tried. I really did. I went to buy one. I spent more than an hour trying to find the right one. But they all felt fake to me.

You see, my mom wasn't the best. She wasn't selfless. She didn't really support me when I needed her the most. I don't look up to God and wonder what I'd do without her. In fact, I remember in ninth-grade buying two Mother's Day cards. I bought one that really captured my feelings of a mother. Kind. Understanding. Supportive. Loving.

I ended up giving that card to my science teacher. I adored her. Mom got a print-out from the computer.

Sitting there in the overpriced Mother's Day card selection, I started to feel depressed. Am I the only one who feels the way I do about his mom? Or am I the only one who feels this way and still tries to send a card?

In any case, I think card companies are missing a key market group.

I'm here to help.

OUTSIDE: Mom. This mother's day I want to think you for keeping me off drugs.
INSIDE: You smoked enough crack when you were pregnant to ensure I had my fix for a life time.

OUTSIDE: Dear mom. You always taught me that if I couldn't say something nice, not to say anything at all.
INSIDE: So...

OUTSIDE: I'm the person I am today because of you.
INSIDE: (Picture of a person sitting in the psychologist's office)

OUTSIDE: You taught me to endure life's pain...
INSIDE: ...by beating the shit out of me when you were drunk.

OUTSIDE: Play time as a child brings such funny thoughts...
INSIDE: ...like when you tried to jump out of the second-floor window.

OUTSIDE: Remember that time I won that award at "Parents' Night" at school.
INSIDE: Yeah. You weren't there.

OUTSIDE: You taught me that creativity was life's most impossible virtue.
INSIDE: Which is why dad will never know all those men you use to invite over when he was at work.

OUTSIDE: "Orphan of the state" is awarded to children whose mothers are in prison.
INSIDE: Thanks for helping me get through college, mom.

OUTSIDE: I have fond memories of you, mom...
INSIDE: ...every time I smell majiuana.

OUTSIDE: You always said, "When life knocks you down, get right back up!" And I always have.
INSIDE: Even that time you pushed me down the stairs.

OUTSIDE: I know we don't talk as much as you like.
INSIDE: Thanks for understanding that its the only thing that has kept me alive.

OUTSIDE: I'm sorry I wasn't the son you had hope for.
INSIDE: I know you always said you wanted me to be a daughter.

OUTSIDE: Party it up this Mother's Day.
INSIDE: Treat it like any other day of the year.

OUTSIDE: Mom. It's Mother's Day.
INSIDE: I'm still holding hope that you'll start acting like one.

Fun. Right?