Yes. I am Pro-Life!

One of my most favorite photos of all times. A baby in utero, 10 weeks after conception. So beautiful! It always brings such a sense of awe and wonder to me when I see it. (Not sure who it belongs to so if you know please let me know so I can give proper credit) But not going to lie, it also makes me pretty angry. And I know this will probably make a lot of my friends mad but something has to be said. I am pretty open minded about a lot of things. But not this. Because did you know that at the moment of fertilization, a baby has it's own unique set of human DNA? Or that the sex of the baby has already been determined? That the heart starts beating 18 days from conception (before most of us even know we are pregnant) or that brain waves are detectable at 6 weeks? That at 7 weeks babies suck their thumbs? What about that by 9 weeks from fertilization, all the structures necessary for pain sensation are functioning? Which means that during an abortion, the baby feels everything. Don't believe me? Google an ultrasound video of an abortion. The Silent Scream is one that comes to mind. Watch it and watch the baby try to get away from the vacuum or forceps. Watch that baby literally be ripped apart and die, scared and in agony and still tell me that abortion is okay. And now people have the audacity to say that it's not selling body parts, that it's not the dissection of an innocent baby, but that it's "research." Why on earth would you need to research tissue from something that's not even human? If it's not a human, so doesn't have a right to life, than there is no good reason it needs to be "donated" for research to benefit humans. It has human body parts because it is a HUMAN! But abortion is a womans right you may say. Well I have yet to hear a valid argument on why the baby has no rights. It's sad. It's appalling. And we are so scared of offending people that we stay silent. Meanwhile millions of babies are being slaughtered. Because we stay silent. It's time for us to speak up for those who can't speak for themselves. A lion is killed and the world weeps. I can say as loudly as I can that black lives matter but I forget to mention that more black babies are aborted than born. And don't even get me started on the evil, racist woman that started PP. You can say that all lives matter but not speak up for those most innocent of lives. But we need to remember to be very careful when dealing with women who have had abortions. These women are not our enemy. We have been told our whole lives that not only is it okay to have an abortion but that it's our right. This is not a war on women. It is a war on the organizations and society's that teach that this is okay. We can not convince anyone of anything by calling them names and threatening them. Speak the truth but speak in love. One day not only they will have to answer for their actions but we will have to answer as to why we set back and said nothing while evil prospered. Or why we were the reason someone tturned away from the Pro-Life movement. Do not answer evil with evil. Only love can overcome evil.

A Little Old Pitcher

It doesn't look like much to any one else. Just an old 1970's basin and pitcher set. But to me it's so much more. There was one just like this in our home growing up with my grandpa. Yes it was missing the bowl and the handle was broken off but it was always somewhere in our home, usually on my grandpa's dresser. It was too wide to fit in the place of honor along with the rest of his treasures in his cabinet. So it floated about here and there throughout the years. I didn't think much about it growing up but now that he, along with our childhood home is gone, it means a lot. I don't know where the original ended up (I'm sure in a dump somewhere) and while this is just a duplicate everytime I look at it I will remember my grandpa and the happy memories of my childhood with him. Thank you dear for getting this for me. Not only will I remember my grandpa when I look at this I will remember why I love you so much and how much you really love me. Who knew that a little old pitcher and basin set found in a dusty flea market could mean so much!

You can vaguely see ours in the above picture of me and my grandpa. It's on top of the TV turned so that you see the white side.

A Thank You

Yesterday I briefly spoke to a family member and the conversation stayed with me all day. I kept racking my brain for something to say to her to reassure her that everything was going to be okay. And while I was thinking and worrying about her it finally dawned on me that I was being just like her. That I was just like her. And it made me so very happy!
I always want to make things right. I want to fix wrongs. I want to make people do the right thing. I cry too much over things and people I can't control. It hurts my soul to see my friends or family in pain. Or to see those I care about constantly make bad decisions. It makes me feel angry and heartbroken to see someone I love hurt by others and not be able to do anything about it. I lay awake too many nights worrying about what I can do to fix everything for everybody.  And it just about kills me that I can't. And as troublesome as that is sometimes I am so grateful that I am like that. That I'm someone who cares. Rather than someone who only cares about themselves. I will never be someone who puts my own needs ahead of others. And that's okay. I have a big heart. And I pray that one day I have an impact on someone's life like she's had on mine. Even if I never know.

Most people know or have read previous posts about my childhood so they know it wasn't always pretty. But there were definitely some beautiful parts! And one of the most beautiful things from back then was my Aunt Sheila. She was my role model of what a mom and wife was supposed to be. And she was a pretty great one! To me, she was just about perfect. She was <usually> soft spoken. Always had an easy laugh. Her smile to this day remains one of my favorites in the whole world. She had a lot of fun. And she loved her family so very much. I learned how to be a great mom from her without ever realizing it. I was an odd child. Difficult and different to say the least. But she loved me anyways. She would let me play with her old Barbie's. She would let me come over to her house when I begged my mom to let me go with my brother whenever he went over to play with our cousin. Even though there were only boys to play with. And she would make them play with me. Although most of the time I prefered to just stay wherever she was. And she never seemed to mind tripping over me every time she turned around. She would let me admire and touch all of her wonderful Christmas decorations that seemed so magical to me. She would let me sit at the kitchen table and just listen to the grown ups talk for hours when the others would shoo me out of the room because lets face it, I was annoying. And every once in awhile she would glance at me across the room and catch me watching her laughing and she would give me a quick wink. And my heart would quietly explode with love for this woman that I would never know how to express. I didn't get the fairy tale life with all of the perfect family members or home. But I did get the cool aunt from all of my storybooks. The one that the heroine of the story always worshipped and wanted to be just like! 

And then I grew up. I left to find myself. We stayed in touch but I retreated from literally all of my family for awhile. Although no matter how long I could go without contacting her or how many times,  the moment I called I was welcomed in like I had never left. Things changed for all of us. Many times. In ways that we never would have guessed. But that's life I guess. It has a funny way of taking everything you know and shaking it all up and throwing you back out to see what side you land on. Always when you're least expecting it, it seems.

I've never been great at saying the things I needed to say. The things I want to say. And that's why I write. To express the things I can not say.  So this is me saying thank you for being you. For being a bright spot in a child's otherwise dark world. For caring too much. And I am proud to get to say that even a small part of myself, takes after you. And yesterday,  when I laughed and yelled "Love ya" this is what I meant. Which honestly, basically comes down to, is exactly what I said. I love you Aunt Sheila. 

Broken But Beautiful!

I didn't ask to be broken. But I was. A long time ago someone shattered me into a million little pieces. My entire life was forever altered before I could even tie my shoe. But I survived. I learned how to glue the pieces back together, one by one. Always knowing that no matter how well I glued, I was never going to be "normal." As I grew older I learned not only how to glue my pieces together but how to build armor around myself for extra protection. For although I may be glued, I would never be as strong as someone who has never been broken. A word, a news story, a sound. Any little thing can trigger something dark inside me that can send me into a swirling descent of self loathing and despair. Months can go by without a trigger. I can see 100's of stories and be okay. But for whatever reason, sometimes I crack. And that's okay. I never asked to be hurt. This is not my fault. I am strong. I have learned to forgive but forgetting is a little different. I never consciously think about certain things. But again, sometimes I crack. Sometimes those broken pieces come unglued. And the loudness and darkness leaks out and I become my own worst enemy. Until I figure out how to piece it back closed. 

Somebody who's never dealt with anxiety and depression usually don't understand. They'll say the past is the past and you can't change it. There's no point worrying about it. It is what it is. You need to move on. But what they will never understand is that we have moved on. We have accepted it. It's just that whatever was done was so horrible it can never be completely forgotten. The fact that we make it our 20's, 30's, 40's, and so on without eating a bullet shows how strong we are. Many of us never purposefully try to end our lives. But we do other things to try and destroy our demons. Many times unfortunately just making more. Drugs, alcohol, sex. We find escapes. Not the best way. But for awhile, it works. And then, God willing, we overcome those things as well. A little worse for the wear, but we survived. And we're good. For awhile. And the next time there's a trigger and the flashbacks start and our inner voice gets dark and ugly and starts to scream, we pray to be normal. We pray that the screaming would just FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP!!! And as our pain falls down our face and we go toe to toe with our demon, we pray that maybe this time will be the last. That this time, we'll kill it. Knowing it won't. Knowing that demons never stay dead. They just retreat and gather their forces for their next attack. But that's okay. Because when they retreat, we get to too. We go to our corner and take a deep breath and start gluing again. It's a lifetime battle. But what many people don't understand is that although I hate my demon and want to kill it, I'm also comfortable with it. It's been my constant companion my whole life. It hurts me over and over again but it also pats me on the back afterwards and tells me I fought a good fight. It's a sick relationship for sure, but it's what we know. And we should never ever be made to feel ashamed of that. Again, THIS IS NOT OUR FAULT! We all have things in our past that hurt. But sometimes the hurt is so deep that the wounds never completely heal and the scars never go away.

Recently I had one of these battles. I sometimes can tell when they're coming. I can wake up and just know that it's going to be "one of those days." And the weight of the world sits on me and it takes every ounce of willpower to get out of bed. Sometimes it comes as a surprise. Like this time was. I was just going through life, enjoying the day when I happened to glance a picture that reached down deep inside me and grabbed hold. I thought I was going to be okay. I thought I was good. After all, it was just a picture. But within hours I was shut down. The noise inside was so loud that it drowned out everything around me. And I turned into someone I don't like to be. I became quiet, and withdrawn. Short with my friends and family. I just wanted to be left alone! So I did. I retreated. I couldn't handle the responsibility of being happy and friendly and loving to those around me because I was sinking and my entire being was concentrating on surviving. It doesn't happen often anymore. Sometimes I can take a little white pill or do any other numerous things and I can silence the demon before it gets going too much. But it didn't work this time. So all I could do was fight. I had to retreat into myself, take a deep breath and figure out what I needed to do to feel safe. Luckily this time it wasn't so bad. I was able to talk myself through it. I was grateful for the feel of my husband laying next to me, solid and warm. When normally I can't stand to be touched when I'm struggling. When in fact, even on good, normal days I'm not a snuggler because to be held is to show that you are in need (that's part of where that armour comes into play). I was able to get though it after a night of no sleep and lots of tears. I survived. I know there is something self destructive in me. I know I'm a little more fragile than others. I know these things and I've accepted them. But I don't want to be judged for it. And while my first instinct when someone says something hurtful like "Just let it go" is one of self loathing because seriously why can't I just let it go!?!? My second instinct, is one of annoyance and anger. Because how dare you try to tell someone, a victim, how they need to survive? One of the worst things for me personally is when well meaning christians tell me that I wouldn't need to take a pill if I was truly secure in my relationship with God because if I really trusted in Him I wouldn't have depression or anxiety. Aside from the fact that science can clearly show that depression is not just "in your head" or that studies have shown that children exposed to violence have similar brain activity as combat soldiers, specifically the anterior insula and the amygdala which are used to detect danger. And that children from abusive homes are more likely, understandably, to battle depression through out their lives compared to children from normal homes. But aside from all of that, the fact that my strength does come from His help. That I would have ended it a long time ago had it not been for His help. That when I am at my darkest and am gloved up and in the ring, that He is the only one there with me. The one encouraging me and assuring me that I can and will win. That between me and Him that ugly thing doesn't have a chance. He is the one telling me its okay to be weak. To ask for help. He is the one more sorry than anyone else for what I survived. For He hates evil more than anything. That is what makes me angrier than anything. Don't you dare tell me that I am wrong for using whatever I have at my disposal to fight my battle. Just don't. Because I believe that He did give doctors and scientists the needed skills and knowledge to do what they do to help others. Including a pill that quiets the part of my brain that never shuts up and that you never hear. 

When we ask for help, it's not us being weak. It's us being stronger than you will ever hopefully have to be. I pray that you never have to know the strength it takes to wake up every morning when the easiest thing in the world to do would be to give up. And I pray that the next time you see someone struggling, you try to understand and love them instead of trying to "cure" them or tell them what they should or should not be doing. Just be quiet. Offer a shoulder if they need it and let them fight. If you are one of the lucky few who they bother to even share with, be grateful. It's not something we share easily and it means they care about you and trust you. Don't tarnish that. Know you can't "fix" them. Know that they aren't even wanting you to fix them. They just want you to assure them that you love them and that you won't leave their side until the battle is done. Because we can do it on our own.  We have for a long time. It's just nice to have someone there after it's over. I'm blessed beyond words that God put a man in my life that knows this. That accepts it. Even though his very nature is to fix anything broken. He knows he can't do it for me. He knows when to leave me be or when to hold me tight. He doesn't take it personally. He admires me for my strength. He loves me in my weakness. He gets it. He gets me. And every once in awhile after the battle is done, he helps me sweep up the pieces and hands me the glue so that I can get back to repairing myself. Because that's what I do. Who I am. 

I am broken but still beautiful! 

Flag Controversy

So with the recent flag debate and everyone putting their two cents in, I figured I might as well to. And I'm sure I will make a lot of people mad with this but I ask you to just read with an open mind. Try to see the other side of things. The recent news has gotten everyone up in arms about it and to be honest, it's gotten ignorant. And I've seen so many posts saying something like "If this flag offends you then you need to learn some history". Well I've researched a lot of history. And the fact of the matter is, the flag in question is a symbol of hate and racism for many, many people. Yes, you may call it southern pride and it very well may be for you. But the original design was created for the simple reason to represent states who committed treason and who felt that the whites should have more rights than blacks. Don't believe me? The designer himself, William Thompson, described the flag with these words "As a people, we are fighting to maintain the Heaven-ordained supremacy of the white man over the inferior or colored race" and "Such a flag…would soon take rank among the proudest ensigns of the nations, and be hailed by the civilized world as THE WHITE MAN'S FLAG." It's right there in the history books people. The flag was designed as a symbol of racism. I don't understand how people can argue the logic. Not to mention that the Confederate battle flag was never even the official flag of the Confederate! So what are we proud of? What are we fighting for? A symbol of, at it's best, treason against the United States of America and at it's worst, complete and utter racism? Why? You can not claim to be a proud, patriotic American while you honor the flag of the largest treasonous uprising against this country in history. Period. No matter what you think the flag stood for at one time, the truth is it has been perverted and changed into a symbol of hate for many. For so many who look at this they do not see pride. They see a reminder of what their ancestors were put through. And while we tell people "slavery is in the past, we need to move past it" it's kind of hard to do when you have symbols like this shoved in your face. The swastika was once a symbol of good fortune and well being. But try telling people today that it's okay, its a symbol of my proud German ancestry. No one in their right minds would dream of doing such a thing. Let alone have one flying from the back of their truck. But you do have a point about it being "Southern heritage", I'll give you that. So it most definitely should be in a history museum where it belongs to remind us to never let our past mistakes repeat themselves.
And if you claim to be a Christian and are still arguing the case that we should allow this flag to continue, please think about this. If you continue to fly this flag or defend it, what kind of example of God's love are you setting? It's putting anger and resentment and fear into the hearts of our brothers and sisters. It's causing strife amongst us. It's a flag. Are we idolizing it so much that we would put it ahead of people? What do we honestly lose by getting rid of it? Our pride? Well, we are told pride is not good. We know that. We are to humble ourselves. Are we being humble or prideful? Philippians tells us "Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves." Why are we causing rivalry over a symbol of this world? Are we putting ourselves ahead of others? 

And Romans says "Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor." Are we showing affection and honor to our brothers and sisters? 

Continuing in Romans, and what I personally feel plays the biggest part for myself is "Therefore let us not pass judgment on one another any longer, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother... I know and am persuaded in the Lord Jesus that nothing is unclean in itself, but it is unclean for anyone who thinks it unclean. For if your brother is grieved by what you eat, you are no longer walking in love. By what you eat, do not destroy the one for whom Christ died." Straight up, we are causing stumbling blocks for others. It hurts them. It grieves them. Christ died for them just as He died for all of us. We have no right to hinder His children that way. 

I hope people take what I've just written in the love I meant it for. I don't mean to cause more strife. I just really believe we are fighting an ignorant fight when there are so very many things that are more important to fight for.