prison mom

Parole denied

2011-05-03T01:48:00.000-07:00

May 2, 2011

Well, looks like we're doing another year.

The Last Card?

2011-04-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

April 16, 2011 I'm hoping this is the last birthday card I receive from SCI Somerset, and "gift" of a label with Brandon's number on it. I ask him to save the labels from products he buys, t-shirts that say "big house" on them and the like, I guess with the intent of making my own unique jewelry or something. I don't know why, but it seems like something I want to do. I did post to my art blog in regard to an inmate art show I'm judging at a prison in Dallas, PA. I did this years ago through the same contact, and it is strange to see how things have worked out. I wasn't familiar with prisons or jails at all then, and now it's like another home we go to. Entry: http://obazart.blogspot.com . Within the next 6 weeks we will know if Bran made parole. How the time has gone by!

The Gang

2011-04-09T19:06:00.000-07:00

All three kids together after three years...photo taken last November.

Parole

2011-04-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

April 9, 2011 My son's parole hearing happened Friday, March the 4th. It doesn't seem possible, and this may not be the end of things, but in six to twelve weeks we will have a definitive answer one way or another. I had to stop letting this answer define my life. My son outlined how terribly difficult the parole interview process was, as it is most probably designed to push buttons, test maturity, get at the truth of the inmate personality. He felt, in his own words, like a turtle on its back, left in the middle of a highway, after it was over. Completely hoped for, totally unexpected. So we have no real idea, except that there is concrete criteria the board uses to reach their decision. It is not arbitrary. Brandon has much in his favor...critical institutional support, a solid home plan and family support, a job to return to if he wants it and most importantly, real lessons learned inside. He is not a hardened criminal. He logically evaluates his situation, accepts the possibilities whether in his favor or not, and seems ready to leave for the very fact that he could accept staying. Acceptance, not resignation, seems to be the key.

Before a Fall...And After

2010-05-26T04:39:00.000-07:00

May 26, 2010

If I sit calmly and think about the past 5, 6 years of life, I see an arc of purpose stretching over the journey. I am a Christian, and to me that means God is actively involved in shaping my life. He is in control ultimately, and while I have free choice to do as I please, I fully recognize, if I don't bow to, His sovereignty. His job is shaping the raw clay of our lives, those of us who invite Him to do so. I think it was the great Christian writer and educator C.S. Lewis who said something to the effect, to think that people "find" God is something like thinking a mouse "finds" a cat. Healthy respect for His purposes, His plans and His lordship is the foundation of the arc, and humility the broad stretch road overall from then until now. Not that it hasn't been in the past, but clearly, now this is the lesson, the journey, the goal...I must learn to obey.

From the moment we realized our son was in serious trouble, my prejudices and pride have come into bold relief. I was loath to enter a police station, a courtroom, have our names in a paper connected to crime, a county lock-up, a prison, a recovery meeting...you name it, it stung my pride like a thornbush pricks flesh. I hated it. Everything I thought myself to be, or so very much, was based on outward and worldly good looks. I did well, I looked well, I performed well, my family was well (sort of-enough to get by). But my heart was not well. I despised people who were uneducated, dirty, uncouth and ignorant-and that was outside the prison bars. I made assumptions, and God blasted every last one of them. I have had my hard heart broken by people I thought I could never love, I was led by the hand by inmates into understanding and compassion, through circumstances I was sure would ruin our family and that made it better, stronger and more real than it ever could have been without the suffering and shame. It is a paradox that continues, so against the grain of all I had been taught. Loving unfortunates was fine as long as you weren't one of them.

My journey continues at a secular job I need desperately, customer service, $11 an hour. Once again, that stubborn streak of "I'm above this" show its ugly head in my performance and my attitude. I had thought that I'll simply put up with what I MUST do for now, and then when I get where I need to be financially, I'll do what I really should be doing, show the world how really talented I am. Chuckle. Except that God has other ideas, like, listen to your bosses and DO what they say. Respect your co-workers. Respect the job. I shared with my husband and another friend that I keep thinking about the scene in the movie The Devil Wore Prada, where Stanley Tucci's character is berating a whiny Anne Hathaway for her self-pity, complaining about her monster of a boss. He reminds her she has no respect for the industry and the people who work in it, and that there's a line stretching out the door of people who would kill for that job. Our job market here in the Northeast is depressed. To find something with some security, benefits, good working conditions, weekends free, is really tough. God forgive my lousy take on this gift, which it is, and hopefully I'll be a good student of life and listen this time. What else could happen? Oh no, wrong question!!!!!

Forging Ahead

2010-05-08T04:49:00.000-07:00

May 8, 2010

Even if I don't feel terribly inspired, I want to write. But this morning it's hard to help but feel inspired. I want to reference the blog of an inmate friend, Shannon Clark. The link is here but I want to repeat it, http://perseveringprisonpages.blogspot.com. I type his blog and the most recent entry was so very encouraging. Shannon is a man who has had every conceivable disadvantage in life. He has spent half of his life in prison. His father was abusive, mother a drug addict who encouraged her son to use. I can't fathom growing up in such a situation. Yet he's found the answer to healing and life that so many people don't find. It's all about understanding and facing our limitations, then not being bound by them and in turn helping others to be free. He has dreams and hopes, is not afraid to wish for them and won't let that hope die.

My other ex-inmate friend, Shaun, is also going places and doing things that most people never do, http://jonsjailjournal.blogspot.com. I am looking forward to hopefully celebrating with my friend by attending a launch party for his new book. Another person who though he had good circumstances in life and a great family, made a terrible situation into a blessing for many and never gave up hope. He pushes on and keeps writing, talking and working for inmates' rights and betterment of their situations.

These men, these lives, should have been a liability to society but they won't be and aren't. And they give me hope for my own son. There is life during and after prison, and ways to move on in that experience that works for the good. I am so proud of these men. They are the first to admit they did wrong and earned punishment, but they were not stopped by it. Isn't that really the point in the end, redemption, a new life, penitence that leads to salvation-and I think a full life of service and determination is the best gift a person can give the world. I do hope for this for my son.

Visitation and White Letter Day

2010-05-01T03:51:00.000-07:00

May 1, 2010

I need to jump back in the saddle with some resolve and keep writing. We had a visitation two weeks ago, the first in 5 months. Time just sort of arranged itself that way, but it was long, too long in between. We are approaching parole eligibility (July will put us with one more year), so I know I have to keep up the energy and keep encouraging my son. But he did speak of the 5 year mark as being significant for him. He feels old and realizes the passage of time in a more significant way. Brandon rarely writes about his own feelings on his friend and what happened, but he sent a letter that contained this paragraph, and gave me a launch point to share back with him some of my own thoughts as we contemplate his being home again:

"This week something seemingly insignificant sort of hit me in a bad way. I came back to the cell after work on Thursday, XM Liquid Metal was on Channel 11, and my cellie tells me that Peter Steele from the band Type O Negative died of heart failure. It always sucks when the frontman of a good rock band dies, but it's not as if you knew the guy. You're not deeply effected emotionally. This was different. Type O Negative has become the thing most closely associated with the brother I never had, Steve, our experiences together as friends, and his death. I'm not sure why. The music itself is this bundle of heart-suffering: pain, resentment, anger, nostalgia, past joys stale with age, and some irreverent humor. Hearing it on occasion (as "October Rust" may pop up during between-movie breaks on the jail channel 10) would make me fondly sad thinking of what I really shouldn't call "better times". I was destroying myself and throwing away my youth, etc, but I wasn't alone. With 2010 marking my 5th year in jail and parole on the horizon, I've been in a weird place. I'm a little more isolated, less tolerant of people here, and maybe that is just paranoia talking, but...showing the preliminaries of age. All of that, Pete Steele's death, listening to his music as his requiem, and recalling a flood of sad memories shook me. It came and went, but for a couple days I wasn't all there."

When I read things like that, a knife goes through my heart, and yet the mind behind it shows itself clear-thinking and mature. I must trust that all will be well and I have to hear the truth from my son. It took me several days to feel better after our visitation-even under the most joyful of circumstances and the best possible outcome, it knocks the emotional stuffing out of a body. Yet I agree with what my daughter Rebecca told me-that she grew tired of being sad and just won't let herself go there any more. One day this will be over and a new life will start. I thought about ditching work on the Monday after our Sunday visit, but I couldn't face the kindness of a co-worker who I knew would ask me what's going on. I just didn't want to talk about it.

One More to Go

2010-02-27T04:45:00.000-08:00

We're coming into March, which is Brandon's birthday month. He'll be 24 years old on the 29th. It's hard to believe. We're in the final year he needs to serve before his parole eligibility. I'm so grateful for what I've learned these past five years. I know I'm not the same person. I've met so many people, inmates, families of inmates and people in recovery and been in situations I would never have otherwise, and if nothing else, I have a much greater appreciation for the complexity of the world and the justice system. Not all is as it appears. If I could say anything has been a pleasure, it is seeing lives change as a result of what I have learned and how I have been led to get involved.

I got one such reminder this week. I have been assisting a friend of a friend, and they are two wonderful men, Shannon Clark and Shaun Attwood-see links (jonsjailjournal and perseveringprisonpages). I marvel at the changes in their lives. Shaun in now out of prison and Shannon has only a year or two left. I came home to this incredibly decorated, covered in abstract designs and trompe l-oeil envelope (partially pictured above). We have a mutual love of art and I've tried to encourage his efforts by sending materials and photo reference. But this envelope blew me away. It's just one small indication of the person Shannon is and is becoming. He's highly creative, smart, caring and tough. If anything gives me hope for the future, it is the lives that have found a way to survive and thrive in prison.

It'll be fine.

Update

2010-01-30T03:19:00.000-08:00

It's getting to the end of the journey, and I find myself not caring about much except having my son home. I am interested in helping "the cause", but something inside wants to forget all about prison and put this light years behind us all. I'm so tired of having to travel miles, to face the realization every single day that Brandon isn't here were he should be, that we still must incorporate prison existence into our home and routine. I don't want it think about it any more. I want to move on.

I decided to make the step to receive counseling myself and see a doctor. I'm nervous about the prospect of having my son here after so long a time, trying again to work through things we neglected in the past and thinking that the possibility exists that it might not work out. I can't even get my mind to the idea of driving him back to a house he's not seen in 5 years. Many changes have happened, life's gone on, and he's remained in limbo not a part of those changes. I don't want to obsess, but I do want to be prepared and have people in my who are there knowing all circumstances. Brandon has not done any counseling in prison, and I want him to on the outside. There is a lot to consider and he needs a better foundation for his future life.

My scripture reading today was Matthew 8-10. It was a litany of back to back healings that the Lord Jesus performed, children, adults, servants, lepers, insane people-every manner of illness, physical, spiritual, emotional...that holy hand touched death, disease, sorrow, faithlessness, and imparted faith, wholeness, love and hope. I have to remember I have the great Healer walking with me in this, loving me, touching the circumstances in ever-widening spheres of influence. His love never fails.

Happy Birthday!

2009-10-03T13:24:00.000-07:00

The wonder of this birthday card is not that it is a bit less lame as prison cards go, but that it is not the SAME card as the last three years. Chuckle. Bran was very surprised and excited. Of course I don't really care, but that's the standing joke we have now about birthday cards.

And the inside is the best part. Here's a Bran bit:

"Imagine my surprise when I saw this in my commissary bag. It's different! A miracle! I'm amazed, really. Commissary puts the 'love' in my love/hate relationship with Monday. On one hand, it's the heaviest work day of the week, on the other you could have goodies waiting for you at the store. Got myself a basic man-staple: meat, cheeze, and crackers. Those Ryan's Ranch Summer sausages are a crime against food, but they're ok for jail. Not to mention, easily sliced with a plastic ID card."

Chuckle. He's a Brandon, and in the midst of the grey sameness of jail, life does actually go on. I got my card!!

labor pains

2009-09-21T12:10:00.001-07:00

We were able to visit Brandon over Labor Day weekend. The weather was spectacular, clear blue skies and all that fall can be in Pennsylvania with the trees beginning to turn and the air still not too snappy. The journey was picture perfect in terms of travel-no fog, no rain, smooth sailing. And for a holiday weekend, the crowd in the day room was sparse. Holiday weekends are the best time to travel now that I'm on a 9-5 schedule, and so I didn't mind the long day. But we were all tired, Brandon included. By the time 1:30 pm rolled around we were all ready to call it a day.

It was a good time as usual, but in the course of conversation I realized, as I probably do each time we go, this road could not have been avoided. More information keeps coming out, and as much as I want my son home, I don't know if home's the best place for him. It is such a fine line. I ran into an old friend of his at Office Max, a neighbor of ours years ago. The kids grew up together and seeing this young man now reminded me how much time has passed and how much has changed, and how much hasn't. I sincerely feel Bran needs a completely fresh start. I want him with us, but not if the cost is constant struggle. It will be hard no matter how things work out, but I want to believe the best and want to have faith that somehow he was spared and somehow it all made a difference.

Time will tell, I suppose. I'm grateful always to read about and talk to the guys who did make it out and who are changed, or are motivated to "do it right this time". It's tough. But seeing it happen in the real world surely makes a difference.

Brandon's letter

2009-08-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

I received a funny, newsy and insightful letter that helped my mood and attitude enormously. Brandon describes a visit to the prison doctor (nothing serious) and then comments on life and growing up. I'd like to share the latter. I wrote to him about some concerns with his sisters, and this is his comment on that, and on his attitudes:

"...I can identify with someone who imposes hardship on themselves, not out of guilt, but the desire to truly be an adult by making thir own mistakes and learning hard lessons. The irony usually is, as the person grows up and has their own children, they want to shield them from what they know better. The want to say "I already made this mistake so you don't have, here's what I did wrong, here's what to avoid." The child can heed the
warning and obey, or find out for themselves and act independently of the advice. Even if the result is failure, there can be joy in making what may be one's first unilateral decision. I did that a lot with you and Dad. I saw it as necessary change, it was only natural for teenagers to try and wrest control from the parents and perhaps not define, but separate themselves. I figured it was simply appropriate social order. It became something else entirely, too much discontent and unrest. As Mephistopheles said of Faust, "...His spirit's ferment far aspireth..." or rather 'his sould stinks to high heaven.' I was always listening to you both, I simply felt I had to do certain things or I wouldn't learn otherwise. The rest was just hedonism and self-servitude (laughs)."

So that is something I think at some point every parent needs and desires to hear, read, whatever the case may be. To know that they were heard, they were understood, even if the advice wasn't followed. He ends his letter by signing it "your little guy always" and he always will be in some sense that first day kindergarten student walking down the hall to the classroom as though it were a death march, big fat tears at the corners of his eyes.

time passages

2009-08-20T12:03:00.000-07:00

It's once again been too long since I've posted anything. Oddly at this time, though we still have a few years to go, Brandon's return seems so close. I guess I've never really thought about it as practically as I am now, admitting the excitement, the fears, the uncertainty of the whole process. I didn't want to think of it, as though thinking about it would somehow jinx it and add more time. Our home is empty now. The youngest has more or less moved on, so I'm cleaning like a madwoman and fixing up. I guess that made me think the next occupant will be our son. It will be like bringing a baby home in a way, or a stranger.

I did decide to invest in professional help to help my anxiety and to better prepare my mind. As I said, up to now, I didn't think about it much, but now that I am, I know I need better preparation, more coping skills than I currently posses or maybe just someone with a degree to tell me it'll be ok. I don't know. I feel like I've reaching a high water mark emotionally and I can't take in any more water without mental distress. Even thought things that are happening now are normal passages of life. So I trust and I pray this is where things need to be now. There aren't many how-to books on families of inmates who return home.

Prison Products

2009-07-19T05:22:00.000-07:00

One thing Brandon does do is send prison product labels home with his letters. I don't know if this can be read, but the little caption above the City Cow says "cheese with an attitude". I am not sure how this differs from regular cheese. I guess the powers that be figure gangsta cheese is more appropriate for inmates. Chuckle. I also have the tags from my son's t-shirts which are on a "Big House Productions" label. Those I'm trying to make into earrings. It's one rather funny aspect of this whole situation.

Somerset visitation 7-3-09

2009-07-04T11:39:00.000-07:00

These are pictures from our latest visit to Somerset. It was a good time. Bran is headed into his 5th year, and so approaches parole eligibility very quickly. We were able to stay in the prison for a full 6 hours. He never stopped talking. He's literally half the person he was going in. The jumpsuit he was wearing was bagging all around. Bran has one more class he has to take and he's gotten all requirements for the parole board. He's still working in the laundry, though now does washer loading (the machines are the size of a motor home). The work of lifting laundry constantly for hours had really assisted in keeping him in shape.

We stayed overnight in a mansion turned bed and breakfast, and crashed at around 7 that night. We didn't wake up until the next morning. It was a long day, but a good one.

Mother's Day 2009

2009-06-13T03:43:00.000-07:00

Just had to post my "prison card" from Brandon for Mother's Day. An associate made this card out of a file folder, a bedsheet (the rose is on fabric), printer paper and assorted markers and pencils. I think Bran added the back-I might consider developing a line with that logo (beats the heck out of Hallmark!) Chuckle. He writes a long letter inside the card but I got a little laugh out of his desire to ride the fjords of Finland one day and become "Lawrence of Scandanavia". Crazy kid. I think he will. But I hope he stays around for just a little while after he's out for old mom.

tired, grateful

2009-05-23T06:48:00.001-07:00

I have been struggling with feelings of despondency and tiredness. We're approaching the halfway mark of our son's incarceration- at the least the halfway mark of parole eligibility, and I'm ready for this to be done. In his last letter Bran mentioned going on Lexapro again because he is having a hard time feeling motivated to do anything. He forgets things, sleeps because there is nothing else he can do to shut it out and simply tries to pass time. I understand. I felt better, though, when he sent a work check home and asked us to save them for him to buy a car when he gets out. He's thinking about things beyond prison and I'm grateful.

I was also grateful this morning speaking to him on the phone. It's little things that remind me how he has changed despite the struggle to continue to endure. He basically works what amounts to a second shift in the prison, which cuts his yard (outdoor) time considerably. But he said it's been nice the past week or so, when he gets off shift, to slowly walk outside to his building and drink in the silence and the Allegheny mountain tree line through a gap in the buildings. Such a small thing, but so amazing. A tree lined mountain would never have been a hopeful thing and a pleasure to him five years ago. It is my prayer that neither of us will forget the lessons we are learning now.

latest letter

2009-05-01T06:26:00.000-07:00

What I wish for...

Brandon has been pretty well occupied with trying to accept the price of commissary getting ridiculous, especially where tobacco products are concerned-I'm not minding that, he needs to quit smoking, however, it's a big issue. He was saving for a new TV (he's got an all clear plastic issue from county) and there aren't being sold anymore. What is being sold is a universal remote so that he doesn't have to continue to put wear on the buttons, which works as well for $11. Seems that every other inmate with a TV also thinks so, but he got on the list. Bran's prison laundry job is also keeping him busy, but not in the intended sense. Here's excerpts from the latest letter:

Oh! Did I tell you about how I was accused of stealing from a dead Fayette inmate? Probably did already. Anyway, when I started at CI (laundry, sorting soiled laundry from hospitals, etc.) back in Sept., 2nd shift Dirty Side guys kept their stuff (drink containers and mixes, gloves, apron/jumpsuit, etc.) in leftover net laundry bags locked in a shelving unit inside the chemical closet. A level of modest security in a world without privacy, I can appreciate it. For whatever reason, it became an issue (the 'chemical closet' is an over-glorified janitor's nook, anything remotely dangerous is in the back with boilers and detergent mixers behind at least 2 locked gates) so we had to move our things onto some wall hangers outside. There, it gets rummaged through on a daily basis. The bag I was given was yellow with a name partly blacked out, but sill quite legible, on the tag. I figured he was a former employee and never gave it a second thought.

One day, MONTHS after getting the damn thing, Ken "Il Duce" Plummer calls me into his office after dinner. Mind you, I've been sneaking odds and ends out for myself and others (harmless crap, really), messing around, engaging in nutty activity. That day I think Plummer saw me riding a cart of mops across the floor, so when summoned my conscience was a trifle guilty. He then starts going on about complaints from SCI Fayette of a "Grand Theft Laundry Bags" caper that I'm apparently part of. "Where did you get that bag from? Was it an inmate or supervisor? Did you know inmate 'Stult' (guy on the tag) Where you aware that he was deceased?" Just grilling me. My boss, Knapp, thought it funny and was visibly amused. I was so stupefied by the allegation, I blanked out and nearly had a stroke. After the paralysis wore off, I was furious, rabid even. I grabbed the offending bag, dumped its contents on the ground, marched up to my co-workers, and launched into a diatribe, shaking the 'incriminating evidence' in their faces ands tabbing the air with outstretched index fingers reminiscent of Lewis Black. I'm sputtering "...of all the hair-brained...mental midgets!...bullshit accusations!..." After calming slightly, I was able to warn them to ditch all yellow net bags and that I may be fired over false charges of theft. Nothing came of it, but I was so angry because that's all it would have taken to lost my job! Also, their assumption that I'm retarded enough to steal something with someone else's name and state ID# on it, uncovered and out for all to see, with my name written next to it, linking me to the crime. Give me some friggin' credit!

************************************************************************************

Well, there's never a dull moment in mental midgetland. Poor Brandon. But these are the lessons he is learning, and I can't but feel he would not have learned them anywhere else.

the present moment

2009-04-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

I realize in the past I've written more about the spiritual aspects of this journey and I've not done as much recently. I evaluate everything I experience in the light of scripture and how it fits into God's plan for my life. I'm not perfect by a long shot, but perspective is everything I think and how we view the world. And I wanted to keep the main focus about my son. I will do that as much as possible. It's like life is happening in two streams, one at home, one in the prison. So I will try to compare the two as they go on, intersect, affect each other and shape the present moment, which for now means I need to go pick up my daughter! I'll be BACK!

visitation

2009-03-30T03:23:00.000-07:00

We took the trip to Somerset to visit Brandon yesterday. It's four hours from our house, thankfully a bit shorter because of the Route 99/220 add to the PA highway system, but still the day is always long. The entire family was supposed to come, mom, dad, grandmother and both sisters, but my older daughter simply could not muster the emotional equilibrium at this time in her life. It's understandable. As much as I want to love these trips and be totally there for my son while we're in the prison, I fight my emotions. This time I felt like I needed a punching bag. I'm simply out of gas. The younger daughter slept through her alarm and didn't make it. Again, I know that happens, not every family goes through this and it is so much to ask from an 18 year old who is a whirlwind and in love with life, but I was angry. I tried to turn it over to God, let it go, but it took the day for that to happen.

We were the first family at the prison, and while the weather was not too bad, at four something in the morning, rain slicked roads are confusing and fog can come up at any time and blind you. The light didn't help until we were almost there, and it rained all the way home. There is a new metal detector at the intake desk, and clothes that I usually wear set it off. I was just not in the mood. I told the COs the only metal I knew I had on was the zipper on my jeans, and I was not taking THEM off. I already have to wear a hugely uncomfortable sports bra with no metal. It's not every women that has a "prison bra" in her undies drawer, LOL! Well, we got in immediately to see Bran, and he just looks smaller and more fragile every time we come. He's lost about 80 pounds, and has a full beard. He's also rather short and wears glasses, so instead of looking like the hulking mountain man he used to, he looks like an elf accountant.

I suppose after we got into conversation I could see the wisdom of it just being the old folks. The vending machines were either not well stocked or out of order, which thankfully changed as the day went on-I could feel my temper rising again-"if my kid wants chocolate milk after three months, by God he'll have chocolate milk or else"...so we had a good time. It's so hard sometimes to make the shift into funny and natural conversation after months of separation, a long and tiresome ride to the prison and the hour wait to get in. But we do it. And Bran needed to just talk about his life there. It's frustrating and hard, and he doesn't have a chance to speak freely about how he feels often. Commissary prices are through the roof, stupid stuff, working in the dirty side of the prison laundry for basically nothing-it's not supposed to be Club Med and he knows this, but for a 23-year-old to live with no hope of things changing or getting worse every day, that's hard. He needs sympathy and encouragement, some normalcy and the reminder that there is a life "out there" that time will bring about once again.

It was good to get home and get back into the routine, but visitation is a "normal" part of our lives.

white letter recent update: letter to mum

2009-03-14T04:10:00.001-07:00

Brandon wrote me a letter. I can feel the tiredness in his words, life sort of dragging and being pulled along just because the moments are passing. In prison, tensions rise and fall, come to a head and settle, only for it to happen again, simply because it is life at the most minimal level in so many ways. But I'll let Bran tell his story. He starts off:

I just found a white hair embedded in one of the earpads of my headphones. Better not be one of mine. Although, I'd rather my hair turn white than fall out. Must be under a little more stress than I thought. I'll never stop dreading baldness until it actually happens or something trumps it and I no longer give a damn. Events over the last few weeks have been conspiring against my letter writing efforts: my most recent move, the perpetual clothing exchange crusade, BS down at work, getting sick or distracted, etc. It's almost as if the whole thing's out of my control and all I can do is wait for the proper planetary alignment and a good word from the jail witch doctor.

He writes on: With work, it's money and politics as usual. The higher ups increased the weight goal that determines the bonus. Last month, we made 40 cents per hour, the bare minimum I believe. The normal take is 60 cents per hour. With our work worth less, there's less incentive to work harder. We already knew we were losing contracts, thereby making it more difficult to reach our bonus goal, but they raised the pound requirement anyway. We net them nearly $1 million annually and they tell us we're lucky we get paid at all. What a slap in the face! Naturally, all this does is fan the flames of long-burning indignation between the shifts, and to a lesser extent, the clean and dirty sides. Accusations fly ("1st shift is lazy, 2nd shift speed washes to get more loads per diem, why can the dirty side leave when their work is finished, it's not fair"), everyone is punished, nothing is fixed. Speaking of things needing fixing, machines are allowed to completely break down before any consideration is given to their maintenance. Luckily, nothing has ever failed catastrophically resulting in injury. One washer has been broken for months, with no effort to get it running again. It can process nearly 400lbs/hr, a rather sizeable loss. After all this, the bosses have the audacity to complain. Have the time to gripe when your CI shop burns to the ground by disgruntled prisoners.

On the whole, tension around the prison rises. A huge brawl broke out on B-block, locking down the jail last weekend. A number of people were stabbed, and a gret deal of weapons were found. A slug-fest in the yard the other day almost ruined this weekend. They at least gave us unit rec,
so we can get out of the cell. Eventually, all this is going to reach a head and it may get ugly. Hey, they wanted to test the waters, take away this and that, pester, poke, and push the inmates. The when there's dire consequences to reap, no one seems to know how it happened.
********************************************

Back to mum-we hope to visit Brandon on his birthday, March 29th. He'll turn 23. The time sort of shuffles by slowly and I pray somehow to be past this part of it. Still, there are reasons for everything.

Brandon

2009-03-07T13:47:00.000-08:00

Brandon called today. I missed him last week, and he usually calls weekly. His birthday is coming up at the end of the month (March 29). He will be 23 years old. If the weather cooperates, for the first time in a very long time the three siblings will be together. My daughter, Dena, has a very hard time getting away from school and work, but she's coming home for a visit and we plan to all go to Somerset on that Sunday. It should be a good time. Maybe these are the times I simply take for granted. The time is going by and I don't think much about how much is left. I just can't. But I do look forward to these times where we can visit.

I asked Bran what he wanted for his birthday, and he mentioned two books, The Monkey Wrench Gang and Trainspotting. So I just ordered those. I wish the prison had a food visitation day or something like that so we could bring some special things in for his birthday. I guess we'll have to make a cake out of vending machine food!

new blog & news

2009-02-25T03:13:00.000-08:00

I've started an art blog. I think I need to keep this one focused on Brandon, and it's too much about me. I'll put the address on my links list-http://obazart.blogspot.com. This will give me opportunity to share my work with friends on a regular basis, and be more disciplined about sharing Bran's letters in this one, and what's going on in prison and recovery ministry.

We started a new group at the jail two weeks ago. I say "new", but really, it was made up of women I've seen before. That was really discouraging, and yet, I simply believe my being there, our being there, is something that wouldn't be happening if God did not allow it, and it is important. If we weren't there, our influence would not be exerted in these precious lives, and Lord knows they need positive and truthful, helpful influence. What happens with it is up to them.

Brandon is well. He is now posting on Shaun Attwood's blog as a regular, which is awesome. Bran loves to write and expresses himself so well. The address is in my links list. Thanks, Shaun. He's doing well, hoping to possibly be transferred. He's a four hour drive away from us, so being 15 minutes away would be more than we could hope for, but he is eligible to put in for it. The only other medium security facility in the state besides Somerset is the one down the road from us. We'll see what happens!

by george I think she's got it!

2009-02-18T15:41:00.000-08:00

I'm allowing myself two things I love today-painting and writing. The above pic is a detail of an acrylic painting I finished today. I decided that if I could not accomplish a portrait that I felt was truly strong in acrylic I'd go back to pencils. There are many reasons why that's not a good idea if I still dream of getting work in a gallery. Pretty much 90% of artists who show work are painters. Artists who work in dry media only have to be exceptional. Not that I'm not, but just about 8 years worth of rejection from CPSA (Colored Pencil Society of America) did not help my confidence. And I admit that while I do good pencil work, I'm not one of the best. I know CP artists in our area, one in particular, who are exceptional. Fine art is so competitive a discipline, one must truly be honest with oneself. Chuckle.

It was hard stretching paper today. I wanted to paint, but not to have another picture that was uneven, ok but not really good, or just blah even if it was good. I'm grateful for people and things that inspire me. I got that on Sunday. And in my reading recently. Really the hardest part of being an artist is finding out who you are and being that person in paint, pencils, whatever...I know what influences I like, I know what I would make myself into if I could-but my college painting instructor always said be the best version of yourself that you can. So hopefully this is it!

follow up

2009-02-07T11:30:00.000-08:00

Well, I did meet Boris and Julie and Dave (see previous post)...we laughed and had a great time just like old friends. And the thing I realize is, no matter how much fame, fortune, success, recognition, all that, a person may realize in this earthly life, the most important things remain the same. I did speak with Julie at length, and it was mostly about kids. She loves her art, to be sure, but it is not the center of her life. She couldn't say enough about my daughter, and it was obvious the affection was mutual. How lovely. And Dave is a wonderful young man. And I thought to myself, little fool that I can be, how often and intensely I have prayed, "God, show me the way. I want to have a full and complete life, send me what I need to complete my art training. Help me, help me." And standing in that crowded gallery, I thought of what lengths in my life He has gone to, even before I ever asked...He knew.

Whispers in my ear
and sends shivers up my spine
It's the gratitude I feel for all that's right
It's a mystery appeal that's been granted me tonight
This peace...

bragging rights

2009-02-01T16:07:00.001-08:00

One of these things is not like the others, the rest of these things are kind of the same...Yes, in the face of such talent, I have decided I shall use my art talent to carve watermelons. (No, I did not carve the owl-I just aspire to do as well, chuckle).

Ok, on to my story. What do the rest of these pictures (paintings) have in common? They were all done by one family, two sons and a mom. I did not include the dad because if I did it would just be depressing. The first picture after the watermelon is by Dave Palumbo, the next by his brother, Tony, and the final two by mom, Julie Bell. And how do I know this? Well, I am going to meet them this Friday. Oh, the stepdad is Boris Vallejo. (Just look him up). My daughter is dating a son, and he was kind enough to issue an invitation to his group show at Artists' House in Philly this week. Part of the reason I got into art was finding Julie Bell's Hard Curves. I had no idea a woman could paint like that.

I'm trying hard to remain calm and be content with my own melons, LOL.

desire

2009-01-28T05:29:00.000-08:00

"Ode to Joy" detail by Susan Obaza (acrylic on paper)

It's been a weird past couple of months, starting at the end of August. I started back to college with my youngest daughter. We took in a boarder. I pretty much lost the time and space to create, though in all honesty if you want it badly enough you will find it. I was unsure of myself, the time, the space of life that I was living in. I hadn't painting since August and began again in January. I had to. I had to. I was out of my mind with desire to create. A sweet friend reminded me regarding his own struggles, that to everything, there is a season. I know this. But I have learned that I HAVE to create. If I do not I am tormented. This precious gift is a very personal and dear treasure to my heart. God in His wisdom may not take away the earthly things that trouble and harass, but He brings comfort, and in my brushes I find it. I'd like to think that every loss brings gain, every time away and every struggle enriches our experience. It brings more and more meaning to that which is good, that which we can share with the world-our very selves. My self, my heart, comes out on paper. I pray to God that I paint and draw with my heart. Many artists have expressed this sentiment. And it never stops being true. As long as my painting is an act of worship, an affirmation of the goodness of life and the desire to live, it will be the gift God intended me to have. And my love back to Him, and the world.

restoration

2009-01-25T17:12:00.000-08:00

I have always loved the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. They are two of my favorite scriptural leaders, humble men with a (not so simple) mission. Nehemiah was cupbearer to a king, a very important job requiring a trusted man. He protected the king's well-being, and obviously, had his love and respect. The king noticed that Nehemiah was down-hearted. No reason why he should, except that they were friends. Just like Daniel having the respect and love of the monarchs he served. Nehemiah grieved at the state of his native land and the city of Jerusalem. The temple was rebuilt but the walls were broken down still, after years. So the king let his beloved man and servant leave to return and remedy the situation.

I was watching Jack Hayford tonight. I rarely ever watch Christian television, but I put it on briefly, and it was one of those times it felt like the message was directed straight to me. Pastor Hayford was talking about Nehemiah's return to Jerusalem by night to inspect the broken walls and burned gates of the city. He compared this to the human condition, how when God restores our lives, the center of worship, our spirits, are reborn and built anew, but we still struggle in the soulish realm (our walls and gates). No one knew that Nehemiah was riding around the city walls thinking about what needed to be done. In the illustration Nehemiah is a type of Christ, who identifies with our broken condition and works with us to rebuild the things that we cannot. I know I'm there. My spirit is glad-I know God, but I've allowed so much through the gates of my mind, and allowed my protective walls to be broken down by sin in my life. I was so touched by the way the message was put forth, that Nehemiah did not berate the people for being lazy-after his inspection he said, "We are in great distress". He identified with his people, as Christ does with us. Our great High Priest, touched by every infirmity we could ever experience, knows us and is our Help and Shield. It was not an easy job. They had enemies. The work was laborious. Family teams worked side by side day and night to rebuild the walls with tools in one hand and weapons in the other. They could not leave any one spot unprotected.

I've come to understand that my Lord is a carpenter of the highest order. The places my heart is broken down, my will not strong, my desires off course and my foundation cracked, He comes. But I have to stop running around looking for help in every other place, or sitting idle. I ask, He is already working, we begin the job.

a legend gone

2009-01-18T11:55:00.000-08:00

There was a great loss in the art world this week, at the least the American art world. Andrew Wyeth died at 91 years old. I forgot. I resisted putting up a Helga picture-I love his drawings and simple still lives and interiors. I did read the obits that were up, and realized that he went through the same gyrations of labeling as did Norman Rockwell-genius vs "just a painter", an illustrator. Just an illustrator who painted some of the most memorable images of the 20th century. I should be such a painter, sigh. I didn't realize the Met would not show the Helga pictures. I guess they figured it was a husband/wife put-up job to create sensationalism. Whatever. They didn't need to do that if they did. Helga never looked better. I also would not squawk at going from a neighbor's cleaning lady to model/goddess, at least hotly pursued on canvas. They are stunning paintings. Nothing else can be said about them.

Andrew Wyeth was quoted as saying, "An artist's work will only be as deep as their love". Maybe not verbatim, but I've been thinking about fear as of late. Scriptures says perfect love casts out fear. We take risks for that which we love, and certainly I can defend poor Andrew for painting a model hundreds of times-some things in the world inspire such desire to create. His love for his craft, maybe his love for her...but really, I don't think so. He was an artist's artist. He said something to the effect trying to explain it, "That Prussian face..." Ever fell in love with bones, strands of hair, the way light falls on a form? I have. I wish I loved that much! I painted today, and prepped my paper yesterday. I decided color and control be damned-I flung paint, I dabbed, I dripped, I let it run, and I let it dry, and then I painting on it. And today I looked at something I did last week and got angry-it's not exciting enough. I retaped the painting and covered the background with slashing strokes-it was just too uhhhh...nothing. If risk is not involved in creating art or living, it is blahhhhhh!!!!!

security vs the world outside

2009-01-18T05:10:00.000-08:00

The character of Quasimoto in Victor Hugo's story is one of my great favorites. I grew up on classic books and movies, and Charles Laughton's portrayal of the hunchback is burned in my memory. I searched for a painting of Esmeralda and Quasimoto, and there wasn't one that I could find. The story is a literary great, but it apparently has no counterpart in classic painting. I need to look further because I can't believe it. Sounds like a project to me.

There are personal reasons why this story is meaningful. It has much to do with how we are viewed by the world, the social implications of handicap, the cruelty of small-minded people and powers that be which never changes, but further, how destiny plays a hand in our lives when we are literally born and how do we deal with that hand. Our social status, our physical appearance, our ability to make decisions and live with courage-who wins in this story? Disney gave the story their happy ending treatment, one that I could not bear to watch. The final scene in the 1940's film adaption and the end line is such a truthful comment on the nature of being human and having a heart I would never want to disfigure or deny that truth.

I have thought much about this in a very personal sense. I think every female who ever lived longs for security, and odd as this sounds-a tower and a fearful protector who lives to care for me is a secret desire, or used to be. On a larger level I think about it in terms of life, my fear of going out into the world, being who I am, and taking on the prejudices and dangers on my own terms. I watched several movies yesterday-I was out of energy, struggling with inner turmoil and feeling no desire to move onto projects I need to do. Fear, my old enemy, is chasing me up into the bell tower. All the movies had to do with a heroine who had to vanquish old fears and not run away from their given destinies. They could have gone one of two ways, and maybe it would have worked out. I'm trying to remember the line from the one, that while was a child's film, had a great deal to say about being who you were created to be, something like...fearful people may live with mistakes, but cautious people don't live at all. I thought-there are many versions to this, but the same idea.

It feels sometimes like my brushes weight a thousands pounds, my home is an empty castle, I'm tired and I want someone else to do what I know I have to. The call on all our lives is to be human, face the joys and pains of life and embrace the day and as a creature of clay I can choose to be molded or set on the shelf. I don't want to love any more, I don't want to feel any more, I don't want to try any more. But I must or turn to stone and lose all claim on living.

a picture (or two) is worth...

2009-01-15T17:19:00.001-08:00

Parenting is not for the faint of heart. I would enlarge that to say loving anyone and watching them go out into the world knowing what the world is and how fragile life is takes some strength. The above is what is left of our Jeep after black ice and a telephone pole. My daughter's boyfriend was driving, she was in the car with two other friends, nothing illegal or reckless going on-just an accident. They all walked away. Thank God. I took stock, realized what's important and actually learned to let her go just a little more this week.

Portrait of Cara

2009-01-11T23:19:00.000-08:00

This is my latest portrait. I am still without studio space, but it was time to get back on board and begin working. I'm painting now, a pair of roses. I promised my 80-year-old artist friend that I'd begin painting "happy", and so that is what I'm doing! Actually, before the hiatus, I was experimenting with acrylic paints. They are great because they're water soluble and the pigment is extremely saturated. I used to use watercolors to stain my drawing papers. Well, I tried staining with acrylic, and got a much more brilliant base. I love the chaotic jumble of colors to begin with, so I am using acrylics and colored pencil together over this color crazy paper, doing white flowers. It's coming out great. Maybe I really needed the break. I'll post the colorful one when its done. Feels good to be "back"!

p.s. Cara is a former inmate and was helped by Providing Hope Ministries. She was (is) a success story, and hopefully will remain so.

The Museum of Broken Relationships

2009-01-08T06:05:00.000-08:00

I skim the news for stories of interest, or stop what I'm doing on the computer to read them if something catches my eye. One did this morning-an article about a museum for broken relationships. I was immediately intrigued? Isn't the worst of losing someone you love knowing that the evidence the relationship even existed will soon be swept away with time? In this museum you can mail in your exhibits. Some of the items on display include a hatchet which was used to break up an ex-girlfriend's furniture, fur-covered handcuffs, a prosthetic leg from a war veteran who fell in love with his therapist...of course, the fun for me was, thinking of what I might send as an exhibit. We collect very strange relationship debris. I'd love to see a random list from people I know. Ok, I do need to include a link. This museum is in Croatia-I wonder if they experience more break-ups there than average? It will be traveling and there is a schedule.

I know I don't need to spiritualize absolutely everything in life, but my mind naturally thinks in spiritual application, so here goes...to everything, there is a season. One day the rose is blooming, and the next it's dried and dusty in a book page long forgotten. In the world, in life, things are meant to end, or mature, or die, or morph into other things. One song I absolutely love, written by Sara Groves (I Think) is...c'mon brain...He's Always Been Faithful. It's about God, of course, and one line goes something like this-I can't remember a trial or a pain, He didn't recycle to bring me gain. I so want to believe that. There are reasons why we meet people, love them, why they are special for a season. Some are special for a lifetime, but must be far rather than near. It's ok. I suppose we're given memories as our own museums, and we thankfully forget the pain and hold the remains of what was good until all is redeemed on the last day.

Happy Holidays!!

2008-12-31T06:44:00.000-08:00

Ok, it is unlikely that you've seen a more strange collection of pictures in one place. Welcome to the weird and crazy world of Sue's holidays. I don't know how it happens. It starts normally-the picture of my sisters and I (second from the left-you really can't miss the eyebrows)! That was Thanksgiving, and it was wonderful. Ok, on with the last three, a Revival Burlesque bumper sticker that was given to me by the cast of the same show in which my daughter sang and acted, and then a menorah parade-this all happened in Philadelphia the weekend before Christmas. The only thing lacking in this set of pix is my two daughters dressed up as David Bowie for Christmas dinner in paper wigs and costumes. One was Jareth from the movie Labyrinth, and the other was Ziggy Stardust. Pictures will follow if my daughter sends me hers.

Just a little reminder that normal life is rarely that, especially for this family. Ok, further "lifeshots" from the holidays...a call from Brandon. He's doing well and was able to get through on Christmas morning! Yay! The girls were both home (I brought Dena home from Philly to be with us on Christmas) and could say hi to their brother. Christmas Eve consisted of pierogi making (Polish dumplings), and my only attempt at cookie baking, thank God. My husband's family is of Polish extraction on both sides, so we celebrate the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, Wigilia or Wilia (Vil-EE-ah). I'll see if I can find a hyperlink reference to the meal's history. A chair is left empty for Jesus (this year it was next to me, and unfortunately Jesus held up the serving line-I kept getting passed over), or a traveler needing shelter. We break opatke (OH-pwat-key), giving each person at the table three blessings or wishes for the New Year. The bread is like a communion wafer, or fly saucer candy shells, if you've ever had those. The traditional blessing is for health, wealth and happiness, and as the blessing is given the recipient breaks off three pieces of opatke and eats them, signifying the acceptance of the blessing. It's a really beautiful ceremony, and I couldn't help thinking of the Sabbath Prayer scene in Fiddler on the Roof.

We decided this year to not focus on gift-giving, and I feel like I really had my gifts in the visits to Indiana to see my sisters, the visit to Somerset to see Brandon and his call and letter after the holidays (he's beginning to accept the loss of old dreams and start dreaming some new paths for which I am truly grateful), and being able to visit and bring home Dee. Acting and singing in this show is a long-time dream come true for her, and I was also able to help her clean and organize her space before school starts again. One side note any parent with a college age child will understand...her "luggage" for home was a laundry basket filled with dirty clothes. Chuckle.

So I look forward to the New Year with more fun times, silly pictures and snapshots of life! What will happen, I don't know. But one true thing-God has kept us in His palm this year.

the ghost of Christmases past

2008-12-25T17:18:00.000-08:00

Yeah. Maybe more than a few. Things I've said that hurt people I care about. Things I've done without really thinking about it. Sigh. If there's one New Year's resolution I do have, it's truly do all with loving motives. I've tried. I want to be a person of honor. Be the one to absorb the loss. Think more about others than I do about myself. Walk away rather than have the last word. Be glad for another who does well rather than fume or be jealous.

Loving sometimes does best saying nothing, being unnoticed, operating in grace. I need to learn that lesson.

stocking stuffers

2008-12-20T05:59:00.000-08:00

As child I used to love looking in our stockings because the gifts had to be small to fit, and usually they were the most cherished. So here are my random stocking stuffers this season...I'm leaving for Philadelphia in a few hours to be with my oldest daughter. The youngest and a boyfriend are coming as well. So let's see, just like the Twelve Days of Christmas-I always thought that list was really strange, strange magic happens at this time and what I see as true gifts always changes. I have the gift of watching my daughter perform in a burlesque show. She designs costumes, writes skits and sings, and now she wants to act. A version of the Christmas story it is not. But considering the year she has had, this is truly something to be thankful for.

I am thankful for my son's phone calls, and the visit we had last weekend. It's all from prison. This year he did not request a safe pack of goodies and food. I left it entirely up to him, and he did not want us to spend the money. He's lost probably 70 pounds over the course of his incarceration, and now simply seems content with his lot, content to serve his time and be grateful for what he has. Small miracles.

Another gift I enjoy is my youngest daughter's enthusiasm about everything. Nothing holds her back, everything is an adventure. Part of me dreads driving to Philly. She's determined to walk if she has to. Her youth and love, and her cheerful demeanor never fail to make my day better. She's determined that no presents this year will make it the best Christmas ever.

I think about my husband's unfailing strength trouping to the dental lab daily, working long hours to support us. He rarely ever complains about anything at all, only calls to see if there's dinner. (He's probably grateful there isn't, LOL). This morning he delivers gifts to inmates at our local county jail. We assembled 800 bags Thursday night. That was my thing to do, and he willingly came along for the ride and the work. We finally had a Saturday morning today that did not include running in a thousand different directions right from the alarm.

Then there are the friends I have, people I love to write to, to hear from-a gift yesterday was a random early morning call from a dear friend, just to say hi. Then a funny card from a long time girlfriend with a check, just because. Kitties sitting in my lap or by my side purring when I nap or watch tv. A really cosy little house, made more cosy by a tree and candles everywhere. The movie I saw last night, reminding me of the true miracle of small gestures-just people being themselves and sharing simple gifts of love. As I get older, the past childhood pleasures magnify and resound with the same truth that made me so joyful to see Christmas come. My family is here, God is real, love makes a difference and it is truly more blessed to give than receive.

new every morning

2008-12-05T10:49:00.000-08:00

The creative spirit is ever renewing and alive. The above image was found after doing a google search "creativity and the Holy Spirit". I thought this was a tremendously interesting entry. It's a cyber drawing of Adam and Eve, and a reminder to me that art is continually growing, adapting and changing, and revelation never stops. Old truths breathe new life.

I'm back from vacation, visiting my sisters and taking time off from a busy schedule. I needed a fresh perspective. I guess it helped because I passed my Microsoft Vista certification upon my return! I'm so excited. At any rate, while there I was privileged to meet an author and artist who had just sent me an e-mail prior to my departure. My destination was the Indianapolis area, this man's home base. His name is Scott McElroy and he just wrote a book entitled, "Finding Divine Inspiration: working with the Holy Spirit in your creativity." I'm going to see if I can provide a link to a bookseller here...Anyway, it was good. I needed to understand that the creative spirit in the world is the Holy Spirit, and He is ever alive and active in our lives if we seek. Scott had a book signing within reasonable driving distance from my vacation domicile, so I went to meet him. I came away determined to let God take the wheel in this whole thing.

I also came away with a much better appreciation for the great art of loving and sharing in relationship over time. I have four sisters and they have always been my best friends and greatest fan club. We are like Patty Duke's old show, the story of identical cousins (I can still hear the theme song in my head!) They walk alike, they talk alike, at times they even...whatever alike, chuckle-well, imagine five of them. AHHHH! That's the Phillips girls. We did talk-ALOT! And that helped me. When it feels like my whole head is an iceberg, everything frozen up from too much schedule, too little reflection and contemplation, I need to let things thaw out. And that is what happened.

It is good to be home. It will be even better when I let the wind of the spirit begin blowing through my creative imagination again.

today

2008-11-16T02:43:00.000-08:00

Today in church our Celebrate Recovery band is performing a song and the leader of the ministry is explaining a bit about what we are. The band has rock and roll delusions a bit, as all men over thirty do, but we have fun and we're not half bad. We only perform on Friday nights so the church really doesn't see what goes on. I'm a little nervous-we're supposedly introducing ourselves as we do at CR just like any 12 step meeting. But we figure sometimes the most polished church member is the one who really needs some help and doesn't know where to look or how to ask.

Brandon is officially out of the hole, thank goodness. That's another blessing of today-he called his dad yesterday and wants to talk to me, so he's calling again today. I can't wait! We haven't heard from him in several weeks. He still has his job but is on probation for two months and won't be working.

And I need to really begin asking myself some questions about an issue I'm working a fourth step on now. I've always used food to cope, and I have to look at what is healthy living in that regard, physically, emotionally and spiritually. I don't know how to live with this well-I never have. The twenty pounds I lost is now back on plus some weight, and I'm not sure what the answer is-after forty years of struggling, there must be something. This morning brings it front and center-if I introduce myself as someone finding victory over codependency and food issues, that needs to be the truth.

workin' 9-5

2008-11-09T00:52:00.000-08:00

As I think about where I'm headed these days and what I do with my time, I'm really ready for my life to be more structured and to be able to look back on my day's time and feel that it has been more significant. I've been so fortunate, sincerely, to have had lots of opportunities and "explore" time in my life. I have to see that as the gift that it was. I did not have to, or did not choose to, go off to a 9-5 job. I opted to stay home with my kids, to go back to school to develop my art skills and to be "on call" more or less for my husband and volunteer my time.

I had a day last week where it seemed from morning until the evening, I was where I needed to be, it all seemed important to me and I closed me eyes simply feeling like this was the pattern for the way I should be living now. Certainly not every day is going to be that, and I realize that was only one-going to a job could get old, I don't always want to be running from morning until evening and every part of life has its seasons. I have wonderful ministry opportunities now-no lack of "stuff" that is important to fill a day. I'm just tired of my schedule being controlled by other family members. It is no longer necessary. Our boarder, Eric, is coming into the home stretch of his time with us, and that is another thing that has told me I'm really done sitting around or racing home because he needs the car, or something, due to his schedule. I'm ready to focus on the home here and fill the role I've waited years to be able to. I have contributed one way to the home, and now I'm ready to contribute in a more independent way. I look so forward to it. I have the freedom to develop a career and assist my husband financially.

Another thing that caused me to take stock of my life was the fact that I'm going to visit my sisters over Thanksgiving. I'm very excited to go, very anxious to spend time with them. I got an e-mail from the youngest suggesting we all think about volunteering to serve turkey dinners on the day as an antidote to the "stuff yourself silly and be totally lazy" routine. It's a great idea, but only a luxury for someone who is totally focused on their own life most of the time. Volunteering and serving others is so built into my whole existence I don't need any more opportunities. I sincerely want the other part of life, that which every feel good tv movie seems to condemn if it morphs into workaholism. I don't think that is a danger here. What they don't mention is that it is not pleasant to be constantly scratching for cash and always be giving to others when we have needs. There needs to be a balance. We won't be serving turkey dinners this year. Maybe next.

Yesterday I spent three hours watching TV Land (old reruns of Third Rock) with my cat. It was good. Like a person used to overeating, I want to have an appetite for a weekend and fun stuff. Right now I don't. I think a daily routine will be the remedy.

"loft"y ambitions

2008-11-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

There is still enough of the artist left in me, or bohemian, whichever the case may be, that would love to live in one of these beautiful domiciles. I like the idea of open, undivided space, plenty of wall area to display art, two stories if I want, roller skating optional if I ever feel like it, or the grandkids feel like it (chuckle)-and of course, mammoth northlight capturing windows. Ah...it's a day to dream.

isolation

2008-11-02T01:59:00.000-07:00

"Golden Isolation"
Ben Davies-Jenkins

We received two hand-written letters from Brandon this weekend. That is significant because he has a little typing and printing device he uses to do his letters. So I knew something was up as soon as I opened them. Bran was asked to give up his bunk for another inmate. Of course, this being prison, you're not told why nor really requested to do anything. You're simply told. If you do not comply, there are consequences. Bran understood this and still said "no". He figured if he got isolation, maybe a week. He got 20 days. Here's his version:

"Went to see the hearing examiner this morning, around 8:5o it says on the sheet. They gave me 20 days! On consideration! That's crazy. This, my first offense ever, a non-violent on at that, got me 20 days in the bucket. I guess...the only good part is I get to keep my job. What I might do is appeal the punishment. Try for 10 days in the hole, 10 on cell-restriction. Some such ratio. I can't go back to work in blues, but I can get myself situated on the block. It says in the rule book "Refusing an Order" is eligible for informal decision/punishment and doesn't require hole time. Much less 3 weeks. These guys are off their collective rockers. I shouldn't have put in a guilty plea. In the appeal I'll plead for leniency over my workplace being short-handed (which is true, and the hiring list is wrapped in light years of red tape which doesn't help), or the fact that they guy was Muslim and I wasn't trying for any black marks by pressing religious/racial/cultural issues. Ahh, man, this is turning out to be one hot mess. It's all time, I suppose. They can't take the days away from me. They can take all else, but they can't take my time." (Thank God)

I know I should be used to these things by now. You never get used to them. I try not to cry, try not to let it get in my way-I know my son and he'll be fine. But it just begins to seep and bleed into a soul. It's weird that in my step groups Friday night through Saturday at the jail we talked a lot about isolation. There are many kinds, and the one kind that isn't good is self-imposed. I cannot let Bran's isolation put me there as well.

In these things, God shows His face and is good. And so I try to watch for Him but sometimes it sneaks up! Yesterday, I knew I had to get to the grocery before going to the jail for group. I was trying hard to clear up the tears and get on with it, and as I was leaving the store, a stranger walked up to me with a plastic bag of grapes. He wasn't exactly Mr. Clean Cut citizen-greasy hair in an old cap, bad teeth and a grizzled beard, but he said, "I think you must have dropped these and I know they aren't mine. I also know you would have been missing them once you got home!" I don't know-sometimes the simplest acts of kindness are the most profoundly moving. I know he probably could have appreciated those grapes more than me.

Of course, logging onto the computer always produces surprises, and I got a lovely one in a long, beautiful e-mail from a friend (our Mel). She's the best writer-I always imagine I can hear her talking when she writes her style is so unique. Thanks again, my friend! That made my day. And the blog read I always check-Pixie's great stories, Shaun's funny posts and pictures, my friend Lisa and her constant e-mails. They are so appreciated.

And then in the prison-I already have two special gals, and one told me she watches to be sure my car pulls in. That amazes me. It means so much to them for me to be there. Well, it was just these two yesterday, and we had such a special session. They really needed to be able to vent, cry and just know someone cares. I feel enormously privileged to be able to bring some comfort and encouragement there. And then our local group...it's as if God handpicked the women to come, and we are already a tight group working through issues and our lives together. I'm so grateful to them for committing themselves (we should be committed, LOL!).

Love is all around, even amidst the isolation the world tries to impose. I know cell walls will not keep love away. (p.s. Another gift-the lovely painting I used for the blog...title of the painting is a hyperlink to the artist's website-his work is amazing)

2008-10-28T05:14:00.000-07:00

Mission accomplished! Yay!

the outward appearance of things....

2008-10-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

Our boarder is still with us, and is looking at a small house (a rent to buy) tomorrow. He has already tried to check out two places, and both suddenly became unavailable upon further investigation. Our friend is black, and this is a small town, predominantly white. It crossed my mind early on and stayed in the back of my head...still honestly I never thought race would be a problem. But there doesn't seem to be any other real explanation. So tomorrow my husband and his mother are accompanying this man to his appointment. My husband's family has lived in this town since Moses left Egypt-I think Dave's grandmother must have rode the returning waves to America before Leif Erickson. So they do have name recognition and reputation capital to rely on. And can vouch for our friend's character, ability to pay, qualities that would make a trustworthy individual renter.

It got me to thinking. There is so much talk about racial issues in our country-so much about the generation gap, blah, blah...but it all comes down to individual people. I may not know about all the rest of the people of color in our country, but I do know our friend and I trust him. He's a good man. I don't know about this generation that supposedly is going to hell in a handbasket, but I do know my daughters and their friends. They don't look like me, nor do they necessarily think like I do, but they are faithful friends and my girls are loving individuals. Is it so hard to simply start a conversation with one person? I'm beyond tired of being categorized by religious beliefs, politics, sex, race, age, tattoos/no tattoos-the heart's the thing, and we're human after all.

of birthdays, banquets, bedding and such....

2008-10-19T02:54:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess we start with "birthdays"...on Saturday I finally got my official prison card from Brandon, and here was part of his note inside:

I'm guessing they only have one "Card, Birthday, Feminine" design made by New Zealand natives? Pretty damn lazy. Another thing, every time I send one of these out I realize I can't remember my own address. Well, when they print it for you on nearly every envelope they're just providing you means to become THAT slothful.

And so, my card, birthday, feminine finally made it!

Next we go to banquets...there was one on Friday night for the prison ministry I'm involved with, Providing Hope. PHM has two yearly banquets to promote the organization and raise money via donations and table sponsors. I couldn't find the Knights of Columbus (I guess they were out crusading somewhere)-it took two passes around town to realize I kept passing this outwardly nondescript stucco building, and that didn't do much for my already not terribly public mood. At any rate, finally I made my way to an empty chair and salad, and things got better from there. A ministry DVD was unveiled, and once again, I found myself rather wishing I thought more about my grooming on any given day, as I was a principle player in this film offering. The day Pastor Gaetano picked to come to the prison to film I had on a shirt that did nothing to de-emphasize certain aspects of my shape. Mercifully he shot me mostly from the neckline up. But it was well done and that's not end of the story...I was gifted with a copy of this "commercial" and took it to a local meeting the next day. A fellow leader asked to see it, I gave it to her, and it turns out her nephew was on the first screen shot-he was one of the speakers at the banquet with an amazing story of redemption and new life through Christ, and he started his own organization upon leaving to assist former inmates. Lisa got a huge surprise seeing all of this, as she did not know his story.

And finally, bedding-once again, another air mattress failed us, which in a way is funny, but when the gas tank is empty, the paycheck doesn't cover the bills, the fridge is also pretty bleak...there really wasn't room for even such a simple thing as new bedding. It was one of those times I didn't really even think about how much I know God can supply if I just trust and don't complain, but I did, in my head. And because I in my all-sufficiency, could really do nothing but complain, chuckle...God did. There was a check waiting for me in the mail-well, two actually-interest from a bank account I never really do much with, and payment for an art job I sort of gave up on. AND my husband, dear soul, stepped in and asked his mother if we could pinch a top mattress off her guest room bed temporarily. That worked.

So that was the weekend grab bag! Always interesting, always a few diamonds in the cracker jack.

patriot saint

2008-10-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write about at least one person who struggled mightily with spiritual convictions over politics and the world system, and found a means within that very system to leave the world an astounding legacy. Comparisons of movements and people to Hitler are plentiful today, and as soon as I hear them, I stop listening. We cannot comprehend the times, and feel very smug in our self-righteous assessment of it in making such comparisons. The man pictured is Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a native German who earned his doctorate by the age of 21 and became a much loved and respected spiritual leader in his homeland. It goes without saying he came of age after WWI when the German people were suffering bitterly in the aftermath of war. The link goes to a site which describes in detail his life and adult development in this fearful time when his faith was constantly at odds with an increasingly racist and oppressive government.

Bonhoeffer did have opportunity to travel after his schooling, and did spend time in America. He was much admired by the West, though his opinion of Western Christianity was not favorable. He felt more in tune with the pacifist philosophies espoused in the East and India, and saw more of Christ's teachings in Gandhi. He nurtured the Confessing Church in Germany, one body of believers openly opposed to Nazi philosophies, but still in concert with the scriptures and in terms of service to the oppressed Jews. In 1939 he had the opportunity to come back to America, and literally, into the arms of safety. He did come, but quickly left, knowing he could not preach with integrity and leave his native land floundering.

Upon his return to Germany, Dietrich Bonhoeffer made the choice to work for the resistance and was involved in a plot to kill Hitler. He also helped to rescue Jews and allow them safe passage out of the country. It was simply a time for action and a time when the faith which led him in the peace of green pastures, took him into the open and unprotected battlefields, using his influence to stop a madman. The plot failed, and those implicated with him were all put to death by a particularly gruesome method of hanging...naked from a piano wire noose suspended from a meat hook, which caused slow suffocation-the guards could not even watch.

At a time when the Christian church did little in the face of overwhelming evil and suffers historical indictment for it, Bonhoeffer stands out as one who acted when action was right. Those who did watch him go to his death remarked they had never seen such peace and composure. Reinhold Niebuhr, the man who wrote the very famous Serenity Prayer, was a dear friend. I want to include the complete prayer, because while we use it for 12 step groups today, it has such broader implications:

God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change, the courage
to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know
the difference. Living one day at a time,
enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship
as a pathway to peace. Taking as Jesus did this
sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; trusting that
You will make all things right if I surrender to Your
will, so that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen

questions and answers

2008-10-14T03:54:00.000-07:00

I go to the local gym in the morning to exercise. I've found it's probably the only consistent thing I do well to keep my body in shape as I love to eat and dieting is not as exciting or fun as being around all that equipment. Plus usually an hour and I'm done. I do like using the treadmills, and two televisions are on in front of the machines to pass the time. I don't watch tv news, except at the gym. I usually depend on the computer for my news and related information.

I know we're coming into the most heated season of politics in American, a presidential race. Even the most apathetic person cannot help seeing or hearing something of the election. It's everywhere. And we complain. But it's good-a reminder that this IS America. It is also a time when I find myself questioning where I belong in the process. I'm first of all a citizen of heaven, secondly, an American. I love my country. I long to know according to my belief system, what is service to country? I find my heart saddened when I feel lumped into a category because of my faith. Most Christians I know vote with their conscience, not with any denomination or political stripe, and for some, this is the right choice. Many struggle deeply with questions and issues. And I know many on both sides of the party fence who are strongly committed to loving God and loving their fellow citizens.

Ever since Jesus was asked whether his disciples should pay taxes to Caesar, the question remains...His answer was, Render unto Caear that which is his, and render to God that which is His. This question was posed in the movie Sargent York-a favorite of mine. In that case a soldier who knew the commandments was pondering whether to enter WWI. A fellow soldier tried to argue scripture to the positive, and the discussion just kept going in circles. A wise officer just had the soldier read the history of the formation of our country, and the price paid for the freedoms we enjoy. He decided to fight. Whatever the fight is for each of us as individuals, the thing is-get into the process. This is a country of the people after all.

long overdue visitation

2008-10-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

Sunday was a beautiful day, bright and sunny for October. We finally made it to Somerset to see Brandon. I'll have to look at the blog and see if I can find the date the last time we were there. It was months, but I'm not sure how many. We had planned to go two weeks ago and I got sick. Then last week Dave had work he had to do for Monday. That's the life of a business owner. (I checked-June 30th).

So, anyway, we went. Oh, I need to insert a related story aside here-of course, going to the prison means getting change for vending machines. That's one of the biggest treats an inmate can enjoy. And every time I anticipated a trip out West, I got 25-30 one dollar bills in my return cash from the bank. Well, I went to the drive-through teller and asked for "thirty, one dollar bills". The teller who assisted me said, "I'm sorry, ma'am...we don't have thirty-one dollar bills". I had to go through the shpiel twice, and finally I said, "I need one dollar bills, thirty of them". It never occurred to me that I would be so misunderstood, and I'm not sure which of us felt stupider after that conversation.

Anyhoo, the day was good. Once again I did not recognize my son. He's lost a total of 75 pounds, and easily 30-40 between our last visit and this one. He's doing well, and it was evident that it had been too long between visits. We didn't stop talking for a minute it seemed like! I realize even more than I ever did, I want him home. I accepted the need for him to be away from this town, to pay his debt to society and to grow up apart from us, but I see the work being done and I'm ready for this to be over. Sincerely. I guess he's planning a belated birthday surprise for me, and I had to become involved because it requires finding one particular photograph of myself and Bran when he was under a year old. I remember when the pain of looking at those early photos just made me put albums away and out of sight. Well, now I'm ripping through them looking for that one particular shot-I'll be heartsick if I can't find it. I think the work that needed to be done is done. (I scanned a copy Bran sent-above)! My little guy.

Sabbath

2008-10-02T08:45:00.000-07:00

Another not-so-well-known Van Gogh painting, "Sabbath Rest". (I did a Google search for images using the word, Sabbath, and that got me interesting results usually beginning with "Black", so I added the word rest). We still have a man living with us until he finds more permanent digs, and it's been the battle of the blow up mattresses, which has sort of become a metaphor for life these days. The first mattress I put in the room he's staying it lasted for about three weeks and sprung a seam leak. He was afraid to say anything, but it was hard not to notice a flat mattress in the room in the morning for no particular reason, and the sound of the air gun to blow it up at all hours. So during my recovery from the plague, I ran to Penney's and picked up a single chamber, outdoor camping style thing. It sprung a pinhole leak in less than two weeks and the same routine happened again. So yesterday between classes I picked up a small double decker with a pillow form on top. Ok. We shall see how long this lasts!

There is something rather sad about a slowly deflating mattress. The inability to change the situation and the general ease of making it much worse, the small sssssss of air leading to a corresponding loss of comfort that will not end until you're on wooden floor planks. And there is nothing that can be done to stave off the floor. Eric, my husband and I got a good laugh out of such an irritating thing and we all agreed, we are sort of all on life's mattress with the circumstances going ssssss out from under us. Eric is working 12-16 hours every day at a waste management plant. How he does this I do not know, and his wage is so low in comparison to the effort he puts forth it's ridiculous...my husband is back down to himself as his own employee, which means weekends and 12 hour days until the volume goes back up, whenever that may be. I am running. All the time. Running to class to get skills for a decent job, running my kid to work, to school, to whatever, ministry responsibilities....sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.

We cannot do anything about the pressure of living. We all know we are where God wants us. All of us cannot leave the situations we are in without something serious falling to the wayside. We can do something about the ssssssssssss. Sabbath is the literal emotional, spiritual and physical mattress that maintains the comfort of the soul. A friend is combining a motorcycle trip of a lifetime out West with other responsibilities. There has to be, within a day, a week, a lifetime, times that simply bolster and restore the soul, that cause rest. If that does not happen, we're on wooden planks without a fill kit.

Bstill

2008-09-29T22:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Lord...it's just one of those nights. You're always there, but images and feelings from the past leaving me cut off from comfort, and reaching into the shadows for things that do not exist. What might have been, what was not, the wrong and the right, haunt me tonight. I know if I wait, comfort will come. As I drove quickly through yesterday, I remember a license plate that appeared in my line of vision, in a moment needing to be reminded, "Bstill". He is El Rai, the God who sees me.

Woo-Hoo!

2008-09-27T15:16:00.000-07:00

Friday night through Saturday morning for me now is the "ministry gauntlet". Friday night I am humbled to be part of a worship band that plays for our Celebrate Recovery 12 step. Then early Saturday I'm off to the prison for another round of steppin' with my orange ladies. And now we have CR in my home stomping grounds where again, she flies in and whips out the ivories (and tries not to be too loud and clumsy). Ah yes. I was tired today, but honestly, what a privilege! Sincerely.

Last night I was tired. I have had the plague-I'm convinced. Well, not the Middle Ages smelly and horrible version, but one that knocked me out for over a week. No strength. Which led to a rather hilarious ending to our music set last night. We not only opened the meeting, we ended it, and by the end I was wiped out totally. So I drug my carcass back up to the keys, whipped through My Redeemer Lives (and moves very quickly!!), and blanked out at the end with everyone standing there reverently-I could not think of a thing to say to end the meeting. So I just said, "Now talk amongst yourselves". Everyone sort of stood there in silence and then roared-ah, blessed relaxed noise and conversation. This performance stuff is too much pressure!

This morning after a week's battle with musical CD-ROMS and lesson hand-outs for CR, which we now really, REALLY need, I realized we did not have one single trifold or hand-out that had new information for our morning meeting. It took me two hours to get the steps, the Serenity Prayer, a meeting list and Welcome (yay) pamphlet for our new meeting. Then I zoomed off to the prison, which was to be a celebration of completion and the handing out of certificates. Our dear female chaplain finagled donuts and coffee for the remaining ladies-so many are now back out into the world...so there we all sat like Aunt Bee and her quilting circle laughing and eating Dunkin' Donuts-after we figured out how to open the childproof screw cap on the coffee box (I kept wondering if the coffee box was really necessary-and a bit reminiscent of a wine box). It was great.

Then on to the new meeting, which is in this more beautiful than my house church annex-lovely. And after over a year of working, waiting, planning, waiting, praying, waiting, waiting and more waiting, here's the new baby of recovery meetings. And it was GOOOD. I think junior has huge growth potential, and no lack of love and acceptance. Yay, Yaweh!! What a life.

fuhgedaboudit...!!

2008-09-23T18:52:00.000-07:00

If I do not display the above ID when I go to the school computer lab, I do not get in to said lab. I look like a mole from an Italian mob family. I feel like telling the door monitor desk Nazi, Ifa youz do not allow me admittance to dis establishment of higher learning, I shall feel compelled to make an offer you cannot refuse. Or my esteemed family will pay you a little visit. Ah well, as I do not boast a single drop of Sicilian blood, I do not think any such threats will move the lab vigilantes.

Wheatfield in the Rain

2008-09-21T07:55:00.000-07:00

I have been sick for the last four days, a type of flu bug apparently that seemed to pass through my body in waves and cause intense head and muscle aches and fever that would soak out of me only to return over and over. I was sincerely afraid to go to church this morning which would put me in close proximity to lots of people and lots of body heat. I did manage the grocery store in a mild fog, and while I was in the store the song "Vincent" by Don McLean, was playing quietly in the background. I felt like I've been in an institution for the last few days, out of my right mind due to illness, with time to sit and read like I haven't had in weeks, and to dream about things that I haven't had time to do. School and ministry responsibilities ran me ragged the past week.

So today is the first day I've not been plagued by a monster wave of body aches, and Vincent stayed with me. I love the lyrics to the song:

Starry, starry night

Portraits hung in empty halls

Frameless heads on nameless walls

With eye that watch the world and can't forget

Like the strangers that you've met

The ragged men in ragged clothes

The silver thorn and bloody rose

Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me

And how you suffered for your sanity

How you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they're not listening still

Perhaps they never will

I have wondered why life has turned out this way, often times how my gifts and limitations will work together, what's the purpose and end of it all, why do we suffer and struggle? Vincent van Gogh's work is instantly recognizeable by even non-art lovers today. But he started out wanting to be a minister. His love was the common man, the peasants and poor, and he never quite found the blessings of religious powers that be to release him to serve. He turned to painting the common instead. "Starry Night", the first image, is probably one of his most well-known. I have included a few favorites of my own, not so well-known. The boots I just love. The following figure grouping and portrait are "Potato Eaters", the people he wanted to serve and came to know. Finally, a reproduction of which the original hangs in the Philadelphia Museum of Art, probably my all time favorite van Gogh, which few people know or have seen, "Wheatfield in the Rain". When I saw this piece hanging in the museum, it was as if for an instant, I felt the artist's mind and perception-I looked through his eyes. At this point in his life, Vincent was committed to an insane asylum. It is impossible to look at this work and not feel his soul. I suppose the suffering releases the essence of our being into the world. I'm so thankful someone had the courage to put it on canvas. It helps me to know these struggles are worth the cost.

in His hands

2008-09-16T02:00:00.000-07:00

We're into six weeks of having another person living in our home, trying to make a new start and get settle into a job, and find some independence. I'm a very private person and generally not good with sharing my personal space. I endure it, but I don't embrace it. I still get touchy when my husband's mother comes over into the house and shouts to me, or pounds on the door or calls repeatedly to get our attention. We live in a double block and our cellars adjoin, so you can walk from one house to another via the basement steps in to both kitchens. It still makes me feel like I'm a guest here. But I know it's good for her, so I try to be at least cordial. Sometimes I don't make it.

Eric is another matter, and it's hard to explain, except that first of all, he's a generous and kind person by nature, very open and happy. What he loves, he loves, which right now is football. Somehow though I know I'd like my studio space back, it's not crucial. It doesn't irritate. I understand and don't mind giving him room (in several ways) because it really doesn't feel like the room is mine to give. It's God's economy and His "stuff". Things do need to come to a close because he needs to move on and grow, and really begin to establish his own new life. But he tries so hard to help out, so Sunday's dinner was chili dogs, chips and packaged apple turnovers. That's way too much salt and junk for me, but I felt obligated by his desire to give back something and give me a break in the kitchen. He also did the dishes.

It reminded me that some people just really need other people, and not in the sense of taking advantage, being overly dependent or even lazy. Sometimes I look at myself and think my own private nature is too far from a normal need for company and "home" as much as I try to make mine cozy and warm. I just see how the Potter is molding this clay and making it more pliable, and I know it need to be.

remembering

2008-09-13T08:51:00.000-07:00

September is my birth month...and as the song goes, a time to try and remember. We just remembered the victims of 9/ll, and that oddly enough was my mother's birthday. I'm glad she wasn't around to see such a thing. The handsome guy in the picture is someone I remember through his music. I wish I had known him personally. Singer/songwriter/musician Rich Mullins died too young and tragically Sept. 19th, 1997. I've been trying to write this blog for days, and just haven't been able to upload a video. But maybe that's better, because hopefully folks will look up his name and his music and listen for themselves. Rich died nine days after going into an abandoned church and recording the raw music for what would have been his final CD. The songs are remarkable. All of his songs are. They are timeless in a day when bubblegum pop and manufactured music dominates even the Christian music world. His songs are honest, sometimes complex lyrically and musically, whimsical and deeply profound, yet they speak to all of us as individuals, seekers and mature believers. And they are American in the tradition of Copeland. I wanted to include the lyrics to a favorite off of this CD which was finished, thanks to his band, the Ragamuffins. It's called "The Jesus Record".

Jesus

Jesus...they say You walked upon the water once
When You lived as all men do
Please teach me how to walk the way You did
Because I want to walk with You

Jesus...they say You taught a lame man how to dance
When he had never stood without a crutch
Here am I holding out my withered hands
And I'm just waiting to be touched

Jesus...write me into Your story...whisper it to me
And let me know I'm Yours

Jesus...they say You spoke and calmed an angry wave
That was tossed across a stormy sea
Please teach me how to listen, how to obey
Cause there's a storm inside of me

Jesus...they drove the cold nails through Your tired hands
And rolled stone to seal Your grave
Feels like the devil's rolled a stone onto my heart
Will You roll that stone away?

I feel like I know this man through his songs-and I wish there were more of them, but what Rich Mullins left behind was a musical generation finding new ways to worship. And live.

summer's end

2008-09-08T09:31:00.000-07:00

Well, the month of September is winging it's way South I'll tell ya! Brandon started his prison laundry job and is feeling pretty good about life. He had to be moved to another cell in another block because of conflicts with yard times where he was. Beck and I started school and today I was able (yay for me!) to save tutorial files into a flash drive all by myself. Beck got her cool chef's hat, coat, checked pants and non-slip shoes for the kitchen. Dena starts back to school next month. Dave started taking an online Bible course. He's working his way towards a Bachelor's degree.

This month we have our LCCF prison volunteer dinner, a hippo birdies to me (I think I crossed into the African grey parrot territory-they live to be 80), a visitation and whatever else we can cram into this month. We have someone living with us who will be on his way at the end of the month-it's made for a bit of an interesting couple of weeks, but good. We're going to see "Forbidden Broadway" this weekend for my birthday. I love live productions and this one is supposed to be hilarious. I have to look over the Susquehanna Trailers newsletter to see what hikes look good this month. Something with cider and pretzels at the finish line might just be nice. Oh, the last weekend of the month Celebrate Recovery starts up in our little burg. I'm excited.

It's all good and a quick coast to Christmas!

sigh-ber studies

2008-09-05T08:36:00.000-07:00

My Microsoft Windows Vista instructor:Got links??

Cape May II

2008-09-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

The scriptures say the heavens declare the glory of God. I think the pictures tell the story.

reunion

2008-09-02T06:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a very, very....very! special reunion. It was one of those things that we got a call to attend the night before the event, and the timing was perfect. We had a free day, the weather was great, the company awesome-what a blessing of God and a beautiful moment in time.

David, Brenda, Heidi, Jake and Helen-there aren't words to say how great it was to see you, talk to you and hug you again after four years (well, I always manage to find them, right??). My past church family, you are always missed. If we don't see each other on Sunday, we seem not to see each other. But when we do it is like no time has passed at all.

A little slice of heaven-that was yesterday. It's gonna be one very large reunion then.

the ocean and the shore

2008-08-30T12:02:00.000-07:00

It is the end of stuff, it is the beginning of stuff (with apologies to Dickens)...Joe, my daughter's beloved high school and private studio art teacher, is shipping off to NYC to pursue a master's degree. Good luck, Joe! That's all he needs-he's got talent to burn. Beck turned 18 today and starts the beginning of a "legal" existence. She also starts college next week, going after a culinary arts career. (She'll be putting her creativity to work with frosting, batter and dough...uh huh...I feel a weight gain coming on!) My baby is fluttering on the edge of the nest. My oldest, Dena, starts back to school after a break for physical and emotional recharge, and continues to chase her dream in the world of fashion design, though it may translate as Kermit and Miss Piggy-she wants to design puppets! It isn't easy being green. But if anyone can chartreuse, she can.

And me...back to school, too, into the cyberworld studies and the office. I will find a creative outlet, but I need to work. I've started a band, or it started itself, so I'm back to performing-a small venue, people who really need worship music in their lives. Very cool. We had our first "in house" practice-literally, in our house, last Thursday, with cats roaming around, doors open and neighbors sitting outside on porches within earshot. Celebrate Recovery starts in our local town after almost a year of trying. I'm praying it is the start of great things for people with broken lives. The end of the dominion of substance abuse in this poor little town.

Brandon got his laundry job and we're looking at the downward slide of his incarceration. Change is in the air. Completion of the old, the start of new things. One starts from the other and takes off, only to become an ending itself in time. But for now, here we go.

home again

2008-08-28T02:05:00.000-07:00

We're back-pictures to follow. I actually stood where the professional pic was taken in the post below. It was a looonnnngggg walk from our efficiency on Beach Ave. to the lighthouse, but a beautiful one. It's amazing how much thinking, walking and praying a body can do when that's all it has to do. I valued the time.

Cape May (yay!)

2008-08-22T05:14:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah...see ya later!!

the true prodigal

2008-08-20T12:27:00.000-07:00

Oftentimes in the prison or in places where I go to share about faith-based recovery, the story of the prodigal son comes to mind or is mentioned, and rarely is there a person who does not know it. It is recorded in more than one Gospel in the context of Jesus talking about the joy all heaven experiences when one sinner repents. It is the subject of countless works of art, the inspiration for stories, books, movies, sermons, in every culture and in every setting of space or time, the story never fails to make an impact. But I've heard it said, and was reminded again when I found this beautiful work of art referenced in another blog, that the true prodigal in the story is the father. The word "prodigal" means wasteful, lavish, unrestrained and indulgent. Is there a better way to describe a character who withholds nothing from a child, not even their freedom to make terrible choices and squander a lifetime of hard-earned inheritance, to leave and then come back and be received with the same loving grace? I love the climax of the story in Luke 15:20, "So he (the son) got up and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was moved with pity and tenderness, and he ran and embraced and kissed him fervently." He saw (because he was looking every day), he ran (because he felt no anger or desire to shame), he embraced and kissed fervently (because his love could never be extinguished). The drawing above is actually called "The Prodigal Daugher". We all are in the place of the child, and God the Father is the one being alluded to in the story.

I had the privilege of sharing this with a young man in a rehab situation who feared his mother especially would never forgive him for the things he'd done in the past. All I know is God imparts a piece of that prodigal heart to every parent and unending grace to keep the door open and a light burning.

square pegs

2008-08-16T13:12:00.000-07:00

I never seem to attract the ordinary in my life. I do not know why this is, and my children share the same quality. The ordinary things of life turn into otherworldly weirdness with astonishing regularity. I tend not to think in normal terms, and this in turn brings about sudden bouts of strangeness that can happen anywhere, and without warning.

I do try to do things that make some sense. I think I do. But I like the surprising, and life always has that potential. My day today included a very nice note from an inmate who has gender switching issues. But he's/she's so sweet and the perfect lady/gentleman. It included a man who now lives with us and who has very interesting linguistic preferences. His life's goal is waste management, but not when it includes magnets (maggots). He got the job he has by presenting a resume with a professional floormat (format). You just never know what is going to come out.

I'm part of a band that just fell together with a singer who is taking voice lessons but can't quite sing, and a guitar player who has trouble transposing and a partially deaf keyboardist too short to keep my chest clear of the keys. But I try. And so that always makes for interesting sounds.

I'm not quite on the road I chose-oh, a very polite judge, and likewise very large, tall and polite desk sargent at the prison this morning...interesting conversations, weird place. They put up with us church ladies and always have something to say.

So the people in my life are the square pegs, those that don't show up in a life less strange. But the strange can be the wonderful, and I like the thought.

Somerset chainsaw non-massacre

2008-08-11T14:49:00.000-07:00

As Brandon described it...we received another letter today, one with a disturbing account of a suicide attempt. Brandon wrote about it this way:

"Interesting couple of days. Spent most of my time reading the David Sedaris book, I paged through it so fast it caught fire.....I wonder sometimes reading his stuff, I should be able to write 2 or 3 books on my jail time alone. If he can make money off of his funny and disturbing experiences, so can I. Just this morning someone tried to commit suicide in the yard by climbing through the razor wire and sawing off his head with it. Imagine one of those manual chainsaws, with the pull-start grips on either end, and trying to cut through your own neck with it. When that didn't work, he looped it around his throat a couple times and tried to hang it up. Just minutes before he asked one of my buds for a light then drilled him for info on concertina wire. I wasn't there, of course. I miss all the action. The best I ever got was Seizure Guy, where we spread a rumor it was caused by the blueberry pancakes. You know, it's been a while since we had them. Anyway, even after Somerset Chainsaw non-massacre was all over they still locked us down and performed an emergency count. My God! An emergency! I know just what to do! Everyone back to the blocks, I'm going to fix this by counting you! 1, 1 inmate! 2, 2 inmates! Ah, ah, ahhhhh! Yep, a Sesame Street Count reference (which we often get). This place can be just as silly. Incredible...."

Really can't add much more.

up on the line and hung out to dry

2008-08-09T11:32:00.000-07:00

We heard from Brandon today that he is in line for a 9-5 job in the prison laundry room. This complex takes outside contracts, so it is actually a paid job-though a small pay-that increases wages over time. He signed up two years ago and it looks like his number finally came up. Sort of reminds me of the final scene in "Beetlejuice". But I guess the prison is not exactly teeming with work opportunities, so he's glad to have something to look forward to.

Bran is trying to work through Kierkegaard. I think prison and possibly being lost on a desert island are two of the few situations where a concentrated read of the philosopher would happen. I get bored so easily there have to be a few choice pearls of great price to be mined from the text to keep me going. Thinking just to think is something I have a very hard time with. But Bran is trying to read through the annotations and translation, as he puts it in a recent letter, "He's a difficult read, there's lots of Latin and Greek, endless translator's notes containing lengthy apologies for his inability to properly translate Danish into English and his apparent unworthiness due to references only someone from Copenhagen would understand, and the total abstract nature of the material itself." Yes and yes.

Bran waxes eloquent on the clean indoor air act that our Gov. "Fast Eddie" Rendell passed that bans indoor smoking in a public place. "No one, not even the Warden, is sure how this effects us considering how smoking is already banned everywhere but outside and in the cells. We even have non-smoking blocks, I-A and both sides of J. Ever since they refused to sell us ashtrays I knew something funny was about to go down. I had no idea my cell was a public place. I was under the impression it was to separate me from the public, not serve as a rest stop bathroom or tourist trap. Tell me I can't smoke in my hut? I can't have an ashtray? Guess what, now the naugahyde seats in the day room are my ashtrays. Hope everybody likes toxic smoke plastic fires. This stupid jail is slipping fast."

Well, the good, the bad and the ugly. And so it is.

four years and counting

2008-08-07T15:51:00.000-07:00

It's strange how we measure time. Certain events come and go and they cause me to stop and look backward. This drawing was done four years ago. It is of a friend of mine who comes and goes from one side of the planet to the other doing missionary work. Like the military, the parent organization that had sponsored my friend and his family would sign them on for four year hitches. They just came back to the states on their "leave" or furlough, and life will be changing for them as well. That might be the last four solid year hitch, I don't know... but the work continues and the travel will go on. While my friend was gone, my son was incarcerated, my older daughter went to college and the baby finished high school. While he was gone life changed for us in so many ways I can scarcely remember the person I was drawing this portrait those years ago.

I do remember the first time we met. He accepted a pastorate in our town in Northeastern PA, and he's from the South. It was strange, but not so, to hear the accent and realize this person from an entirely different culture basically would change my life. Sometimes the people we think we have the least in common with wind up being the ones who make the strongest impression. The lessons I took away from the few short years he was here I've never forgotten. Innovate. Believe beyond what you know. Go to the people-don't wait for them to come to you. Be daring, be courageous. They were. They went to the Balkans in the mid-nineties, which wasn't the safest place in the world to be. The impact this family has had on that region and continues to have is incalculable.

I just remember a big man with a big voice and big ideas for a little town. I don't think he's changed much in that respect, and maybe now I get it.

my girls

2008-08-04T13:36:00.000-07:00

My girls and their new 'do's!

a lamp unto my feet

2008-08-04T02:45:00.001-07:00

I do believe God communicates directly with people, especially those committed to following His paths. I do believe scripture is truth, and so believe the promises therein to those who do believe. My own personal experience with this communication is mainly through the scriptures, but quite often other circumstances or things come together in my life to underscore things that are especially important for me to understand or know at the moment.

My husband and I went to see the new X Files movie on Saturday. I was never a diehard fan of the series, and it simply seemed preferable to Brendan Frasier's offerings or other films showing at our local theater. So I went with few expectations, and given that this was billed as a "stand alone", I thought it would be entertaining without having to know any background of characters or plot. It was called "X Files: I Want to Believe". So I figured, well, somebody needs to be convinced of something. The plot was mushy and a bit disappointing, but certain things stood out clearly to me. My mind has undergone a radical change. One of the main characters in the movie was a pedophile priest who was having visions. So part of the needing to believe was needing to believe that a vile and unclean vessel could be a holy messenger and that God does speak and direct in the world today. Scully and Mulder were back in action more or less, trying to crack the disappearance of an FBI agent and further, going through a crisis of faith each in their own way. Mulder wanted to believe, and Scully was quick to sharpen the axe over the neck of this priest whom she dismissed almost instantly on the basis of his unworthiness in her eyes. I accepted the priest and his visions almost without question because God DOES use the unclean. He uses whatever He will use. Our human vision is typically not 20/20.

At one point the priest tells Scully, "don't give up". It was a random statement without context in the scene and she could not figure out why he said it. She pressed him to explain and he kept telling her he could not. He didn't have the reasons why, he only had the word. We went to church the next morning and our pastor was not the speaker. It was a man from a local ministry, Camp Orchard Hill. His message to us, the congregation was, "don't give up". Give God your best. He used a film clip from the movie "Facing the Giants", a high school football yarn. The scene in the clip was of one player blindfolded, carrying another player on his back, and the coach walking in front of the player screaming out encouragement as this young man crawled on his hands and knees with the other teammate on his back. The coach's point was, if we know what is happening exactly and where we are going, we'll stop short or slack off. If we go on in uncertainty, or with just the kernel of knowledge that we HAVE to without knowing the outcome, we'll go further than we ever dreamed. How does this happen? Even outside of the context of the movie the message was used in lives of two church members and theater-goers.

Becky's bug-out

2008-07-31T06:15:00.000-07:00

Time for some light-hearted blogs...early last Sunday morning I got up and noticed a light on in Becky's room. Now this is unusual for 6 in the morning, and then I heard the tv on. So I went downstairs and there she was on the couch, wide-eyed, watching Ten Things I Hate About You. This also was unusual, so I asked her why she was up. She plunged right in to this story about a huge creature in her bedroom with eyes and claws and things staring out at her from a coffee cup on her mini tv upstairs. I'm thinking, "Mouse?" EEWWWW....I'd be downstairs, too. She said it was a huge bug and she was terrified and took a ziploc bag upstairs to throw over the coffee cup and it fell, and she was afraid it was crawling in her clothes pile and there might be eggs and millions more and she ran out of the house and stepped on a slug in her bare feet. I'm still thinking, "Ok, large bug...well, we do have centipides sometimes...large bug...". And then I remembered-my husband found a dead beetle like four days ago and stuck it on our kitchen table by my book pile to scare me. Since I'm a veteran of bug collecting from middle school and really like them, it didn't phase me. Being I disappointed his hopes, he took the beetle and put it in Beck's room, posed over the lip of a coffee cup so claws and eyes were visible. Well, we both forgot about it because Beck was gone for like three days visiting friends and doing her summer social scene. I was laughing by then, but she still did not entirely see the humor, and then got a spontaneous nose bleed.

So when my husband came downstairs that morning for breakfast there was a present on the table in front of his chair-a tin with a dead beetle in it and a little note that said, "Thanks, Dad, for giving me 6 million heart attacks and a night of no sleep. Love, Becky". And by two drops of blood on the paper she added, "P.S. And a nose bleed from the stress". Another story to add to the annals of Obaza lore that will be exaggerated and added to until it is unrecognizably ridiculous upon numerous retellings. We're just one big happy family. (No one is safe!)

the road home

2008-07-23T13:59:00.000-07:00

I was called in on a dime to go to First Hospital to do a community awareness presentation on what 12 step groups are available in the area for the patients currently "serving time". I actually went in as the sidekick to another woman, who also admitted her second banana status to someone else doing this thing. So we two scared second string players went in to speak to people just brought in and most highly prescription medicated at the time we went (after lunch). I never have any expectations doing this. The people are always who is admitted at the time, never the same group twice though there are repeats occasionally. I don't go in often enough to really notice this. At least in the prison there is a core of women I see all the time-but that is an actual meeting. This is basically a format to share our family's experience with a alcoholic member, a child, and someone who endured hospitalization on a 302 and subsequent incarceration. Try saying that three times fast. Our journey of recovery in a nutshell. Sometimes people are asleep, sometimes so doped they can't think or talk, sometimes really emotional.

This day everyone seemed fairly alert and very talkative. It was a large group. Almost all of the men were alcoholic. In fact nearly the entire group was-some cross addicted to drugs. But many repeats to the system. It became a sharing session that started out full throttle and ended up with several crying men. I don't often see this, but there were several guys in the same situation, in danger of losing spouses and children, and this put them over the edge. One man slung a noose over a tree branch and called 911 before using it. There was nothing magical about the presenters, believe me. We only go in to share the hope that we've found. My partner was extremely humble and approachable. She lived in rehab most of her junior high and high school life and didn't put down alcohol and drugs until she became pregnant. She was clean until that child was killed in a senseless and tragic accident, but this time she found the group I attend. I'll never forget the day she came. Her pain was so evident, her words few but straight to the point. She chose to walk away from bitterness, blame, the self-torture of a guilty parent whose child is now gone under her watch, and be whole again. Hearing what she shared that night made me understand how much we need other people to grasp flailing hands.

And her sharing and simple acknowledgment of those in this group opened the floodgates. At the end one man spoke up and told us this group of people hadn't simply shared their stories and the whys to each other. In twenty minutes healing began to happen. There were people from every faith persuasion and it didn't matter-all had the same need. To be loved unconditionally and helped back on the road to life. I see this over and over and over again. It isn't hard to say-once I was lost, and now I'm found. And this is my story.

sweat equity

2008-07-19T08:36:00.001-07:00

I'm learning that there are many life and faith applications to my gym/personal trainer experience. I'm growing as a leader and teacher by becoming more skillful at using personal experience to drive home a point. I was able to do that in the jail this morning. It turned out that we only had about 20 minutes to meet together. For whatever reason the guard I handed off the list to did not call the ladies out. So my partner and I waited, and waited....and waited. For 40 minutes. Very thankfully this is the first time this has happened-at least to where we waited this long. I was agitated by the time the group started, and we simply had to make the most of what we had. It's situations like these that test my resolve to stay on point.

We were working on the 4th Step, hashing out the beginning thought process. Many things that happened this week challenged me to wonder why some people enter into recovery and seem to immediately respond to everything that its about, and other struggle so much. Is a person who struggles not serious? Or are they, and somehow don't have the capacity to understand or internalize and use the information? It's a very individual process, and I respect that. My example to them was going into the gym for the first time. I'm not ready for the clover fields yet by any stretch but neither am I dewy fresh! Looking around at all the people huffing and puffing, pushing and pulling various metal weight stacks made me think I'm the weakest human being on the planet. And then compared to my trainer, who is an Adonis stand-in, a professional body builder, merely having stand next to him in front of a mirror was rather deflating. He told me the most important thing was, I made it through the door. Next most important thing is, keep coming through the door. So he would patiently stand next to a piece of equipment I was trying out, dink the pin into the 10 pound block, and watch me sweat, watch my arms shake and my face put on something akin to sucking lemons or eating raw eggs. And once again, I felt like the weakest person in the world. But only someone who has been there and done that could truly say, good form, great job, it'll be better next week. The only way to build those muscles I want is to meet with resistance.

In the very same way, the recovery process is meeting our resistance, coming face to face with weaknesses and habits inside, and dinking in the 10 pound pin. I would never berate myself for not lifting 90 pounds my first week. That's ridiculous. Then why beat ourselves into the ground for relapses or finding it difficult to pull character weeks out with root systems the size of an oak tree in our minds? You might not get it on the second or third tug, but by the 100 you know just where to plant your feet and how to pull. And how to use truth to stop other weeds from taking root. It is in meeting that very resistance that makes us strong. A rose strewn path will not do that for us. Of course everyone wants no trouble in life. But trouble in life grows character, hope, faith, strength-if we rise to meet it. If for a while that just means coming through the door and pushing one metal block. The ladies liked my imitation of the funny face. If it helps them remember to be strong, my humiliation is worth it!

channeling david

2008-07-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

I had to bolster my confidence via writer David Sedaris today. He is a master of the single chapter vignette, the magician who turns painfully ordinary lives and events into literary gold. His subject is human frailty on display-not in a cruel way as though he were an uninvolved critic, though cruel is an adjective used to describe the world and its inhabitants, and he is not above pulling back the curtain. Even the worst, most ignorant characters drawn from life somehow come off in a compassionate or at least understandable context, making me exclaim in my mind as I read, "That reminds me of this....our family was just like them...I knew someone like that...oh, yeah, I remember doing the same thing, wore something as utterly stupid, embarrassed myself in an equivalent fashion." He paints himself gray and colors the world around him.

Well, he helped me today when I feel myself going gray in so many ways. I had to make a phone call to our community college to find out how to enroll my daughter...and myself. I did the same in 1993, though under a much more glamorous pretext. I was going to fulfill a dream, to get a degree in the visual arts. And I did, and in ways it was as glamorous as I'd hoped. I'm not sorry. And some people think me every bit the bohemian as the job description suggests, art all over my brilliantly painted walls, an upstairs studio, a resume of shows and awards, life drawing classes, private jobs, everything on my own terms. Well, not exactly. While the creative love of my life will always be a part of that life, I find I crave some structure, medical insurance, a paycheck, a place of employment-a "real" job. Needing food and shelter can truly cramp one's gypsy lifestyle. As can children. Especially in college. I'm sort of tired of trying to prove my worth with every piece of art I produce. I know I don't need to, but really in a way, I do. It's ok. I guess this all really got to me through an acquaintance and colleague in the art world who is an engineer with a steady job, has a beautiful fiance who just became his "mrs." and is his muse and the subject of all his stunning drawings and who has ellipsed me artistically in every possible fashion. I really had to ask myself, "If he can do it, why can't I?" But that isn't the reason I do.

So I'm trying to reach down into the self that has to be content with a learning curve. Shoot, that has to be content, period, with being an aging person not where I'd hoped at this point in life. I went back to the gym for that reason, to establish some order in my unstructured life and revive some sense of empowerment. I can now go into the establishment by myself and look reasonably confident, even among muscle-bound men who leave the weight stacks at 90 pounds and force me to dink the metal pin on ten...and grimace to boot. Or ask them to help me reach a cable that has flown into the stratosphere above the weights. (Nothing worse than dragging a chair over to reach anything-mortifying in a gym in front of picture window size mirrors). Humility is the order of the day. I'm mortal, completely so, thank you David, for reminding me. And that's not a bad thing. I rather like the intimacy of it all, the ridiculous, the still small voices and the vignettes of my unique life. I'm in search of more.

in the name of Love

2008-07-13T04:53:00.000-07:00

One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to com to his home for a meal, so Jesus accepted the invitation and sat down to eat. A certain immoral woman heard he was there and brought a beautiful jar filled with expensive perfume. Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them.

When the Pharisee who was the host saw what was happening and who the woman was, he said to himself, "This proves that Jesus is no prophet. If God had really sent him, he would know what kind of woman is touching him. She's a sinner!"

Then Jesus spoke up and answered his thoughts. "Simon," he said to the Pharisee, "I have something to say to you."

"All right, Teacher," Simon replied, "go ahead."

Then Jesus told him this story: "A man loaned money to two people-five hundred pieces of silver to one and fifty pieces to the other. But neither of them could repay him, so he kindly forgave them both, canceling their debts. Who do you suppose loved him more after that?"

Simon answered, "I suppose the one for whom he canceled the larger debt."

"That's right," Jesus said. Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon,"Look at this woman kneeling here. When I entered your home, you didn't offer me water to wash the dust from my feet, but she has washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You didn't give me a kiss of greeting, but she has kissed by feet again and again from the time I first came in. You neglected the courtesy of olive oil to anoint my head, but she has anointed my feet with rare perfume. I tell you, her sins-and they are many-have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love." Then Jesus said to the woman, "Your sins are forgiven."

The men at the table said among themselves, "Who does this man think he is, going around forgiving sins?"

And Jesus said to the woman, "Your faith has saved you; go in peace."

breaker boys

2008-07-10T05:53:00.000-07:00

This picture was taken in 1911. It is of a group of "breaker boys", children who worked alongside their parents in the coal mines picking out rocks and debris from the smaller chunks of coal on conveyers. These boys are grade school age, and this was really before child labors laws came into effect. They worked long hours at a hard, dirty and dangerous job. Some lost fingers or arms in the course of working with moving machinery. I didn't even know such a job existed until I moved to an area where coal was king in the 19th and early twentieth centuries. The remnants of the company owned society and towns are still visible everywhere in Northeastern Pennsylvania long after the mines shut down. Billy Joel's song, "Allentown", talks about the end of the coal era in this region. Very thankfully this system is no longer in existence.

But my post is in praise of the working person...all the people I know who just get by in a day, doing the right thing, the only thing they feel is worth doing. We tend to look on a person who makes it huge materially as being a "success story". When I look at these boys, who contributed to their families' income long before they should have had to work, I wonder to myself-who really is important? There are so many people whose lives will never be on a front page, in a magazine or up in lights so to speak, but they are the everyday heroes. I am so privileged to know many of them-I just wrote about Mike. For all the Mikes, Davids, Shelleighs, Nancys, Carols, Tillys, Toms, Andys....and on and on and on in so many areas of life-thank you. Thank you for being decent when you don't have to, thank you for going on unnoticed and being a hero to children, parents, the lonely, the disaffected in society-you don't hear it enough. The "success" we have today was built on the sacrifice of generations past, and you are the foundation for future generations.

work out, cont. (for Mike)

2008-07-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

I went to the gym this morning again. My triceps are screaming at me, and I pass myself in the mirrors and realize I'm a little chubby middle aged lady in sneaks and ill-fitting shorts. But it's ok...I need to be there. I jumped on the treadmill as I do first thing, and I'm doing better and better. I may even be running at some point, which I'd love and figured I could no longer do. I finished a 40 minute, 2 plus mile stint on an incline. And then I waited for the trainer, Mike. And waited, and waited. I decided I'd better leave and try to call him, and so went out to my car and he zooms up.

So back in we go to kill my poor triceps again-well, being they're attached to my arms and my arms are attached to my shoulders, which we worked on...Lord, I'm a weakling, even if I don't weight 90 pounds (far from it). He explains why he's late, and in the course of that explanation and other conversation we've had thus far, I realize he's a single father who lives with his mother...and then in further conversation about how he struggles to sleep at night...a 93 year old grandmother with dementia who can't care for herself. Plus he runs his own car finishing and detailing business and is in the gym, of course. He says the gym is his only real recreation. He doesn't go out, and focuses most of his attention on his multi-generational family. Oh, he's adopted and so says family means everything to him.

To see this man standing in the gym you'd never know. And I ask myself, am I here for more than a work out? I will be drawing a portrait of his 2-year-old son, which means I will come to the house and meet the mom and grandmother and see how Mike lives, day in and day out. Surface appearances are so deceiving. He apologizes for the 20th time for being late as I leave the gym and reminds me to bring more of my business cards that he can take to put in area businesses that he deals with. I think he taught me more about strong shoulders today than any exercise I could learn.

work out

2008-07-08T11:23:00.000-07:00

I decided to join a gym two weeks ago, and I can honestly tell you I feel like a different person! Yes, well, it's amazing what a little exercise can do for a person. I have had to start out with a trainer, Mike, whom I have given quite the workout as well, adjusting every last piece of equipment to deal with my vertically-challenged stature. But he's beautiful, and it's rather nice to go into the gym and be around a perfect specimen of manhood and know he's mine for an hour or so. Chuckle.

Well, I could definitely weave this little piece of my life into a larger tale of how important it is to work out every area of life with a perfect example to show the way. I try, but I get the cramps, I complain, I huff and puff over the temptations and struggles, the little things that seem so big for me. But in both cases I DO wind up feeling like a new person, if I stay on the road and keep my eyes on the guy who has all the right moves. I think blondes must have more fun!

Sara, Smile

2008-07-03T11:59:00.000-07:00

Well, I am celebrating! I came home today from picking up Becky at the bus station, and I grabbed the mail on the way in. I saw a large envelope that looked like junk mail, but figured I'd better open it up. The enclosed letter started out, "Dear Susan...Congratulations! Your drawing has been selected..." The drawing above has been chosen to appear in Northlight Books Strokes of Genius 2: Light and Shadow. I'm published!! Yippeee!

say the words

2008-07-01T16:30:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3_MVwM--_I

leap of....

2008-07-01T10:17:00.000-07:00

This lovely piece of sculpture is called "Faith", a clay and volcanic stone mixed media work by artist Jeffrey Mongrain. I know my automatic response, without ever even looking at the title, was to think "leap of faith". And how appropriate it was to receive the Image Journal that published the photographs of Mr. Mongrain's works just before this past weekend. That always seems to happen. A theme builds before a decision or a time of change. My husband and I have been working for months to start a Celebrate Recovery in our home town. It's a small place with big needs. We felt the need for a spiritual 12 step program were so obvious (the nickname for the high school is heroine high) that any potential church or organization approached to sponsor our CR would jump at the chance. That didn't happen. We tried and had to wait. Nothing wrong with that.

My husband approached a pastor of one church in town, and we sort of already resigned ourselves to a que sera, sera response by that point. So it was no surprise that we heard nothing back and even some negative vibes through the grapevine. But he tried again, and unbeknownst to us, a congregation member was also working on this man. She was an inmate I knew, a member of another group we attend, and I had no idea a member of this man's church. Without her input we may never have gotten a shot. We were so busy working to even get a chance, I guess I didn't think what a yes would potentially mean!

So Sunday we went to this church. It so happened a guest pastor was speaking, a missionary, someone we knew and a former pastor to a church we used to attend. We went to shake hands with he and his wife, and shake hands with our potential group home leader. The message was taken from the text of Hebrews 11. The pastor who spoke is from Canada, so when he said "papyrus" Pap-I-rus, it came out, papperuss. Oh well, he asked the question, "who wants to be a God-pleaser?" All hands on deck! Then he said, "who wants to be a risk-taker?" Half the hands escaped to the port bow. But that's what I needed to hear. I want to take this risk, in this place, among these people in my home town, many friends and former congregants-invite in the addicted, the struggling, the weak...He went on to say, having faith is not being blind. Faith sees more clearly than anything the rocks at the bottom of the water, the depth of the fall, the blinding speed and collision that will surely end in great pain as a potential outcome, and then jumps anyway having calculated all.

We start our Celebrate Recovery in the fall, barring disgruntled deacons.

thankful

2008-06-30T08:14:00.001-07:00

Our visit with Brandon went very well. It's the travel time that kills, and Bran was commenting on the people that drive half an hour to get to the prison complaining about gas prices. When I told him I wish we were half an hour away he said fewer visits make it more special. He's growing up, my boy. He looked trim and tanned, lots of yard and less food-which for him is ok. I could finally picture him sitting in the backyard with his dad smoking a cigar and making kielbasi. That's a good thing, I think. I really didn't let myself think too much about the future the first half of his incarceration-just too long to hope. But now, I do. He asked for Kierkegaard when I mentioned books. Also good. I do hope he keeps reading. And his spirits stay strong, as does his health.

three years served

2008-06-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

Just a note-we go to see Brandon this week. This visit is the three year mark. It doesn't seem possible, but that's where we are. These past few weeks Brandon has gotten jury duty notices, employment notices and various junk mail that continually demands the reminder-he doesn't live here, he can't serve, he's incarcerated. Well, we did get one reply back from the Luzerne County Courthouse telling us Bran has an acceptable reason to be excused from his civil duty. That's life here in this house.

Thanks for prayers, past, present and continuing. We need them, he needs them. I so appreciate the friends and partners in this journey. We could not do it without you.

growth spurts

2008-06-25T11:34:00.000-07:00

Probably the most profound relationship we ever experience on this planet for good or not so good is parent to child. The drawing was a mother/daughter commission. The cute little girl in the picture is now a bride to be, and this was her mother's shower gift to her daughter. I was so pleased to be able to make the event and the gift a very special one.

What I've tried to understand within my own life is how to grow into adulthood in my faith. I believe I have a heavenly Father who does watch out for my well-being, helps me to grow if I ask and corrects me, desiring maturity and character development. A loving earthly parent desires the same in a child. I wanted to include what is a familiar prayer I'm sure, written by a confederate Civil War veteran, and I may have written this before, but today it seems especially appropriate:

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve
I was made weak, that I might learn to humbly obey
I asked for health, that I might do great things
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things
I asked for riches, that I might be happy
I was given poverty, that I might be wise
I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God
I asked for all things, that I might enjoy life
I was given life, that I might enjoy all things
I got nothing that I asked for but everything I hoped for
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered
I am, among (wo)men, most richly blessed

I don't consider that I've suffered like the author of the prayer, but the prayer is about changing one's perspective, learning how to be grateful, learning how to see things as God does, not as we in our small earthly shells tend to. I have waited for four years to see a friend and his family again after serving in a foreign country for that time. There is a weekend get-together planned for this Saturday among friends in the area, and we had already chosen this weekend to visit my son. That is the most important thing we could do, but it strikes me that the things I sometimes most want are the things denied. I almost come to expect this. God knows my heart, there will be other opportunities I suppose, but my loyalties and character are constantly tested until there is nary a murmur or complaint. (Well, LOL!!...almost). The things I try to take into my own hands and mold to my will, even for good purpose, seem to turn into a shapeless lump. I have to trust, and I choose to trust a Father who knows me better than I know me and, getting back to the picture, does prepare His children for adulthood.

he ain't heavy....

2008-06-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

"I can sympathize", "I can empathize", "I can relate", "I understand"....all things I've heard in the last few days. All things relate to struggling children or younger family members. All from people who lead good lives, serve God faithfully, are leaders in the church, love well and aren't a waste of oxygen on this planet. All people who because of trying to raise up the next generation have felt the sting of disapproval, lack of understanding or down-right criticism from those who should know better. All the children involved have, or had, addictions, mental health issues or a combination of both. One is dead. One is prodigal. One is trying to maintain among people who can't grasp the notion of acting out because of misfires in the brain. All agree-they understand our situation, have experienced different aspects of it within their own lives.

I can't explain to someone who has not lived it in one aspect or another what the effects of addiction/alcoholism/mental illness are like on an individual and the family that loves that person. It's days of uncertainty, feeling like the person you "knew" or thought you knew is gone forever, wondering what physical/emotion/spiritual cocktail of recovery will work THIS TIME? Gaining hope, having it leak out of your heart like a sinking ship when the next wave of misfortune hits. It's dreading phone calls, any type of law enforcement, doctors, hospitals, feeling like you are continually a second class citizen.

Well, I have hope today. And I have the sympathy/empathy/relating and understanding of dear friends who have been there and are still there. For us.

opposing forces

2008-06-21T08:47:00.000-07:00

I did go to the wake last night. I was praying all the way because I was nervous, I hate these thing, I just couldn't remember Linda's face and I felt so awkward and sad. As soon as I pulled up to the funeral home I recognized her standing outside, pacing back and forth. And thankfully as soon as I stepped out of my car she recognized me and we hugged. My awkwardness began to give way to a feeling of such anger and helplessness. All that was inside that funeral home was a beautiful corpse. What should have been, wasn't. The cycle of addiction and incarceration is so difficult to break once the wheel is turned in that direction.

I went back to the prison this morning after a month's break due to electrical repairs, and I was nervous again. But I was prayed for, as was the group. And as I went in, thoughts of what I saw the night before filled my mind. That is why I am there. Young women should not be dying of overdoses. I want to help prevent any of these girls from becoming a corpse, and that could so easily happen. And the group was powerful-not because of me, but because when love is present, things happen. One young lady just broke down and cried almost the whole time. The need for love, reassurance, help and people to trust in is so very great. It's like pulling two magnets apart to get away from the old life. The fear factor is unbelievable. But after seeing Jessica, I knew I had to be one pair of hands wrapped around those lives to lead them away from death.

misc. letters

2008-06-20T13:02:00.000-07:00

I like getting snail mail letters. I always have. Blogging is fun, e-mail is quick, but I like the old fashioned written word (or typed). I sent out a mailing to volunteers for Providing Hope, and got the sweetest letter back from a pastor who teaches Spanish-speaking classes in the jail. He and his wife invited moi to dinner. I can do that! It was lovely, made me feel so good.

I also got a letter from Brandon. He always has something to share, and so I'll include that now (I'm killing time until I go to the funeral home-still not sure I even can. The mother will be released from jail to attend...previous post.) HEEERRE'SSS Brandon:

"I broke my watch yesterday, stupid thing. I pried the back off to get at the battery and couldn't get it back on. Later in the day it pitched off the locker, 5 1/2 feet to concrete and just exploded. It was pretty fancy for a jail watch, a $30 Timex, just not so hot in the durability department. I'm not going to get another, they sell those gumball machine Casio quartz watches that can survive a nuclear holocaust for only 12 bucks. Seriously, an archeologist will find one at a dig site 10,000 years from now and it will STILL work.

I found a replacement for my good spoon. (He pinched a metal spoon out of the kitchen and I warned him it was probably not a smart idea to have it on his person.) It's identical to the ones they sold on commissary a few years ago, so I can eat in style and in peace. So, you liked my ink ribbon story? Though you would. I only do that because it gives me something to work on and I only need one cartridge at a time. Given the person I am, I would probably refuse to ask for money if I needed it. I'm stubborn and proud like that (LOL)." (He is).

He asked for a Chuck Palahniuk book and told me to check out the latest David Sedaris to see if it's any good.

Well, time's a-wasting and no matter what I do I have to change into decent clothes. Any one of several combinations of events could happen tonight and two of them demand more than jeans and a t-shirt.

why?

2008-06-19T08:39:00.000-07:00

My blog seems to be my therapist. This week I was working pretty much all week for the prison ministry organization I'm a part of, Providing Hope. I agreed to sign on as their administrative assistant-not a hard job, except that I'm more or less "on call" along with doing paperwork, organizing and telephoning. I just got a call from our head male chaplain at the prison. He asked me if I remembered a certain female inmate. Yes, sort of. Well, he tells me, her daughter overdosed. The funeral is tomorrow in our town. The mother may not be able to swing getting there-she's trying, talking to lawyers. If she can't, could you go as a representative for the prison? Of course.

Ok, now I think I need to catch my breath. What a world.

dedicated and cleansed

2008-06-17T07:33:00.001-07:00

I guess I need to come out of the closet and admit something about myself...I am an Old Testament law geek. Not that I read Hebrew or anything as academic as that (though someday I'd like to!). But I do like to study the boring and dry books of the Bible that many people simply dismiss or claim not to really understand. And certainly, not having lived in that day and age or in the Middle East ever, there is much I'm sure I don't understand either. Knowing the culture, the time period, the customs of the day and the mindset of the people helps hugely in putting all that is written into a graspable context.

But the view I always try to take when reading the books of Moses, and I am now in Leviticus, is to simply use the entire text as my lens-in the New Testament the Apostle Paul wrote that the Old Testament was written "for our instruction" and to point to the coming Messiah. So I look at the elaborate code of ethics, the sacrificial substitution for the sins of the people, as being all embodied and fulfilled in Christ. That being said, I ran across a small text that stood out like a jewel to me this morning regarding a sin offering, which was an animal without blemish to be killed by the priest, "The priest who offers it for sin shall eat it; in a sacred place shall it be eaten, in the court or tent of meeting. Whoever or whatever touches its flesh shall be dedicated and made clean..."

The picture I have in my mind of the Lord Jesus is that people touched Him all the time, or He touched them. Once again, according to Old Testament law, if the unclean were to touch the priest or holy man, or anyone for that matter, it required of that person a huge ritual of separation and cleansing. I think of the lepers that Jesus touched, the women with the issue of blood (blood and skin-diseased people were really pariahs in society). But here's my jewel of understanding-according to the OT scripture I read, Jesus identified Himself not as the priest, but the offering for sin, and everyone who touched Him was cleansed. He became the perfect offering for us. I wonder if the crowd who touched Him knew the law and saw this thing! Some had to. And moving forward to the New Testament, the shedding of His blood was once and for all. Jesus was the living example of this OT principle. These things amaze me.

abide these three

2008-06-17T07:33:00.000-07:00

Now abide these three, faith, hope and love;

but the greatest of these is love.

I know it's a trite old story that has made the rounds, but it always gives me a charge of energy when I think of the moral. A boy was walking along the beach throwing a starfish back into the ocean. They covered the sand, and a man noticed what the boy was doing. He told him, "This beach stretches on for miles. How can it possibly make a difference throwing back the starfish when there must be thousands of them?" The boy replied, "It makes a difference to this one".

Ok, at the risk of truly being my jaded self, there is a part of me that thinks about a "Hancock" treatment to this- the boy hits a swimmer when he throws the starfish back. Well, we can't all be faultless superheros. But what we do does make a difference. Only humans have the capacity to make a reasoned decision to do something kind, to start cause and effect in a life, simply by making up our minds to do so. That is powerful stuff. We don't have control of the outcomes necessarily, but but we do have control of our actions and reactions.

I only have to think for a few minutes to come up with a list of people I know personally who have affected my life this way, and whose lives I have affected. Many more I don't know. Certainly there is no measure to what one action causes in a life, the continued ripple effect, but even in this harsh world we call home, isn't it true that one heartache brings about so many means of healing? I suppose the one living person in the world I could point back to and say she caused this ripple effect in my life, is my mother. She wasn't around for long-I was 15 when she died, but I look at myself today and realize so much of what she did shaped me and has caused me in turn to do the same for others. She was a great communicator and encourager. She put her words into action. Our home was warm, safe and secure because she made it so. She rarely ever complained even when there was good reason to. My mind is filled with memories of coming home from school to cookies, special surprises, beautiful table decorations and fun things at special events. We didn't have much money, but somehow she was the magician that made a few dollars turn into a dress, a feast, an art lesson, a new toy. She served the community, and with 5 children to care for, that was no small feat. She was brave in the face of terminal illness, a handicapped child, more challenges than I could ever imagine facing in her short life.

So all you beachcombers of life out there, do not give up! It makes a difference to this one.

the promise we have

2008-06-16T02:50:00.000-07:00

My Jesus, My Savior, Lord there is none like you
All of my days, I want to praise
The wonders of Your mighty love
My comfort, my shelter
Tower of refuge and strength
Let every breath, all that I am
Never cease to worship You

Shout to the Lord all the earth let us sing
Power and majesty, praise to the King
Mountains bow down and the seas will roar
At the sound of Your name
I sing for joy at the work of Your hands
Forever I'll love You, forever I'll stand
Nothing compares to the promise I have in You

Darlene Szchech, Hillsong Music

We sang that song, Shout to the Lord, yesterday, and this morning I was praying, and I was thinking. If there is one thing I hope my life is able to do, it's make clear that we have a remarkable Savior. The world needs one. I think that's pretty obvious. All I could really do this morning was behold that truth and know, His life was unlike any other. The whole idea-God becoming a man? That so incredible I can't even put my mind around it. And what a Man. Someone no one could ever put a handle on, a rope around, set in a box, own, make into anything other than what He Himself claimed to be. He infuriated the religious folk of His day, loved the simple, touched the broken and bloodied, hated injustice but Himself became the One who let Himself be sentenced to serve the time for humans for all time, and gave His life for ours. The most perfect life ever lived, being laid down for the most imperfect.

When I feel like my life just isn't enough, when I feel like I can't do this, I can't make a difference, I just don't have anything good to give, I screw up relationships, can't love-I stand in the shadow of the Perfect One. I can't, but He can through me. When I really, completely understand this, I lose my fear. He was always there, but revealed Himself to me at a time in my life when I had nothing to give in return but my own fears and insecurities. He is always there. That's our promise, the last words He spoke, "For lo I am with you always, even to the end of the age". A hymn writer cried out in song, "Hallelujah, what a Savior!" If I can do the same, nothing else is needed. When life comes over us like a flood, He sets His bow in the sky-His promise to preserve humankind never ends.

In the cross of Christ I glory
Towering o'er the wrecks of time
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round its head sublime

now and then

2008-06-15T01:31:00.001-07:00

A significant person has come back into our lives, Attorney Shelley Centini. Shelley is a beauty in the criminal justice system, young and tough, but a class act. She was a rookie just starting out, assisting the Public Defender who took our son's case, three years ago. She is now an Esquire with a shingle and an office in a pretty classy old mansion in Wilkes-Barre. Circumstances with another child led us back to her legal advice and expertise. But she also asked about Brandon, and has taken the city police to task regarding our seized property which is still not returned. When I called Shelley to retain her services, she immediately offered to cut her fee in half for our family and help Brandon out in any way she could. He has three years remaining before facing a parole board and it's time to think about the end game.

I suppose seeing Shelley tripped the memory wires and reminded me how much time has passed and life has streaked by us since Brandon's arrest. After Rebecca's graduation we spoke to him over the phone, and he keeps commenting as the days go by one after "pretty much the same" other, how much he feels left in the dust. How old. He's not the same person that walked out of our house at three in the morning flanked by the 'coke's finest. But when the metal doors closed, time stopped in certain ways for him. I'm starting to feel it, too, like leaning my head out of a speeding car when he calls. I can't stop it flying by. I can only describe the view and like a postcard sort of say from the bottom of my heart and soul, "Wish you were here". Wish you were here because you ARE missing it. All of it. Visitations are getting fewer and farther between. We don't have time or money.

I don't know how I'm going to feel when Shelley is successful in restoring our property and we sign it off the evidence roster. It's only evidence of something that will never be again. A strand of life and a thread of the past that snapped like a cable and fell away.

my hope is in You

2008-06-12T05:25:00.000-07:00

Christian band Third Day took the words of Psalm 71 and put them to music:

To You Oh Lord, I lift my soul
In You Oh Lord, I place my trust
Do let me be put to shame
Or let my enemies triumph over me

Yesterday was a zinger. Wow. Not many days like that, but that's life and they do seem to be happening more. Phone calls made, phone calls received, phone calls waited upon. Appointments made, appointments done, more appointments needed. Unexpected things. Let's see, it started off with an OB-GYN appointment, my least favorite of the lot, poked and prodded in the nether regions. Not much action there, but lots of waiting and dreading. Ok, hurry home. Gotta draw. We're trying to sell our pool filter and fielding calls from the free PaperShop ad. In the afternoon our Honda goes in for a damage inspection (the graduation deer) and scheduling for repair or totaling out. Not sure what's going to happen. Waiting for the adjuster to tell me. Hurry home, keep calling models for life drawing which starts on, oh, tonight. Answer filter calls.....

My hope is in You
Show me Your way
Guide me in truth
Through all my days

oh, my friend from Arizona DOC is supposed to call for the first time, but wait, my daughter is calling long distance, have to pick up, someone's ringing through, oh well...Let's see, back to my drawing. It's coming out really nice, but the phone's ringing again. My husband, how did the car appointment go, someone's ringing through, oh, the chaplain from Providing Hope, do you have a minute??? Ok, let's check the ministry cell phone which isn't working. Right, back to drawing, and the phone, phone, phone...is your filter still....wait, I can't hear you....you'll have to call my husband. It's five o'clock-dinner, I have to make dinner...

I am oh Lord
Filled with Your love
You are oh God, my salvation
Guard my life and rescue me
My broken spirit shouts, my mended heart cries out

....I forgot to get the filter plug, only a small part but the pool store is closed, hafta get back to my drawing. This isn't working, my husband's calling again, the man's coming for the pool and no plug, where's my daughter-she has to call her sister back. Did my friend call...where's my husband, where's the people who are supposed to come for the filter, it's not even clean, I forgot to take out the trash...I think I'll sit down now and wait!

My hope is in You
Show me Your way
Guide me in truth
Through all my days

Here they come, there they go, remember to close the ad, the car's scheduled for repair, this is a good movie, I need a shower, a call from the prison? Hi, Shannon...ok, talk to you next week. Good night, gotta sleep. Tomorrow's coming...

we made it

2008-06-07T06:51:00.000-07:00

This week was Beck's graduation, and honestly, the events that unfolded were sincerely not how I had imagined things happening, if I imagined them at all. After two no-shows on the graduation stage, I was starting to get more and more nervous as senior week progressed. Monday and Tuesday were rehearsal for the event. Rebecca spray-painted her gown with flourescent green paint polka dots and did the same with the top of her cap, writing "most unique", as her classmates voted her, in electrical tape. Doubt inducer #1. We had a meeting with our attorney on Tuesday regarding Beck's hearing coming up the following week (a whole 'nuther subject to blog about, sigh!!), and what we were to expect. Fear factor #2-the police jumping out of her high school cafeteria for any small infraction (we saw that gum wrapper in the auditorium!). Class pictures on Wednesday-here we go with the gown, lump in my throat, several more gray hairs....Beck wisely borrowed another virgin gown from a friend, but kept her decorated cap. Ok, now we know it's a problem. In between all of this Beck and her sister trying to work out Dena coming to see the event, no matter how crazy the scheme-"you might parachute from a plane and hurry right back to work"(sounds ridiculous, I know, but I don't put ANYTHING past my kids!!) And oh, then, the call at 9:30 am..."mom, I think I won an award-could you come RIGHT NOW to the auditorium..." Actually, I was thrilled (are we done yet?) and "I need a dress for tomorrow".

Well, that's what you expect from children. What you don't is, a teacher making up an award just for your child because there aren't any visual art award categories, giving her a huge build-up because her classmates had no idea how much she's done and hearing them all cheer and scream out her name. Wow, massive lumpiness in the throat region. Her sister's workmates fibbing for Dena to get her off work and on a bus to see the graduation. Ok, maybe a tear now! Watching your "baby" sleeping on the couch, exhausted from all the activity and wondering where the time went-if I could only go back, just for a minute...how blessed, how blessed I am. Hearing her recount the story about daughter and friends blowing up balloons for graduation with a helium tank and singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in chipmunk chorus. These moments have gone by too fast. Watching her parade through the gauntlet of mini American flags in cap, gown and high-heeled sneakers. We may never pass this way again, but what a ride.

Oh, yes, a good time was had by all, except the deer that crushed the driver's side front end of our Honda when I drove Dee back to Philly at one in the morning. It had to end with a bang!

white letter et al

2008-06-05T05:23:00.001-07:00

Got a letter from Bran, some excerpts:

"They've (the kitchen cooks) been on this awful garlic kick like the kitchen's been invaded by Italians (heyyyy, shuddup-a with the shuddup-a! You shuddup-a!) . Everything's loaded with it all of a sudden, making everyone smell more like sweaty nether regions than usual. Ick! Still, pizza inundated with garlic is better than bologna any day, which is what we get during the shake-n-bake (there was a cell shake-down). We were served our "lunch" at 9 am, don't know why, smelling heavily of garlic. Great, they found a way to inject it straight into pre-sliced bologna. It turned out to be pizza, or rather cheese on a broken wheat cracker. Hey there were cookies. Yum!"

"One of the things I needed was typewriter ink, which out of the efforts to save money has become an amusing ritual in itself. The stuff I need comes in packs of 2 and costs $10. Then there's ink for an obsolete model, 1 for $4. One guy who knew his way around a typewriter told me the obsolete ink was virtually identical and could be used in my model as well. He neglected to mention the ink itself was compatible, not the cartridge, so the spool would have to be transplanted into one of my empties. I figured it out for myself, eventually. The Kodak moment came when I began to pry open the case thinking, "Well, this shouldn't be too hard", when it flew open with a comically loud "BOING!" and shot a black streamer half-way across the cell. There are some springs in there with a surprising amount of tension! I got it together with a good deal of effort, it was like holding bare clockwork together and slapping a case on it before it flies apart. I'd say it was worth a buck or two."

He ends it, "Even though it's Friday, I should wrap this up. I suppose I'll be talking to you tomorrow, if that's the case, good talk! They should be collecting commissary sheets Sunday, so I'll order Dad his Father's Day card. My memory's so bad I forgot to order it 10 years in advance. Ah! I should have KNOWN! Ok then, later Mum."

We're three years into his sentence this July. I just met with an attorney who assisted on the initial case and now has her own office. Very thankfully she offered to help us with the return of property seized three years ago, and wonders why Brandon has not contacted her. We need to start getting more proactive in terms of release. So my response to him includes her contact information-I have to keep reminding myself half-time release is not a done deal.

NEXT!

2008-05-31T09:53:00.000-07:00

Well, time to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Hmmm....I'm looking down the converging railroad tracks of my ride into life's sunset. I turn 50 this year-just saying it is like saying, "ok, rigor mortis, here I come!" Chuckle. Not quite that bad, but simultaneously with that event comes my youngest child's high school graduation. In this liberated day and age, the glass ceiling notwithstanding, I still have a good chunk of baby boomer life left and I really don't think that includes cleaning the house every day. I stopped changing diapers a long time ago, and since there don't seem to be any in the immediate future (at least not proceeding from these loins), I need to GET A JOB! Sha-nan-na-na....I did follow the more traditional route of child-rearing, and so haven't really experienced full time employment in....ok, a long time. I've done a lot of things, but it's still like a big bag of puzzle pieces. Or like those metal shaving faces you put together with a magnetic wand. I still have piles of shavings and no clear picture.

It's ok-there's time to figure things out. I do have three children I'm so glad I had time for, a swing back to the college campus in my 30's which I have a great talent to attest to, and now there is yet another bend in the road through prison bars and all that goes with that. I need a magic eight ball or a diner table Genie. No, that got William Shatner wearing silly pants and then doing cheesy commercials. (Twilight Zone indeed!!) I've heard the scripture that talks about all things working for good being like having disparate recipe ingredients that mix into something delicious. I guess. Where's the mixer??????

what might have been

2008-05-29T16:21:00.000-07:00

Somewhere there's another land
Different from the world below
Far more mercifully planned
Than the cruel place we know

Innocence and peace are there
All is good that is desired
Faces there are always fair
Love grows never old nor tired

We shall never find this lovely land of Might Have Been
I will never be your king nor you shall be my queen
Days may and pass and years may pass
And seas may lie between
We shall never find this lovely land of Might Have Been

(The Land of Might Have Been-Ivor Novello)

artists at arms

2008-05-27T13:19:00.000-07:00

The pictures above represent two recent expressions of family artistic endeavor. The top is my left inside forearm, sporting new ink. The interior design is a symbol of my faith, and the outside add-on design represents my children. The roses are my girls, and the number is my son's inmate ID. The picture below my arm is a painting Becky did of her own arm, holding a Rubick's cube. I had to include the chair to the right to demonstrate the scale of this painting which Rebecca won an award for at our local Fine Arts Fiesta. The actual dimensions are 3 1/2 feet by 4 feet.

We're always up to our elbows in something creative!

happy thoughts from hades

2008-05-21T08:02:00.000-07:00

Most prison families in the course of incarceration become acquainted with the WONDER, the HORROR, the PHENOMENON...known as prison greeting cards (AAAAAHHHHHHHhhhhhh....insert an offline female scream....!!!!!) Yes, these overpriced gems of subliterary genius and artistic merit are so unbelievably...well, unbelievable, one could only imagine disgruntled employees of Hallmark being to blame (there must be a lesser known company in the shadow of the famous greeting card giant-Hellmark). I received just such a card from my son for Mother's Day, and I simply had to include images. Ok, the cover is acceptable cheap greeting card stock, though I can't imagine who else it would be for except "You". I did have a little trouble deciphering what was around the flowers. Still, you get the idea.

Ok, now proceed to the inside sentiment, "Telling you today what's true through the year-----
you're very special". Now this just can't leave my son's hands without embellishment, which cannot be read by looking at the images. Here we go, "Telling you today what's true through the year-----(where original writer died, mid-sentiment....), you're very special (...the hasty, feeble recovery by a lesser man, Monty Python-style voice over). And then Brandon adds, "What, is that supposed to a haiku? That's aweful, so bad in fact I felt 'awful' deserved an 'e' to add emphasis! Let's not order any more greeting cards from New Zealand, 'tis a silly and unimaginative place." The reason for the last line is because this little beauty was printed in New Zealand.

I have several other cards from male inmates that I treasure simply because they are my friends and because I know if these guys were on the outside they would die rather than send the pap the commissary seems wont to stock-price most certainly being a factor. But send them they do, and I do appreciate it. What might be one person's trash is another's treasure as the old saying goes. Love you, Bran. And your matchless wit.

one day at a time......

2008-05-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

The past two days have really been interesting and encouraging to me personally. I can never predict how a day will go-I don't have a 9-5, though I am busy and work, but how the pieces of life will arrange themselves on a given day I never can tell. Let's see-actually, Thursday afternoon I had an adventure. I have wanted to get the tattoo on my left arm added to, and thought, and though about it, until finally I called a shop and went to see the artist in charge. It took me a detour, two toll roads and an hour to get there, but I found it. I want to have symbols for my children added to the Alpha/Omega symbol for my faith. The shop was a little scary, as was the owner, but something told me, trust this man and do this. I don't know-maybe it's silly, but when it's a gut reaction, I usually do. So next Wednesday I get my ink. His work is amazing. And decently priced.

That evening my daughter and I went to our Fine Arts Fiesta-she got two awards for her work, which was enough in itself!! I was so excited, and so proud. Well, no sooner did we get there and peruse the art tents than I heard my name. A friend of mine was giving my art info to a couple looking for a portrait artist. They needed a job done for Sunday...well, since I'm the portrait ninja I took it! They told me later it was like a miracle-they found parking immediately and me, too! Chuckle.

The following day I was set to go to a "tea" for a maternity home opening, for young ladies needing shelter, which pretty much translates women out of rehab and prison, and one of my 12 steppers was there. She looked radiant. But before going there, I did the portrait job and ran to get it shrink-wrapped so I could give it to my clients after the tea. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to see this young gal doing so well and in the "arms" of people who just want to help. There were county commissioners in attendance, state reps, religious leaders and volunteers of all stripes, connecting the dots of need with assistance. This is so exciting!!

My clients loved the piece, and on I went to a Celebrate Recovery meeting. It was great to be with my recoverying "homies", do music and share in group with them. Without these dear people in my life I do not know what I'd do. There are always tears of relief, gratefulness and thanks for each other and the love, prayers and concern for each other. I thought of the past hours of my life, how many conversations, situations and places I went that I would not have had I not had the confidence I do now, thanks to God and my friends.

And finally this morning...meeting with my "girls". I always pray for open doors, and we got them, literally. I had to go up on the block to be with them because our usual room was being taken by a magistrate. Two women came down, and there was some mix-up about the list, so the COs in charge offered to let me go up, and I have no block clearance. I did, and we all just sat on the cement floor outside the cells and had our time. I love those ladies and the time I spend with them.

I guess this is a slice of Sue's life, and I'm grateful for it!

inside out

2008-05-15T04:57:00.000-07:00

I have forgotten over time how being a prison mom has changed my life and what happened to get me here. Sometimes it takes seeing how other people I care about are potentially affected in their own lives, tangled up with a child, a relative, a spouse, lover or friend inside. The world I lived in suddenly became a really dangerous and unpredictable place. I think of the premise of the movie Poltergeist, how insulation of suburbia is an illusion. It could potentially be the gateway to hell. My home, which I worked very hard to make a safe place, suddenly harbored criminal intent and activity, whether that was truth or not. Brandon wrote in his latest letter to me asking about his personal possession still at home, "I also had a Ronson Superlighter given exclusively to Korean War vets. Sucks that the cops would take my little curios. Shouldn't bother me, but it does". That zoomed me back in time to the day I watched people I did not know go meticulously through my son's possessions and take stuff, and there was nothing I could do about it. They just took.

At that time I never knew what the next phone call was going to be, what I should say, what I should do, who to ask, who knew, what was wisdom-I was terrified in my ignorance and supposed cocoon of safety. Months of that pressure began to work it's effect. Emotionally I was coming unglued. I needed to find help. I think I went through the stages of grieving without putting a name to it all. But I needed shoring up, and I needed to learn to trust with greater strength and energy than I ever had needed to in the past. The safety net was there-I just had to be willing to fall, and I clung to everything I thought I had with all my strength until there was no more.

I still feel mistrustful of authority, still look over my shoulder a little and am extra careful and cautious in ways I wouldn't have been before. There is an innocence lost. Most of my son's possessions either found their way to a garbage can, are rotting in the local police station or I think were sold, at the least the really valuable stuff. It's only stuff, but like Bran said, it still bothers me. At the time it devastated me. My life isn't the same, and my heart is on my shirt for those who have suffered and are suffering as we have.

correction officer's appreciation day

2008-05-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

This was the official poster inviting COs and prison employees to a special day just for them sponsored by the prison ministry I work with, Providing Hope. I am the ministry's administrative assistant, which I think is just a fancy term for someone who does odd jobs and busy work. That's fine. I have fun when I can, and I had fun with this. Honestly, I know anyone who has a loved one incarcerated, is incarcerated, works in the prison system, has to deal with it...knows that it isn't a pleasant business. The people who call themselves DOC or in this case, LCCF, employees, can be just as brutal as their surroundings, or add such grace to them, and every shade of grey in between those walls. At Providing Hope, we depend on these employees to work with us, and we in turn desire to help them, not make their job harder, and so we don't judge them, just try to give them every reason to let us do what we can.

I was told that when the employees saw this poster up in the prison, it was taken down and pictures were added. That made me laugh! I guess they really loved it. And they certainly loved the cook-out spread that was provided for them. The guys kept coming back for more, taking covered plates back inside, telling their co-workers to come out. It was gratifying. I was the bun lady. I kept laying them out on a tray, and it seemed as soon as I did, they were gone. Friends of the ministry donated delicious salads and desserts. The potato and macaroni salads were to die for, as was this pineapple whippy cake thing. It was a good day all around.

When I went in on Saturday, the CO at the desk was one who came to the picnic, and he could not say enough about it, kept thanking us over and over. Then when we went into group, we had this great female guard who participated with us, smiled and encouraged the women in the group, and really added so much to what we were doing instead of sitting there like she was miles away. The men and women who staff jails and prisons go back day after day to a place devoid of much in the way of "curbside" benefits. It's an ugly place to be. We try to make it less so. Thanks to the staff of LCCF for letting Providing Hope do just that.