Month: November 2018

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Step into the light

Posted on by Susannah Warner

It’s you…

You robber of joy, you stealer of laughter. You’ve taken our peace, that’s what you’re after.

You’ve stolen my love, taken him away again, and replaced his smile, with anger and pain.

You took our hope, you’ve stolen his light, you made him believe that life isn’t worth the fight.

You inject us with strife, what slick lies you weave, you seek to destroy, hoping one of us leaves.

But, oh… once again, you’ve overplayed your hand! Through the havoc you wreak I understand…

That’s it’s you…the accuser, the liar, the thief; not my husband, not our lives, it’s not even me.

For those who’ve felt the crush of bipolar, and for the loved ones still standing when the heaviness takes over,

only you can know, how isolating it feels, when the blanket of oppression so stealthily steals.

But, take heart my love, and for all those who suffer, you will stand again, and fight the blackness that hovers.

For it IS a battle, we who fight illness know, how tenacious it is,  it doesn’t easily go.

Yet, the Light is coming, hold on a little more…See? here He comes, through the open door.

He bares our weariness, heartbreak and stress, beckons us to Him, so we may finally rest.

So, don’t worry, my sweet, it will be alright, take my hand and together, we’ll step into the Light.

 
The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.
Matthew 4:16

 

 

 

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The Things We Keep

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I had a burst of energy that sunny, November morning. It was Saturday, at 7 am, and a few restorative sips of coffee under my belt found me knee-deep in old boots, coats, and sports equipment as I had ambitiously decided to tackle my entryway closet.  I spent an hour purging it of many of the things that I had binged on through the years and the “give-away” pile was growing; not nearly as quickly as the “keep” pile, but I was pretty satisfied with myself, and my progress, until I found an old pillowcase, shoved way in the back. Inside, were the vestiges of my life, and my little families life, and the physical reminders of them that I’d chosen to keep.

I remembered then, that I’d thrown it in there many years ago, after a strikingly similar botched organizational attempt left me so sick of sorting through everything that I thrown the whole mess in to deal with later. Well, later had come…albeit many years later. Except this time, I finished my task and was quite pleased with my efforts as I sat down, and sipping my now cooled coffee, sorted through that old pillowcase (why I had used a pillowcase, I really can’t say) full of things from the back of the closet. Most were school papers from the kids, things that I found impossible to toss then, and difficult to throw away even now, although at least half of the drawings didn’t have a name and only by subject matter, or personal style could I identify the artist; intricate perfectionist drawings half-finished by our son, slapdash but completed works of art by our daughter.

Amongst the schoolwork and report cards decades of years old, I found crumbling baby teeth, the “tooth fairy” was unwilling to part with, locks of baby hair, that I guessed to be our daughters because it was not blonde like our sons, miniature arm bands, worn by our babies in the hospital and even, to my great chagrin, two, + pregnancy test sticks. Clearly, I am a person with a heaping helping of sentimentality, who is prone to tidal waves of nostalgia. My husband, is not so much, and calls me a packrat. However, he has a romantic streak, which this pragmatic girl does not, as evidenced by multiple little cards that come with flowers in the pile sent to me, by him, many of which expressed a remorseful, apologetic tone, while still others, gushing declarations of affection. There were also several love letters, one of which was in an envelope with a return address of “heartbreak hotel” at “I miss you, USA, ” with a “county jail” stamp emblazoned across the front. What can I say? A long marriage is full of ups and downs.

They were all things, that for one reason or another, I’d chosen to keep. Things that although I’d felt were important enough to store for almost three decades, I had not looked at, or thought of in many, many years. They were tangible reminders of the feelings they had once evoked, and I must have felt that if I threw them away, I’d be throwing away the emotion itself.

When I was younger, I was foolish enough to believe that the best things in life came in packages, things that could be wrapped up, with a bow on top. I thought happiness was tied up that way. After all, things are tangible and can be enjoyed for a long time as opposed to experiences and ideas, which were either too fleeting and expensive, or too abstract for this practical girl to embrace. What I didn’t know then, was that objects lose their luster as we become used to having them, and so we crave more. The shininess wears off, revealing cheap plastic underneath, which we toss away with one hand while reaching out for something new with the other.

As I’ve grown older and a little wiser, I have come to realize that the abstracts in life are truly what we desire. Love, joy, faith, hope, loyalty, friendship, family, and memories…not one of these things can be bought, but all are trully precious. These things did not have as much value when I was younger, many of them were not thought of at all, but as wisdom increases, many of us realize that we’ve taken for granted many priceless possessions. The expectation of our youth gives way to the gratefulness of old age for the intangible things. Things that we have discovered, are all that matter, and the only things worth holding on to. We eventually learn the secret to one of life’s mysteries…that the imperceptible gifts of love, joy and friendship we give to each other, come back to us so multiplied, they are nearly palpable.

Sneezing as I looked at each photo, read every card, and fondled the broken teeth, I contemplated throwing it all in the trash, but I knew that I couldn’t do it. Stuffing everything back into the pillowcase, I wedged it all back in the corner of the closet, knowing full well that someday my children would come across these things after my death, or when they moved me into a nursing home, and wonder why in the world I’d decided to keep such ridiculous reminders of the past. But, I’m pretty sure they will know too, of the things we keep.

 

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The Miracle

Posted on by Susannah Warner

My husband has smoked cigarettes for 42 years. He started when he was 11 years old, after he spotted his older brother smoking in the woods with his friends. So, to ensure that he wouldn’t rat them out, they made him smoke too. This isn’t to say that he wouldn’t have smoked anyway.  I’m quite sure that he would have, given the pack of ruffians he hung out with when he was growing up, and since a pack cost 35 cents in 1976, they were not hard to come by. His parents eventually found out, and grounded him, but he was not deterred.

I smoked too, for at least 10 years, my favorites were Marlboro lights 100’s in a box. There was nothing like the feeling of zipping the cellophane off a new box and inhaling the sweet smell of tobacco from what looked to be a box of perfect, white chalk sticks. I enjoyed the social side of smoking, and I’m pretty sure we were both smoking when we met at a pit party in 1989.  I continued to smoke, even throughout my first pregnancy (hey! my easy-going OB-GYN said “pfft that’s like smoking nothing” when I tearfully admitted that I still smoked three cigarettes a day), and even while I was in labor (although I’m not proud of this fact, please know that our now 27-year-old daughter has never smoked a day in her life, and has no health problems related to my foolishness). However, 5 years later, when I was pregnant with our son, I was older and wiser (24! LOL!), and felt too guilty to continue, so I quit only to pick it up two weeks after he was born in attempt to lose that baby weight, which I did – seven pounds worth in the first week. When our son was about a year old though, I had a patient about my age, who was on birth control like I was, who also smoked, and had had a stroke so severe that she could not pick up her own baby. The similarities were striking and scared me into quitting the very next day. It’s been 20 years since then, and although I still dream about smoking occasionally, and have often joked that I plan to return to it when I’m 80, I’m actually pretty sure that I won’t ever smoke again.

My husband, although proud of me for quitting, did not stop. He continued to smoke even after he went to college for physical therapy, and worked with patients who were dying of cancer and those whose activity was so limited by lung disease, that not only could they not walk due to breathlessness, but eventually even eating took their breath away. As a caregiver, it is such a helpless feeling to watch someone struggle to breathe; I can’t even imagine what it feels like for a family member to watch their once vibrant loved one become a shell. I didn’t want to see my nature loving, exercise obsessed, gotta-move, husband become like that, and I told him so, but still he smoked.

It’s not like he didn’t try to quit. Over the years he had many periods in his life that he did not smoke for days, and sometimes weeks, due to unfortunate incarcerations, or self-imposed week-long Appalachian trail hikes, meant to get him over the hump, literally and figuratively. He also tried the gum, patches, and even hypnosis, but nothing worked for him. Each time he came home, he was so restless, and so terribly irritable that he couldn’t stand himself, and I couldn’t stand him either. I once told him to leave the house and not come back until he had smoked because I couldn’t stand his crankiness one more minute.

As the years went by, he became very self-conscious about smoking. It had not been socially acceptable for many years, the era of the rugged Marlboro man long gone, replaced with the trappings of poverty and weakness. It became a very heavy burden; always looking for a place to smoke when out in public, remembering a lighter, trying to cover up the smell, not to mention the cost! He started to despise it so much, that he always tried to hide it from our granddaughter, and he obsessively washed his hands after he’d been outside (he hadn’t smoked in our house since 1990), and he was constantly asking me to wash his jacket because he didn’t like the smell.

Enter our granddaughter Bean. She and I have prayed for him to quit smoking for at least half of her six years. I’ve talked about the power of Bean’s prayers before; the red balloon, the boyfriend…but this request put our faith to the test. Half of your life, is a long time to pray for something, but she didn’t give up. The night he stopped, was no different. I had picked Bean up from school, taken her to dance class, and I was putting her to bed, while waiting for her mom to come home from work. Bean started with “Dear Lord,” then added in her little girl concerns and ended with…”and please help my Papa quit smoking! Amen!” I said the same, tucked her in, kissed her, said goodnight, and shutting her door went downstairs, picked up my phone and found this…5206D3DC-F38B-4991-9C39-1A6B69F29568

Now, don’t get me wrong…I absolutely believe in prayer, I believe that God answers all of our prayers, and that he wants the best for us, but this seemed too good to be true! I’d heard testimonies in church of people being “delivered,” but to have this addiction taken from him so effortlessly seemed too much to hope for. We were both a little afraid that talking about it would “jinx” it, so we moved on to other topics from there. I also didn’t want to pressure him, and make him feel badly if another attempt was unsuccessful, because every effort he’d made didn’t work, and every time he’d tried, he’d limped back to that controlling old lover with his tail between bis legs.

We didn’t say too much about it when I got home that night either, but the next day, I was dying to know what happened in the morning, as this was the time of day he needed to smoke the most. So, I waited awhile, but at break time at work, I could stand the suspense no longer and texted this…03CA8FBC-E108-4450-826A-79C13EDB2F5F

“It can’t be this easy,” he said, but it was. He was not irritable, he didn’t have to chew the terrible tasting gum, wear the patches that gave him panic attacks, or distract himself from nicotine cravings with candy. It was as if he’d never smoked at all…No cough as the previously paralyzed cilia in his lungs woke up and started to sweep out the debris, and his sense of smell, something he didn’t know was crippled, returned. The concerns he’d had initially about filling his time, dissipated. It was all so easy because God did it.

Reader, you might scoff at this, you certainly have the right to believe whatever you want. You might have been praying for things to change in your life, and it seems as if he does not hear you. But, let me tell you, He does. My husband was addicted to cigarettes for 42 years; it controlled his life and mine. He tried so many times to quit, but he could not do it on his own, at least not without an immense amount of suffering on his part, and on mine! It took some time; Bean and I prayed about this for years, and I know he’d also been praying about it for a long time, but if it had happened sooner, it would not have seemed like the miracle that it truly is.

I want you to know that my husband and I are rational, normal people. We are nothing special, just a regular American couple. We have two children and a granddaughter, we work, go to church occasionally, read our bible way less than we should, and tithe when it is convenient. We swear sometimes, go to bed angry sometimes, and are not always a good example of God’s love. We are Christians, but not what I would consider to be “good Christians,” if there is even such a thing. But, let me tell you something that I know, that I know, that I know…and that is this. It doesn’t matter if we are good; God is good. It is not about our faithfulness; He is faithful. It is not how much we love; He is love, and He loves us. We try our best, and he does the rest. It is just that easy, and it is just that simple…and that is the real miracle.

 

 

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The Golden Arrowhead

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land not too far away, an adorable little boy lived an unhappy life with unhappy parents. He was a sweet little boy, but he was full of energy, he liked to talk a lot, and he loved to see other people laugh, so he was often in trouble for being a class clown, or for being rambunctious although he meant no harm. In fact, he tried very hard to be good so that his parents would be proud of him, but he never felt like he was good enough.

The little boy was very active, and he liked to play outside with his friends, but he was often grounded and not allowed to go out, so he was very surprised when his mother told him that he was going to go to church camp for a whole week. He had heard his friends talk about camp, and it sounded like so much fun that he could hardly wait.

At last the day arrived, and although he was a little bit afraid, because he didn’t know any of the kids he saw playing outside, he bravely carried his little suitcase, and rolled up sleeping bag to the bunk house. Inside, there were other boys settling in for the week, and before he’d finished making up his bunk, he’d already made new friends and no longer felt nervous.

Camp was just like his school friends had said it would be. He ran and swam, played games and had so much fun with his new friends that before he knew it, it was the last day of camp, and that afternoon, his parents would come to pick him up and take him home. He was sad to think that camp was almost over, until lunchtime when one of the teenage counselors stood up, and made an announcement.

He held out a clear plastic box, and inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was a golden arrowhead. The counselor said that there would be a contest to see who could go the whole afternoon without saying a word. The winner would be announced at the closing ceremonies with all the parents present, and he or she could bring the golden arrowhead home. The little boy was so excited. He knew that he could win that arrowhead if he tried really hard, and he just knew his parents would be so proud of him. He could just imagine their faces when his name was announced, and he walked up on stage in front of everyone to collect his prize. He knew just where he would put it in his room, and he imagined taking it to school for show and tell. He was so sure that he could win it, and so eager to start, that he stopped talking even before the contest began.

At last lunch was over, and after a countdown, the contest officially began. Silently, all the children ran outside, a few pushing excitedly past the slower ones. “Hey!!” one of them protested. “OHHH! You’re out!” a counselor shouted, pointing at the talker. The little boy smiled to himself; he knew there was no way that he was going to make that mistake! Outside, the playground was eerily quiet, as all the children tried their best not to talk. But, after a few minutes, more and more children were pointed at by the counselors but still the little boy did not speak. He knew he could win, and he was determined to get that arrowhead.

An hour passed, and at least half of the children were “out.” The ones still in the running for the arrowhead, walked around but did not play for fear that they would speak, but the ones already caught talking had gone on to play kickball, and jump rope, and swing on the swing set. The little boy wandered around, hands in his pockets, thinking to himself that he wished he could play with the others but that it would be worth the wait, to see the look on his parent’s faces, when they saw him win that beautiful arrowhead. Scuffing his feet, he turned towards the swing set, just in time to see a little girl, younger and smaller, fall backwards off a swing, her pigtails covering her face as her head hit the ground.

The little boy ran over to the little girl, and said, “are you ok?” as he helped her to her feet. Crying, she nodded, just as a counselor pointed at the little boy and said, “You’re out!” The boy protested, “but, I was asking her if she was alright!” The counselor, who seemed quite big to the boy at the time, but who was probably no more than 14, was quite sure that the rules were black and white, “doesn’t matter, you still talked!”

The little boy gave up, he knew he would never get the arrowhead, and although he was angry with the councilor, he wasn’t sorry that he’d helped the little girl. He knew even then, that he wouldn’t want the prize if it meant that he couldn’t help someone. The rest of the afternoon passed, and at the closing ceremony, a girl about the little boys age was awarded the arrowhead. Everyone clapped as she proudly went onstage and afterwards, as he and his parents drove away, he saw the little girl’s mom hug her while her dad carried her suitcase and sleeping bag to the car, so that she could hold on to her award.

Years passed, and the little boy grew up. He continued to get into trouble sometimes, and he never really thought that his parents were proud of him, even when he went on to serve his country, or when he was the first person in his family to earn a college degree. The boy married, had children of his own, and eventually his parents passed away. The little boy was a father himself for many years before he remembered the story of the golden arrowhead again, and told his wife. He chuckled remembering how much the little boy wanted the arrowhead, and laughed when he told his wife how the joke was on him for losing the prize at a church camp because he’d tried to help someone. But his wife didn’t laugh, she felt sad for the little boy, who was punished for doing a good deed, and who couldn’t see that he was a such a good person inside, no matter how many times he got in trouble. She was proud of him, but rarely told him so.

Many more years passed, and the wife never forgot the story of the golden arrowhead. She thought to herself many times that she should tell the little boy that she was proud of him, and grateful that he had a merciful, sweet spirit, but she never did. Until one day, the story spilled out of her head, into her fingers and onto her keyboard. She wrote about the little boy because she wanted him to know that she was so proud of him for losing that contest, and that she loved him just the way he was, even though he sometimes talked too much, and was still quite rambunctious. The wife wanted him to know that even at his worst, he was still good, and that together they could live happily ever after.

The end.