We'll make it through this together!

I didn't know if I was going to bring this up again or not.  In some ways, I want to go about my days as if it never happened.  I don't really like talking about it because then my mind goes to dark places.  And I get into an emotional funk.  (You'd think I would be comfortable with emotional funks by this point.  I've had so many of them.)  

But in some ways, I have to talk about it (and write about it) because that's how I process it, how I get it out of my system, how I try to support others who are going through hard things too, how I try to turn it around for good in any way I can, and how I search for the silver linings.  

[This is the kind of thing that shows why I write the way I do.  I don't write about pain I know nothing about.  I write about the deep, overwhelming pain I do know, the suffocating pain I live with.  About anxiety and fear and despair and helplessness and hopelessness.  I am struggling through life like many people are.  (And if you're not now, just keep living.)  Things don't always go the way I want them to.  And the "faith journey" has only gotten messier and more chaotic over the years.  Much less polished, "proper," and predictable than I thought it should be, than it was supposed to be.  

And this is why I say that I'm done with "pat answers" and nice-sounding, easily-packaged, simple-to-apply Christian platitudes.  With the ideas of "should" and "supposed to be."  I don't just throw Bible verses at problems anymore and then expect everything to get all better.  I don't just slap a Bible verse on someone else's problems either, making them feel like there must be something wrong with them because they struggle.  Because they keep struggling.  Because they can't just "get it together."  

I wrestle deeply with God.  With faith.  With myself.  And I write about it honestly to help others who are wrestling too, who can't just fix their problems with a stiff upper lip, a pat answer, a brave Christian smile, and a Bible verse.  

And while I used to think being brutally honest with God and wrestling with Him and struggling with faith were improper to do, something to be ashamed of, I don't think so anymore.  I think He'd rather have us wrestle with Him even if means being brutally honest with Him, fighting with Him, doubting Him - as long as we're holding onto Him and staying near to Him - than have us be all quiet, polite, proper, and submissive while our hearts are breaking and we pull back from Him in pain, self-protection, hopelessness, and despair.  

I choose real, raw, and honest wrestling over nice-sounding platitudes and ineffective pat answers.  The painful problems are going to come no matter what, and I'd rather face them from the Lord's side than trying to stand on my own two, unstable feet.]



And so here it goes ...



Very recently, a close family member of mine (not my husband or children) was arrested for the death of someone I knew, and it's been on my mind every day.

In fact, it's been on my mind every day for three years, since I "found out" about it but didn't have any real, solid proof.  (Many of my emotional/faith struggles written about these last three years are partially because of this situation.)  

Because of alarming comments a few people made to me over the years (coupled with my own very-limited, first-hand knowledge of things), I spent some time researching online a few years ago, trying to find out what happened to someone I used to know.   And that's when I found it - what I believed was the biggest piece of the puzzle, answering the question of what happened and who did it.

But I had no proof, no first-hand confession.  And the person who I believe did it was suicidal.  Repeatedly drinking themselves into the hospital, into comas.  Being found in random places, passed out and drunk.  Taking 4 ambulance rides one week, and more hospital visits a couple weeks later.  Having a blood alcohol level once of 375, and then of 400 not too much later.  Bleeding out both ends.  Vomiting toilet-bowls full of blood.  (It's not a pretty picture, people.  Don't drink to run from your problems.  It won't end well.)  Being found passed out in a hotel hallway, with a blood alcohol level of over 500, and with me needing to gather them up from the hospital and put them on a plane to fly them home.  And most recently, having a breath alcohol level that was at "coma/death" level, getting into a car accident, and then trying to flee the scene but passing out on the side of the road instead.  

How could I go forward with what I believe I learned about this person, what I think they did?  If I was wrong, I could destroy their reputation, their family, and their will to live.  (But if I was right, it would explain their suicidal drinking.)

And so for the past three years, I tucked this information into the back of my mind, waiting for them to either confess or for them to kill themselves with their drinking, and then I could risk being wrong by going forward with what I knew.

How do you turn your own mother in for something like this?  When all you have is hearsay and speculation?  

Oh, how hard it was to watch her destroy herself!  Wondering if this is what she's running from, what she's trying to kill herself over.  Not being able to say anything, but thinking that saying something would also be the best thing to do for her sake.  

This is the woman who raised me.  Who I've laughed with over the years.  Who's always been generous with gifts.  Who's always made extravagant holiday dinners, showering her guests with lots of good food.  Who I get my sense of humor and love of Elvis from.  Who's always wanted a close relationship with me - and with other people - but who's always kept everyone an arm's length away, out of fear and self-protection and low self-esteem.  Who was a victim herself - in her childhood and over the years - in so many ways.  A victim even of her own doing.  Whose good side I know.  Whose broken heart I love.

And so I waited and watched, praying for the day that she wouldn't wake up from a drunk coma, that she would slip into eternity to be with the Lord without having to face this, to be free from pain and guilt, even if it meant leaving us here to clean up her mess.

Oh, how I prayed for her death!

That seemed to be the most merciful way.

But that's not what happened.  

And after seeing how many times she should have died - especially the day I went to the hospital when she had the over-500 blood alcohol level (we found four empty bottles of Tito's Vodka, each a liter or more, in her hotel room where, I believe, she went to deliberately drink herself to death) and I saw her there in a flimsy hospital gown, unconscious, with her face all swollen full of vodka, with one eye closed while the other un-seeing, un-focused eye kept opening and closing on its own, until she started to wake up just enough to make these guttural groaning sounds, writhing in the hospital bed, sobbing, in enormous physical and emotional pain but unable to talk or open her eyes - I knew that if she didn't die then, she wasn't ever going to die from her drinking.  

Because God wouldn't let her.  Not until she faced what she's done.

While I always thought I'd end up reporting my suspicions after she died from drinking (I could risk being wrong if she was dead), that's not how things played out.  

And so one day, out of the blue (but not really), a couple of cops showed up at my door, asking me what I knew about this situation.  And I was finally able to pour out all the things I held inside for three years.  I knew this meant turning on my own mother, but I had decided that when this stuff finally came out that I'd be honest, as honest as I could be, even if it meant speaking against my mom.  (And an important reminder:  In our country, it's innocent until proven guilty.)

I would be honest with the little bit of info that I know - for myself, for the Lord, for my brothers, for the person who died, and even for my mom's sake.  Once the truth was out, no good would come from hiding anything, from keeping anything back.  If my mom truly did this but was able to lie her way out of it, she would simply go back to drinking herself to death.  To running from it.  If she really did this, she needs to face up to it, to face justice for it.  That's the only way she can heal, to be forgiven.  That's the only way she can stand before the Lord with a cleaner heart.  To sleep at night without crushing guilt.  To get free from the chains that wrap around us when we live in lies, from the demons we invite into our hearts and lives through disobedience to the Lord.  

I'd rather have her in prison for the rest of her life with a cleaner soul, finding forgiveness, and being able to sleep at night with as much peace as possible, than to have her out in the world, running from the guilt, punishing herself, drinking herself into comas until she dies.

We can't run from the truth forever.  It needs to be faced, to be dealt with and admitted.  And it would be far better for us to deal with it here on earth ... before we find ourselves standing before the Lord face-to-face, having to deal with it in front of Him, having to give an answer for the things we've hidden and lied about over the years.  That's the only way.  

We may think we are fooling everyone else with our lies, but we aren't fooling the Lord or ourselves.  And regardless of what we think we're accomplishing with our lies, they just end up killing us slowly, destroying our relationships with the Lord, with others, with ourselves.  

But the truth ... well ... the truth sets us free.  In so many ways.

And so, hard as it may be, I am facing this situation (and advising my brothers to do the same thing) with one thing in mind: Be honest!

We cannot "protect" our mother.  We are not in control of how this goes, of the path it takes.  As I've told my brothers, "This is out of our hands.  And our only job right now is to be honest."  Whether the truth falls in her favor or against her is not for us to decide.  All we can do is tell the truth.  

And I would add one more thing ... "love her."  That's the other main focus of mine.  She's still my mother.  And my heart breaks for her.  And I still love her.  (Most of my brothers have stopped talking to her because of her drinking.  And I don't blame them.  I understand.)  I still love her and will support her in whatever way I can.  I have compassion on her, to a degree, because of the traumatic past she's had, the things that have made her who she is.  I hurt for her.

But right now, loving her means telling the truth, however it plays out.

[And making "tell the truth" my primary focus will help protect me from being jerked back and forth by the multitude of voices out there pulling me in different directions.  It really sucks, feeling like I'm in the middle of everyone - like how it was back when my mom and step-dad #2 were divorcing, and I was being pulled in all different directions by people.  Of course, you stay in it as long as necessary, when duty calls, doing your best in a really difficult situation.  That's just life, a part of being mature, faithful, and living with integrity.  Doing the hard things that need to be done.  But when your duty is done, at some point, you have to stop caring about other people's feelings, and you have to bow out, put up those boundaries, and refuse to be dragged back into it all.  Putting it all in the Lord's hands.

And in this current situation, if I put "protecting people's feelings" above "telling the truth" ... it's going to break me, pulling me apart with fear of hurting people and letting people down.  And honestly, no matter what I do or say, it's going to hurt someone and cause someone trouble.  That's just the way it is when you're in between a rock and a hard place.  But I strongly believe that God is on the side of truth, and so that's the side I want to be on.  That I need to be on, if I want to stay close to Him.  And it's not up to me if the truth is for her or against her.  It's just my job to stand on the side of truth, and let the chips fall where they may.  (And to be there for my brothers.  We need to stand together.)  God help me and my brothers, help her, and help everyone else involved in this investigation!  God help us all.]    



Unfortunately, as unfair as life is, we - her family and friends - are the ones who have to deal with the pain of all this.  Who have to pick up the broken pieces and try to put them back together again.  Who have to struggle with the memories.  With the "should haves" and "what ifs."  With the fear of wondering who knows about it, what they think of us, who we'll bump into today, who doesn't know but will ask us how our mom's doing (she knows A LOT of people), etc.  With fear for our own families, of how this will affect our kids and their friendships and their futures.  With the fear of getting death threats and hate mail, as my brothers and a few friends of my mom have gotten through social media.  (When we first heard about the death threats, my husband started calling me every day from work at lunchtime to check on me, to make sure I was okay, physically and emotionally.  And now, years later, he still calls every day at lunch just to check in and say hi.😊) 

We are the ones who have to try to find the "new normal."  Who have to absorb this blow and carry on with life.  Who lost our mother (and father) over this.  Who have to move forward with this horrible stain on our lives and reputations.  

Despite the fact that we kids turned on our own mother and helped bring her to justice, people online were terrible, mean, hated us, and wanted our heads to roll too, accusing us of knowing what happened but covering it up, of being a part of it all.  Which isn't true.  And the initial police report that aired didn't help - bad, over-exaggerated, incorrect reporting which, probably unintentionally, made it appear that we kids would have known what was going on all the time and hid it.  But we didn't know.  Yes, we all had our own small pieces of the puzzle, gathered over years (which, when the news condenses it all into one paragraph, makes it seem like all of us kids knew everything all the time), but none of us knew enough for any of us to truly know what was going on or how it ended.  And none of us really knew what the others knew, so we couldn't put all the pieces together into one story.  And we were all lied to by our mother about what really happened.  

[And on top of that, my brothers were just kids at the time, scared kids, who couldn't have done anything anyway.  (Shame on all you online commenters who vilified them, who blamed them!  Shame on you!)  And while I was an adult at the time (and so I can understand people criticizing me, thinking I could have done something about it), I had been out of the house for years by that point, living 45 minutes away, rarely visiting, and was unaware of how bad things had gotten.  My step-father at the time is the one who should have known what was going on and who could have done something about it, but he apparently stuck his head in the sand, choosing to stay away from the house, from the drama, as much as possible, to remain ignorant of what was going on and how bad things had gotten.]  

But once the bad news reporting is out there, once people share their unfounded accusations and make up their minds about you based on unclear details that haven't even gone to trial yet, once your character and reputation have been destroyed, there's no fixing it or getting your good name back again.  (I sent the cops a letter after their bad news reporting, asking them to maybe, someday, when the time is right, stand up for us and help clear our names.  After all, we turned on our own mother to help them.  I thought maybe someday, once the trial ended, the chief could have thanked us on the news for being so helpful, showing the public how willingly we complied.  But that day never happened.  He got up on camera and thanked all the people in his police department who worked on this case for years to bring it to justice and all the people in his city who supported them.  But not a word about us kids, the ones who helped the most, who gave up the most, and who paid the heaviest price.  Oh well.  Life goes on.)  

I was actually terrified for weeks - "sick to my stomach all day, throwing up" kind of terrified - that the cops would arrest me too, just to satisfy the social media commenters who were out for blood, just to make a bigger spectacle out of it than it already was.  I had been doing fine, feeling like people would appreciate the help we were giving the cops, until I saw the comments from stupid people online.  I really shouldn't have read the comments.  It freaked me out enough to think that the cops would come after me too, just to make the people happy.  

On top of my fear of being arrested, I was also sick to my stomach over the fear of having to swear on the Bible when it comes time to go to court.  Are Christians supposed to "swear to God"?  Isn't there a verse about not taking oaths, about letting your yes be yes and your no be no?  Will that bring His judgment on me, even though I have to do it according to legal procedures?  I was terrified of this, along with everything else.

Thank God that He revealed two verses to me that helped me with the fear of being arrested and of "swearing" on the Bible.  

In my normal Bible reading one morning, I ran across the a verse in the Old Testament about how if the Israelites took an oath, they had to do it in God's name, not in anything else.  Thank You, Lord, for revealing that verse to me at the right time!  For letting it be the next verse I read in my regular devotions, out of thousands upon thousands of verses in the Bible!  If I had to go to court and swear on the Bible, I could do it with a clean conscience, not afraid of being punished by God.

And as I prayed and prayed about my fear of being possibly unjustly arrested, as I struggled with thoughts of if I should stop talking to the cops and get a lawyer just in case (although I'd already told them everything I know on their first visit with me, so all getting a lawyer at that point would accomplish would be to make me look like I was hiding something), God strongly reminded me of the verse about how a house divided against itself cannot stand.  If the cops arrested me - just to please the blood-thirsty masses - then they would be arresting one of their witnesses.  Why would they do that if they had no reason to?  It would be stupid and a detriment to their case.  (Technically, I did not witness any crime, but I will be called to the stand for the prosecution, to share what I know about my mother's relationship with the person who died.)  

That verse comforted me just enough to confirm my beliefs that they wouldn't come after me, that it would be very unwise for me to get a lawyer, that I had no reason to stop talking to the cops because I had nothing to hide.  (But my husband was still freaked out.)  So the best thing I could do was to keep cooperating with the cops, trusting that they would not turn on me later ... and then we had to just wait it out and see what happened, trusting that God would help.  Those were a terribly stressful few weeks.  

(It really didn't help that I once saw a reality TV show where a witness to a crime was once arrested because the cops thought he had something to do with it, because he knew too much and offered too many opinions.  But he was innocent.  And yet he spent 10 years or so in prison before they figured it out.)

A great moral lesson:  Live your life in such a way that if your relative gets arrested for a serious crime and if the cops have to investigate you too, just to be sure, digging through every text you've sent your relative over the years, every letter or gift you mailed them, everything you post online, talking to people who know you to find out what kind of person you are and if you had anything to do with it, listening to the phone calls you have with your relative while they are in jail and reading the letters you send each other ... live your life in such a way that you have nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide!  Thankfully, no matter how deep they dug into my life, I had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide.  At least, not that I know of.  

Anyway, we kids - the people my mom shattered in the wake of her sins - are the ones who have to figure out how to absorb this blow and move on, how to incorporate this horrible event into the story of our lives, how to find the balance between thinking/talking about this when necessary and talking about it when we don't want to and pretending that it's not happening so that we can function normally.  We're the ones who now have to keep our heads down as we walk through the stores.  Who are skipping our company Christmas dinners because we just don't want to be around people.  Who hide in our own homes right now while everything is still so fresh and raw and emotional.  

I'm not looking forward to what's coming up, to the trial.  But whether she's lying or telling the truth, whether she's found guilty or innocent, the damage has been done.  The broken pieces are everywhere.  Things will never be the same again.  And it's taking a lot for us to try to rebuild and to carry on.



But despite the many bad things in this situation, there's been some good to come out of.  My brothers and I have finally been able to talk in ways we never did before, to share our experiences and feelings honestly.  

I, for one, had made a conscious decision long ago to cut my brothers out of my life, to a degree, because of the horribly toxic divorce between my mom and their dad.  I had been pulled into the middle of it so often (being the oldest child) that I needed to have the strongest boundaries put up between me and them.  Between me and her.  And this meant cutting my brothers out of my life because they still lived at home and were dependent on her.  Opening the door to them would be opening the door to her.  And I couldn't be anywhere near that chaos.  (After the divorce, her and I had a pleasant relationship, as good as it could be.  But it's always been ... complicated.)

Abandoning my brothers, leaving them alone in that dysfunction and chaos when they were still so young, has left me with guilt.  And it totally robbed us of the kind of relationship we could have had.  But I had my own young children to worry about.  At one point during their horrible divorce, when my mother called me repeatedly every 5 minutes, sobbing and frantic, I could barely function as a mother for my own kids.  The stress of being pulled into her toxic world was too much.  I was losing my mind to a nervous breakdown.  And I showed up at my husband's work in tears, begging him to take me and our kids to my grandparents' house hours away, just to get away from her.  And that's what we did.  We ran home, and I had him unplug the phone and answering machine before I went inside so I wouldn't get her calls, and we grabbed a few things and jumped right in the car and drove hours away to another state.  And I could finally breathe again.  [Unfortunately, that night, I did get a call that she was arrested for breaking a restraining order that my step-father had against her.  And that broke my heart, to picture her alone and scared in jail.  But at least I was hours away from it all.  And I have kinda lived that way ever since when it came to her.  Detached.  Distant.  Uninvolved.  For my own sanity and the sake of my family.]

Anyway, the good that has come out of this is that we are finally able to talk about some of the things we never talked about before.  (Not only with my brothers, but with other family members and with old friends of my mom who have sought me out to talk about all that's going on.)  I've always been so very guarded in what I said to everyone so that things wouldn't get back to her.  Always cautious about how she might take something or what trouble it might start or how it could be used against me.  [She's not a terrible person or anything.  She has a very good, generous, loving side.  It's just that she's a very broken, unstable person (who apparently did something bad, even if she didn't mean to, and has been running from it ever since).  And for my own sanity, it's best to "not poke the bear."  To not say anything that might start anything.]

But now I can talk.  With my brothers and other relatives and even my mother's friends.  I can be more honest (yet still cautious) than I've ever been before.  And in this, we can encourage each other.  We can talk about the things in our pasts that made us who we are, getting support for the wounds that hurt us.  We understand each other now.  

And that's been good.  Hard, but good.

I know that we are all going through a lot of pain right now.  And anxiety.  Just trying to carry on with our days.  And so I pray for us all.  Because that's all I can really do.  To place us all in the Lord's hands in prayer, asking Him to guide us, care for us, protect us, keep us sane.  And I trust Him to work something good out of the bad, even if it's not how we wanted things to go.

"And we know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love him ..."  (Romans 8:28)  

[On top of this issue, one of my brothers lost his wife last year, and now he has 3 kids under 6 years old to raise himself.  Breaks my freakin' heart!  More so even than my mother's arrest.  But at least he lives nearby, and so I can be a part of their lives now, even more than when their mother was alive.  But my heart still breaks every time I see them.  I took my young nephew to the park the other day and watched him laugh and play, and all I could think was "His mother should be here.  She should be enjoying watching him laugh and play.  She's missing out.  He's missing out.  It shouldn't be this way."  Broke my heart!  And, as if all this isn't enough, in the process of this investigation, I just found out my ex-stepdad - the most "dad" I ever had - is in jail for drug trafficking.  And probably will be for a very long time.  And that breaks my heart too.  It's one of the hardest parts of this terrible story.  I cared about him and loved him for the 20 years they were married (but I haven't talked to him in over 14 years).  He was the closest thing I had to a real father.  And it hurts so much to know someone when they are good and decent and happy, and then to watch life destroy them, to watch them destroy themselves, to see how my mother broke him and what she turned him into.  It didn't have to be this way!  Everyone around her, including herself, has been a victim of my mother's pain and brokenness.  The other day, I realized that we could almost make a photo "family tree" out of mugshots - my mother's father who was arrested for robbery and died in jail, my ex-step-dad, and now my mother.  Update: And I just found one for a brother of mine.  Wow!  It just keeps getting more and more "soap opera-ish"!]  

Life just doesn't go the way you think it should, does it?  

Maybe it would be best if we banished "should" from our thinking.  

[Like me thinking that my son "should" have gotten that job that he interviewed for yesterday, 12/17/19, the first one he's ever tried for.  The job that would have been such a good fit for him, something he needed right now.  In fact, it seemed like all the pieces were falling into place.  And we were both getting our hopes up, getting excited about this new potential adventure of his.  But then after the interview came the text: "I'm sorry, but we don't really have any openings for new employees right now."  Another heartbreak!  For me and for him.  I so thought he had it, too.]

But I don't really know how things "should" go anymore.  I have long ago learned that I don't know anything anymore.  Other than that God's got much bigger, stronger hands than I do!  

And I'm okay with that.  I don't need to know how to fix it.  I just need to stay close to the One who can.

[Lord, please bring my son a job that fits him and that would be good for him.  I think he could really use that encouragement right now.  But I don't even know what to think about anything anymore or how things "should" go.  And so I am trusting You to straighten our paths as we walk in faith.  I am trusting that You have good plans for him and his future, even if things don't go the way we think they "should."  

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."  (Jeremiah 29:11)

"Trust in the Lord with all of your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight."  (Proverbs 3:5-6)

I'm leaning on You, Lord.  Because I don't know a darn thing anymore, other than that You are trustworthy and much bigger, wiser, and more capable than I am.  And that's okay with me.  So I'm just going to do my best to rest in You right now and to let You handle the things I can't.  Take my anxiety, my shortcomings, and my uncertainties, and give me Your peace, wisdom, and contentment-in-the-midst-of-pain instead.  I need it!  I need You!  Amen]



Update 12/18/19: This morning, I just sent my mom an email through a special online "jail mail" website.  The first contact I've had with her since her arrest over a month ago.  It was the weirdest thing, something I never thought I'd be doing: emailing my mom in prison.  50 cents for every email you send.  I sat and stared at the blank "page" for awhile, unsure of what to say after all that's happened.  How do you start a letter like that?  What do you say?  And then how strange to think, This will probably be how I communicate with her for the rest of her life.  So bizarre.  I'm not ready for this to be the way things are probably going to be from now on.  But ready or not, here it comes.

New Update: I want to go back to emails!  They just moved her to a new facility, and I can only mail real letters to her there.  No emails.  Emails were easier and cheaper.  You know, it's so strange to think I will probably not ever be able to contact her again the way normal families do.  No visits at our house.  No holiday get-togethers.  No emails.  No texts.  But I guess there is a silver lining: I also won't have to worry about her calling me drunk or worry that she's going to kill herself when no one's looking (not that it's not a possibility in prison) or worry about having to pick her up from a hospital somewhere where they took her after they found her passed out drunk in a hotel hallway.  While it's hard to think that our ability to contact each other will always be different, hindered, and most likely supervised, it is nice to know that I won't be getting any surprise drunk calls from her anymore.  Silver lining!

Note added 3/19/20, 5:30 a.m.:  I had a dream just now that woke me up.  I don't know why I want to write it down, but I do.  In my dream, I was driving, and I ran a red stoplight.  A minute later, a police vehicle pulled around from the other lane to get behind me, and so I knew they saw me run the light, and I waited for them to pull me over.  But they didn't.  They just followed me into a building.  When we were in the building, I tried to act nonchalant, to be unnoticed, but the woman cop asked me and some guy to pull up a chair by her and the man cop.  And they took our picture, acting like it was all casual and like they had no reason for pulling us aside.  But I figured, "This is it, now they'll give me a ticket."  They told the other guy they'd deal with him in a minute, and then they turned to me.  Then the woman very gently said, "We should have danced with you (there must have been some community dance in my dream that we were all at); we're sorry we didn't.  We should have danced with you."

Weird and random, I know - but I knew that they were talking about my mom, that they knew what happened and were trying to express their sympathy.  And in my dream, I could feel my eyes start to sting with tears (as I do now as I type this), and I put my head down and just started sobbing as they both reached out to gently place a hand on my shoulders in support.  And I just cried and cried.  

And as I did, I woke up in real life, my heart pounding, feeling like I was breathing too hard.  

You know, I try so hard to make it through my day without thinking about it too much, but then it haunts my dreams.  (In real life, she's waiting to go to trial and she's gonna fight the charges, which means my brothers and I will have to testify.)  And yet, I can't help thinking about it everyday.  I try not to google the news stories about her (it's a big case around here), but some days I can't help it.  Like I did yesterday.  It's not easy to see your mom in pictures wearing an orange jumpsuit, in handcuffs before a judge.  To see the hopeless expression on her face, knowing that you can't do anything to help her and that you have to testify "against" her, even while you still love her and care about her.  

I was telling a friend the other day that it's gotten harder as time's gone on, after the "excitement" of the initial months wore off.  Because in the beginning, we were doing something active, keeping busy with the investigation, the phone calls from friends and family, the newness of it all.  It was terrible, but at least we were too busy to dwell too long on any one thing.  But now, we're just waiting, lingering in that space between the arrest and the trial, between talking and not talking, between the life that was and the life that will be.  In some ways, it would have been so much easier on us all if she had just died during one of her drinking binges, like I prayed for so many times.  Not that I really wanted her dead, just that it would be so much easier to have closure and an ending.  Not this lingering thing.  But no, she didn't die.  (God wouldn't let her, not until she faced this.)  And now we're all going through this.  My brothers, my kids and husband, my extended family.  It's our cross to bear.  A job we don't want but have to do anyway.  There are times in life when we have to do what we have to do, even when we don't want to do it.  When it's time to Man Up, to put on our Big Kid Pants and do what needs to be done, no matter how we feel about it.  And I guess this is my time.  Anyway, I just wanted to write this down, for myself.  I don't know why.  Just because.

Update, 2022: Earlier this year, I was on the stand for 3 hours at my mother's murder trial, a witness for the prosecution.  It was surreal, walking through the doors, past the jury, taking my seat next to the court reporter, near the judge, facing the prosecution, the defense, the people in the audience, and my mother whom I haven't seen since 2019.  All eyes on me.  All ears waiting to hear what I had to say, to evaluate and parse and record my every word.  Thankfully there was only one reporter from a local paper there, and no cameras were allowed.  

But I had to say hard things against my mom, things I never wanted to say, that I've held inside for years.  I had to watch her cry as they played pieces of my wedding video for the jury.  (So strange to think my wedding video is locked up as evidence in a murder trial.)  I had to see her looking so old and ragged and disheveled, her hair put up in a sloppy half-bun, and all I could think was Why didn't anyone help her brush her hair or look more presentable?!?  Someone help her preserve a little bit of dignity!  I had to find other places to look so that my eyes didn't catch her eyes too many times or for too long.  (It would hurt too much.)  I had to try to ignore the fact that she was sitting right there in the room, 30 feet from me, on "the other side" of the law, listening to everything I was saying about her, so that I could feel free to just tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 

And I had to listen as they played the phone calls that the cops had me make to my mom while I was wearing a wire and they recorded it, where I had to inform her that the cops were asking me questions about an unidentified body they found and were wondering if it could be a girl who used to live with us.  [During those calls, it was so surreal to be reading their questions off of a piece of paper ... while trying to act natural and calm my nerves ... while evaluating everything I said to make sure I didn't say too much or the wrong things ... while trying to listen to my mom's answers and figure out how to respond in a way that would help the case .... while watching the cops watch me from across the table and, at one point, having to read texts that came in from other cops while I was talking to my mom, cops who were listening in on the conversation from the house next to hers where they were staked out, asking me to ask certain questions.  All while knowing this was being recorded for a murder case.  It was like a movie, a really bad movie that I never wanted to have a part in.] 

But I knew I had to tell the truth before God and man, no matter what happened.  I had to do my part for truth and justice.  

I only broke down crying once at the trial, at the very end, when the prosecutor, the Assistant District Attorney, asked me if I still loved my mother: "Yes, I do."  I might not like her very much, but I do love her.  (I understand deeply now how God can still love rebellious sinners and desperately want them to come into the light, the truth, even though they are fighting it.)  I could feel the tears starting to sting my eyes right then.  And then she asked me if being on the stand was difficult for me.  That's when I started sobbing, barely managing to get out "Very much so."  

You know what's really unfair?  The reporter covering the trial started her story about my testimony with this, with the last thing I said in my 3-hour testimony, about me still loving my mother.  And she clearly wrote in such a way to imply that out of love for my mother, I tried to protect her, to shield her from the cops, and that I was reluctant to cooperate with the investigation, that it tore me up inside to do so.  So not fair or true!  I hate the media!  If I refuse to participate in any interviews with them, they shouldn't wonder why!  All they care about is sensationalizing stories, spinning things to sound worse or more dramatic than they are, throwing people under the bus, all to get more viewers and readers.  Oh well.  I'm just gonna live my life and leave room for God's justice.  (The reason I added so many details of what I went through here - and there's many I didn't add - is because I wanted to make sure that I told my story, my way.  And unless I wrote a book, which I don't want to do, this may be the only chance I get to do that.)  

It's a really bizarre feeling to know all of this is recorded somewhere forever.  And who knows what may become of it?  Especially knowing that at least one media source was sniffing around, wanting to possibly do a documentary episode on it.  (I wonder who they'll get to play me. 😒)  And it's a bizarre and helpless feeling to know that people are talking about this, that they have formed opinions about me and my family based on some poorly reported stories, and there's nothing I can do about it, nothing I can do to stop faulty, bad, misinformed judgments about my brothers and me.  I mean, my mother dug her own grave, but she's managed to take a lot of us down with her. 😞  But life goes on, I guess.  We'll just have to make the best out of it, somehow.  We can't always choose the hand life deals us, but we can decide how to play our cards.  

But you know the funniest part of the trial?  When the District Attorney asked me who walked me down the aisle at my wedding, I confidently said it was "my step-father so-and-so."  But then I immediately thought, "Why would she be asking me that?  She saw the video; she should know.  Why does this matter?  Is there something she knows that I don't?  Was it really my step-father so-and-so?  Am I remembering it wrong?  Which dads did I invite to my wedding, #1 and #2?  Was it really dad #3 that walked me down the aisle?  Did I give the wrong answer and now it's going to throw her whole line of questioning off or come back later to bite me in the butt?  Did I just screw up the investigation?  Why did she ask me that?"  All of that took about a half-second to go through my mind.  And then I panicked and added out loud, "Was it really him?  I think it was really him."  No reply from the D.A.  And so I glanced at my husband in the crowd and asked, "It was my step-dad so-and-so, right?"  But he gave no nod or response either.  And so realizing what an idiot I was making of myself - and feeling like I just totally blew my credibility as a witness (I mean, how could the jury trust my memory about any detail of this case when I couldn't even seem to remember who walked me down the aisle at my own wedding?  I mean, I just couldn't, in that moment, seem to conjure up an image in my mind of standing in the back of the church or who was standing by me.  My mind was blank.  And there had to be some big, important reason why the D.A. would ask me that question, right?  It couldn't be as simple as "my step-father so-and-so.") - anyway, so realizing what an idiot I was making of myself, I turned to the jury sitting 15 feet away from me and apologetically said, "Wow!  This is really bad.  I should know this."  And no one said anything.  But when the D.A. went on to the next question, my mind relaxed, it all became clear, and I interrupted her and said "And yes, it was my step-father so-and-so that walked me down the aisle."  I'm so glad I figured that out on my own before they played the wedding video for the jury.  I felt like it gave me back a little credibility.  But I tell you, it's all so surreal and panicky on the stand that you're not even sure you spelled your own name right when they ask you to spell it for the record.

And something else I wasn't expecting was the D.A. asking me "You read the Bible, right?  And you sent a lot of Bible studies to your mom while she was in jail, right?  Why?"  I wasn't prepared for that, and I'm not sure why it came up.  But knowing that I had to choose between either downplaying my faith or confirming my faith, and knowing that I had the floor, that all eyes were on me and that everything I said would be recorded, yet not knowing who might be hostile towards Christians and if it would help or hurt the case, I answered "Yes.  I'm a Christian, and I find things like Bible studies encouraging.  And I sent them to my mom because I knew she'd find them encouraging too.  Plus, I knew she was sharing them with the women on her floor."  

[I sent many Bible studies and pages of Bible verses to her while she was awaiting trial - deep ones, simple ones, ones sharing the way to Christ, some to encourage those going through a hard time, some about getting out of sin and getting right with God, one against Calvinism, one about the End Times, etc.  And to be honest, I started sending them to her not just to encourage her emotionally, but out of hope that it would gently lead her to feel convicted about what she did wrong, to stop lying and start telling the truth, to come clean with God and with others.  (God can reach people when others can't.)  

I had hoped that by standing by her side like I was, she'd feel strong enough to confess and come clean, because she wouldn't have to do it alone.  She'd have my support, even if it meant she had to admit to bad things.  But if she had no one left, if everyone turned away from her, even me, she might feel like there's no point to being honest and confessing anymore - because she'd already lost everything and everyone anyway, so why bother caring anymore?  But if she had someone, if she still had me, and if she knew she'd still have me even if she had to confess to terrible things, maybe it would give her just the support and encouragement she needed to admit the hard truths.  

But that's not what happened. 

And as I saw her dig her heels in and dig herself deeper lies, I realized she would never change.  And so I began sending the Bible studies not for her sake, but for those around her.  I knew she was sharing them with the women on her floor, and I knew the police had to read everything that passed between us.  And so - ha ha! - I had a captive audience!  I had a mission field that fell right into my lap.  I had access - an "in" - to a place many people don't get to visit.  I had a chance - staring me in the face, daring me to take it - to help turn the bad into something good.  If not for my mother, then at least for someone else.  And so not caring anymore if the Bible studies changed her life, I began sending them to her ... but for the other women and the police, praying that God would use them in someone else's life.  

Who knows whatever became of it, if it did any good?  (But I did get a letter from a woman on my mom's floor thanking me for them and for the Bible verses because they don't have much access to many Bible things in the jail.  And my mom did tell me that the women all take turns reading them and passing them around, eager for the next one.)  But it's not for me to know the outcome right now.  It's enough for me to know that I did what I could to be a missionary to those God placed in my path, from the position I found myself in, even if I didn't want to be there.  When I think of all the bad about this whole situation, I at least remember this part.  Because it makes me think that maybe some eternal good might come out of it in the end for someone.  And it makes me smile.  

All we can really do sometimes is just faithfully share God's Word and Truth when the opportunity comes, and then we have to let Him take it from there, letting Him be the One to figure out how to work it into His plans for something good.] 

My best guess is that the D.A. asked me this because she thought the jury knowing I was a Christian would be a good thing, that it might cause them to trust my testimony more.  And I guess it must have helped - at least it didn't hurt - because the jury found her guilty, in less than two hours.  Life in prison without parole.  

[And the craziest part?  My mother made up a huge lie about the victim years ago, to make herself look better and like she herself was the wronged one.  But this lie - which she herself never believed - looked like motive.  And the prosecution successfully argued that it's why she killed the victim.  Incredible.  Ironic.  Live by lies, die by lies.  And for the record, she didn't actually deliver some kind of deliberate blow that killed the victim; it was more like long, slow neglect/mistreatment that led to a death.  I don't believe it was necessarily intentional, that my mother intended to kill this person.  But I believe she let things get out of control, treating this girl worse and worse, without necessarily realizing how bad it was getting.  She got herself in too deeply, and didn't know how to get out.  And before she knew it, this girl died.  But things should have never gotten to the point they did.  Normal people don't let things get to that point.  And for that, my mother is guilty.  It's all on her, whether she intended it or not.]

And now she will spend the rest of her life in prison with no chance of parole, and I'll probably never see her again, and my kids have no more grandmother on either side.  

But I did what I had to do.  The right thing to do is not often the easy, comfortable, convenient thing to do.  But we do it anyway, just because it's right.  

I wonder if she realizes that it was me who eventually helped lead to her arrest.

It was me who put together the various things people told me over the years until I knew something was wrong (I just wasn't sure what yet) and was unable to let it go until I figured it out.  

It was me who then did all my own detective work, sleuthing around online a few times for hours over the years until I found the "evidence" that I believed supported my suspicions.  [The moment of finding the "evidence" was straight out of a movie: I had tried a couple times, for hours, over the years to find what I was looking for, but nothing.  And then, after my current stepfather told me something new (while my mother was spending 5 weeks in a hospital, on the edge of death, because of her drinking), it re-aroused my suspicions, and so I got back online and did hours more research, trying every possible combination of words I could think of, but nothing.  So I turned off my computer in defeat and decided to be done with my suspicions forever because they were clearly wrong.  There never was anything to find, and there never will be.  I was chasing something that didn't exist.  But as I walked away from my computer, when I was about 10 feet away, a date popped into my mind, the last time I remember my mom mentioning this girl.  I hadn't remembered this piece of the puzzle before, and so I had been researching in the two years prior, the last dates I remembered ... until now.  "Why not?" I thought.  "Why not get online and research this date too?"  I fully expected to find nothing, just like always, but I had to check it out or else I'd always be haunted by the thought that I didn't.  And so I turned on my computer, typed in that date along with location I knew of and the words "unidentified body" ... and BOOM! ... the very first picture that popped up on my screen was a new Missing Person's drawing of a girl that I was sure was her (they had dug up the case again after years - it was an old cold-case - and were re-investigating it, thus the new report online that was right there when I needed it, a report that wasn't around years before when I looked the other times).  My jaw hit the ground, my stomach hit the floor, and the bottom fell out of my life.  "Oh crap!" I said.  "That's her."  And I instantly fell into a world of severe anxiety and terror (that I haven't fully climbed out of yet).  I showed it to my husband, but he wasn't as convinced as I was.  He thought I was reading into things too much, making connections that weren't there, that maybe my anxiety attack a month earlier (which had nothing to do with this) had messed up my mind.  And it did, but just not about this.  But because I didn't have anything else to go on but my own suspicions, detective work, and second-hand information, and because I didn't trust myself for sure to think clearly because I knew I had a panic attack and the lingering anxiety it caused, and because my mother might be dying in the hospital (and was quite fragile - and suicidal - for a long time after that too), I didn't know what else to do with what I suspected, with what I found, except wait and watch for more confirmation.  If I reported it but was wrong, it would destroy - and probably kill - my mother.  I couldn't take that chance yet, especially since I knew I couldn't trust my own anxiety-riddled mind at that moment.  And so I watched and listened, waiting for the right moment, knowing it would come someday.]  

It was me who (in the hopes that he would confirm it and report it to the cops, to put me out of the misery I was going through over it, throwing up all the time, unable to stand or get out of bed most days) told my step-father about what I found online (which helped explained to us why my mom had been drinking herself to the point of death lately; she probably found the Missing Person's notice too and was running in terror from her guilt), and then he told someone else who eventually (3 years later) called the cops when they realized there was some real truth in it.

It was me who the cops went to first ("Go to Heather.  She'll help you" said the person who reported it to the cops), and who spent hours with them over 3 different visits (before her arrest), giving them everything they needed to know, from details to pictures to the only remaining item that once belonged to the missing girl.

It was me who (moments before her arrest) - while wearing a bugging device in my ear to record the conversations, as the cops sat across from me at my kitchen table, listening in - called her to tell her that the cops were looking for her and were asking questions about this girl, trying to get her to reveal something, anything, that might help.  

[I will always remember that last upbeat, chipper, carefree "Hi, Heather" when she answered the phone, before I rocked her world with the news.  That was the last "normal" I would know when it came to her.  It made me sad, even as I started asking the questions I was supposed to ask.  You know, I really didn't like being the person to reveal to her that the cops were looking for her, that her past was catching up with her, that everything was going to be different from now on.  I didn't like having to ask her difficult questions about a topic I didn't want to talk about ever, that I deliberately tried to never bring up before.  I didn't like being the person who was gonna destroy her with one phone call, in one fell swoop.  I didn't like being the person the cops relied on to get the job done, feeling like whether they succeeded or failed rested on my shoulders.  I didn't like it.  It was too much pressure, and I was cracking.  In fact, when the cops first pulled out the wire and put it on the table and asked me to wear it while making the phone call, I went into a panic and felt my stomach lurch and stared at it like it was going to jump off the table and bite me or something.  I hadn't seen that coming.  Something like that only happens in the movies.  I felt like I was trapped and pacing the room (it must have been in my head, because I think I was seated the whole time), and I looked away from them, toward the wall, and sat there, heart thumping.  And the cop, seeing the distress I was in, asked me, "Are you okay?"  And I - someone who's always "okay" - emotionally blurted out in a near panic, "No!  No, I'm not okay.  This is bad.  This is really bad!"  She paused for a few moments, and the silence hung heavy in the air, and then I heard her say, in a tiny, distant voice as if from somewhere far away, "You don't have to do this, you know, if you don't want to."  But my mind was already steeling itself for what I had to do.  I took one deep breath, cleared my head, settled my nerves, and said "But something like this is supposed to be bad.  It's not going to be good.  It's not supposed to be good.  So let's do it!"  And I picked up the wire, put it in my ear, and dialed.  "Hi, Heather!"  "Hi, Mom. Um, I've got a question for you ..."]  

And it was in the second recorded phone call that she accidentally (clearly out of panic and being put on the spot) made up one small but critical lie which ended up proving she was guilty.  (She told me the victim contacted her, wanting to come visit, two years after the victim was found dead.  It's hard to dig yourself out of a lie like that.  The interesting part is that the cops themselves almost missed this important piece. It wasn't until they re-listened to the tapes right before the trial that they really heard it and realized what a gift it was to them and their case.)

Etc.  It was me who put it all together, got the ball rolling, pushed that first domino over, and helped put her away for life.  I wonder if she realizes that.  I don't think so.  I don't think she realizes that I'm sure she's guilty, despite her constant denials.  I once told her clearly that I thought she was the only one responsible for this person's death and that she won't convince me otherwise no matter what she says, but I don't think it sunk in.  

Because it's me she keeps contacting when she wants support, because no one else but me will still talk to her.  (I'm not exactly sure what "honor your mother" looks like in a situation like this.  How do I do that now?)  And every time she contacts me, it's to tell me that she's innocent, that the true culprit is some mysterious serial killer who's still on the loose.  (She's trying to get the case overturned.  But I hope she doesn't.  I don't want to go through all that again.)  I'm not sure if she's lying or if she's so convinced herself of her lies that she truly believes them (I briefly considered multiple personality disorder, but I know her too well to believe that's the case), but I can't keep up a relationship like this.  And so I've pulled back as much as I can, sending only a few vague letters now and then and gifts for her birthday, Christmas, and Mother's Day.  And that's it.  I've spent too many years of anxiety and heartache over this, too many years focused on her.  It's time for me to take care of me, to start trying to heal, to get a handle on this anxiety.  Dear God, help me.  

[You know what?  Many people think the worst fear you could have is the fear of dying, but it's not.  I know a worse one: the fear of living.  Feeling sheer terror the moment you wake up and realize you have to live another day.  I've been there, but with God's help I'm getting better.  Slowly.  If you know how I felt because you're there too, hang in there, it will get easier and better.  For me, it took about 6 months before I could smile, 9 months before I could laugh a little, and a year before terror wasn't the first thing I felt when waking up.  Hang in there and take it day by day.  It will get better.  You're going to be okay soon.  One thing that helps me get through each day is to, as soon as I wake up, thank God for another day (even if I don't want to) ... and to repeat Bible verses like these out loud: "This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it" (Psalm 118:24) and "You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world" (1 John 4:4) and "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind" (2 Timothy 1:7, KJV) and "You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You, because he trusts in You" (Isaiah 26:3, NKJV) ... and to pray "Lord, I'm making You a trade right now.  Please take my anxiety and fear - and give me Your peace and joy instead.  I can't do it in my own.  I need You." ... and to say this out loud too, if you feel evil breathing down your neck, trying to drag you down: "In the name of Jesus Christ, I command any demons who are here to leave right now!  I am a child of God and protected by Jesus's blood; you must leave." ... and to (after I've prayed about my concerns and fears) begin praising/thanking God for anything and everything I can think of, no matter how small (worship is not just for God's glory, but for our spiritual protection and benefit) ... etc.  You must lean on God and His Word and His Truths and His strength and Jesus's name as much as you can.  Try it, day by day, and see if it helps.  Hang in there; with God's help, you're going to be okay.]    

I miss her.  I really do.  I mean, I don't miss who she is now, the lies and manipulation and alcoholism, but I miss who she used to be, who she could've been, even if our relationship was never that great.  I miss the idea of a mom.  (And a dad.)  Of a parent to lean on, to seek comfort and support and advice from.  I never really had that, at least not in the way it's supposed to be.  And it leaves an ache.  A void.  But I thank God for God, because He fills that void and because I know He cares, that He will work it all into something good, and that He will eventually wipe all tears and grief away and will make all wrongs right in the end.  And I long for that day.  But until then, we carry on and we get on with living, trusting that He's got it all in His hands.

[Update: A couple months after my son was turned down for the job, they called back and asked if he still wanted it.  Thank you, Lord!  It's the only job he really wanted, and he's so excited.  He needed something good like this to happen right now.  I needed something good like this to happen right now.  What a blessing!  Thank you, Lord.]    

    


Some links for help and encouragement
I'd like to encourage all those who are also hurting in their lives, whatever their situation, to draw near to the Lord, to seek Him out, to find their strength and wisdom in Him.  There is so much that seeks to drag us down in life.  But God is constantly throwing out life-preservers for us to grab onto, things that will help keep us afloat if we hold onto them.  If we hold onto Him.  

And that's what these links below are - life-preservers.  Little bits of hope in a dark, difficult world.  Little bits of "I understand, I know how it feels" to help others know that they are not alone in the pain.  That it's okay to struggle.  Little things to help us keep our heads above water when we feel like we're going under.  

And so I dedicate this post to my brothers and other family members who are hurting, as we set out to navigate the rough waters ahead.  To all of us who've been thrown into the deep-end of life, unexpectedly, kicking and screaming, and who now have to learn to swim so that we don't sink.  (Here is my favorite devotional from Our Daily Bread called Paddling Home, about a brave, faithful little mouse named Reepicheep.  This is how I view the journey of faith.)

And I dedicate this to anyone else who's facing their own terrible trials and deep pain, anyone else who feels so small, weak, and helpless in a big, mean, messy world.  I know many people who are hurting or struggling right now, for one reason or other - with fears, uncertainties, relational problems, physical problems, financial problems, family problems, spiritual problems.  We are living in a world of hurt, surrounded by people who hurt, carrying our own wounds that hurt.

I know how it feels.  Many of us do.  And if only we'd all spend a little time sharing our pain with people, listening to them share their pain ... if only we'd help carry each other's burdens in whatever small way we can, even if we don't have answers and can't do anything but be there for them, giving them a shoulder to cry on, wrapping our loving arms around them ... if only we'd all be a little less superficial and polished and judgmental, and a little more vulnerable and honest and compassionate ... then maybe we'd all feel a little less alone in our pain.  And life wouldn't be so difficult.

These links contain some of the things that I've leaned on over the past 3 years, things that kept me afloat, that helped keep me from going under all the way.  And I think that's the best use of our painful pasts, to help others when they're in pain.  After all, we can't change the pasts we've had or the scars we've gotten, but we can make something good out of them by using them to help someone else who's hurting too.  Sometimes, we need every bit of help we can get when things get dark and scary and terrible, and so I'm sharing all that I've gone through to help you know that you're not alone in your struggle, in your pain, in your despair and confusion.  I'm going to be okay and you're going to be okay, even when things aren't okay.  We're all in this together.  And we're going to make it through it together, leaning on each other.  And this is what I think the Lord says to us too, that even when life is messy and painful and even if He won't fix things the way we want them to be fixed: "We'll make it through this together!"

Getting Through The "Broken" Times

Genuine Faith is Messy

Praying Scripture: For Peace When Afraid

Praying Scripture: When Anxiety Strikes

Praying Scripture: Resting in the Lord

Praying Scripture: For the Brokenhearted and Exhausted

Praying Scripture: When You Feel Like You're Failing

Using Scripture in Spiritual Battles

80+ Bible Verses For Spiritual Warfare

Just Keep Falling (written before all this stuff going on now)

A Defining Moment (a direct result from dealing with all of this stuff, after my online discoveries and then seeing my mom constantly drink herself into the hospital, all of which came about 5 weeks after my first panic attack, which was unrelated to and before all of this.  So it was bad stuff piled on top of bad stuff.  The hardest summer I ever went through.  I'm actually surprised I made it through without giving up totally.  But by the grace of God, I'm still here today.)

Help for Anxiety, Depression, and Suicidal Thoughts

Broken

War Rooms, Praying Scripture, and Spiritual Warfare

26 Tips For Dealing With Depression/Anxiety

Fighting Back a Panic Attack

Tony Evans Sermons (Unfortunately, about 6 months before my mom was arrested, we left our church over theological differences.  And so now, we don't even have the support of our church and church friends while we face this trial.  And so I have to go online for my "church" right now.  But thank God, Tony Evans has been just what I've needed.  For healing my soul from Calvinism's lies, for encouraging my heart during the painful trials, and for helping me cling to faith and the Lord.  And for the record, I do have one really great friend who's been with me through all of this.  And I couldn't have done it without her.  Thank you, Leigh, thank you!  You mean the world to me.)

What Real Encouragement Looks Like Sometimes.  (Sometimes we don't need to try to "fix" it; we just need to be there with each other, to hurt with each other.  Sometimes, that's the best support we can give.)

Do You See Me Too, Lord?

I Will Love You ... Always!

Wrestling With God

Tony Evans Sermon: Freedom From Fear

Some Days It Feels Like It's All About To Fall Apart

The Spider (an old favorite)




And for some of my favorite songs, the ones I listen to when life is too hard and when I can't find the words to pray (because sometimes music can reach the places other things can't), see this post: My 'When Anxiety Strikes' Playlist.  Right now, as I'm typing this, I am listening to The City Harmonic, to help with the anxiety and sadness I feel lately when I first wake up.

And I know this isn't a Christian song, but I love, LOVE, LOVE it:  The Last Goodbye (by Billy Boyd)

[It makes me cry every time.  A good cry.  A sad cry.  A bittersweet cry.  And it's especially relevant now, as I think of all the things I've been through in life and all the people who are taking this journey with me right now, whether we want to or not.  I think many of us could say that the journey through life isn't what we expected.  That it's much harder than we thought it'd be.  And if we knew ahead of time how difficult and painful the journey was going to be, we might not sign up for it.

Maybe that's why we live life forward instead of backwards.  Because God knows that it would break us too much if we knew the pain waiting for us up ahead.  And so I guess that I can thank God that I don't know too much too early, as much as I wish I did sometimes.  I can be thankful that He takes time to shape me and to strengthen me through trials slowly over years, so that by the time I come to really bad parts of the journey, I have learned how to keep hanging on through the pain.

Although it has its really good parts, the journey is not what I thought nor hoped it would be.  It's not usually easy.  And the heartaches are many.  But I am thankful for those who walk this journey with me.  And whether it's been good or bad, I'll never be able to say that life wasn't full!

And one good thing that comes from the bad times is that I've learned to hold this life loosely, to be thankful that there is more out there than this, that there is Someone bigger than me who I can run to when I'm too broken and too weak and don't know what to do anymore.  And I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to when the path turns toward Home.  I'm not afraid of "The Last Goodbye," of the day that this world ends and eternity begins.

Of course, I hope it doesn't happen for me in some premature death or something.  I hope it happens by Jesus coming back again.  I hope I'm still alive to see the day He returns for His own.  But once again, it's probably good that God doesn't let us know too much about the journey ahead.  That way, we learn to trust Him and cling to Him in the here-and-now, even with all of its messiness, instead of planning to trust Him later if and when things go our way.]

I hope and pray that there may be some bit of hope and encouragement in here for those of you who are hurting too.  You’re not alone.  And we’ll make it through this together!