tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30547098949575614082024-03-06T02:04:52.643-05:00Tamar's RedemptionAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-83300924802865859552013-10-10T06:00:00.000-04:002013-10-10T06:00:11.867-04:00The Wisdom of Tears: When to Cry with Our Kids, When to Cry with Our Pillow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember it well, weeping in her arms over a lost love—a high
school breakup. I poured my woes out onto her shoulder. She listened. But when
I pulled back to wipe my tears, my pain paused. I saw her eyes. I noticed her
tears. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My mother was crying with me. And her tears gave me comfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A burden carried. Together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I struggle to keep my mouth shut when I listen to a mom
convey a painful story involving one of her kids and she quickly adds, “But she
didn’t see me cry. Yep, I saved that for my pillow.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvIcwjwnVy-kvG2ff6-Z7e4yLtSICvGbrUZ_IIAJ-XHT8AWEUJGNuwUTD0YquRK8l4ZyVC1KxCN9B9Heo3vaUhHGxSFA6ZHOblyPuFZA82atI5_naFIlPjwKH4GSy0ummTOz7nMjlV34/s1600/ID-10072070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvIcwjwnVy-kvG2ff6-Z7e4yLtSICvGbrUZ_IIAJ-XHT8AWEUJGNuwUTD0YquRK8l4ZyVC1KxCN9B9Heo3vaUhHGxSFA6ZHOblyPuFZA82atI5_naFIlPjwKH4GSy0ummTOz7nMjlV34/s320/ID-10072070.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo courtesy of David Castillo/freedigitalimages.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I want to say, “Cut! Can we rewind here? Let’s chat. Tell
me, how did this help your child?” Not that I’m an authority on this. I’m not.
I’m a mother who was once a child. That’s my experience. But I like to think
about these things. And I have a question.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Is it always good to hide our tears
from our kids?<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On that fateful day in high school, when I thought my love
life was over, I know my mother’s tears helped. She cried, but remained in
control. Her tears were for me, not about her. I felt so loved. Heard.
Treasured. She centered me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then she spoke words of encouragement with a summery, “This
too shall pass.” And I moved forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Many years later, my husband and I adopted a daughter. (Obviously,
my mother was right. My love life wasn’t over.) And I sought wisdom on adoption.
Somewhere I read that between the ages of eight and ten, our daughter would
begin to understand the intricacies of adoption—that there was loss involved in
her adoption story. She would grieve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And grieve she did. I’d find her in various chairs, at different
times, off and on, throughout the next several months, all curled up. Tears
rolling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What’s wrong?” I’d ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I miss my birthmother and birthfather.” She has apraxia of
speech and struggled to converse, but she found the perfect sentence to convey
her feelings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It’s okay to cry,” I said. “I’m so sorry you hurt. You can
cry as long as you need to.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And time passed and so did her tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t remember if I cried with my daughter through that
time. But I’m sure I cried for her. She hurt, so I hurt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Anna was just beginning to move from concrete thinking
to the abstract, from knowing she was adopted, to understanding what adoption
means. My tears could have confused her. Children can see our tears and assume
they are responsible for them. So they stop their tears in order to make mommy
happy. And then they don’t get to be children. They choose to become comforters
and bypass their need for comfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So should we always hide our tears? I don’t think so. But
with each child and in each situation, we need to ask, “Is this a time to cry with
them or for them? Will they understand they didn’t cause the tears?” Then we
pray for wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if a few tears fall freely, before our child can
understand them, we can be quick to explain, “Mommy’s crying because . . .” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="http://riseandshinemovement.org/">The Rise and Shine Movement</a> is committed to allowing children to have a
childhood, so one day, they are free to be adults. Allowing our children to
grieve is one way to achieve this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-9592952421668221912013-09-26T17:53:00.001-04:002013-09-26T17:53:20.095-04:00The Skin Horse Lied: The Wisdom of Motherhood and Grief<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Real isn't how you
are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child
loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you,
then you become Real.'<br />
<br />
'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. <br />
<br />
'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are
Real you don't mind being hurt.'</i>― <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83846.Margery_Williams"><span style="color: blue;">Margery
Williams</span></a>, <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1602074"><i><span style="color: blue;">The
Velveteen Rabbit</span></i></a><i><o:p></o:p></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqw2z1gyJg0wSqp7yWXTn5DkF1YhZbETOprYeZWZAohDFYonZLsN3lvpFwYPxV7l_c3pXCrSXH0pSm_QJOmj47EFUYP5fs8FF40i9F0JNQH9kLewT4pv-8zkVG8vOEkhqDZN5F0D49GY/s1600/ID-10090504.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqw2z1gyJg0wSqp7yWXTn5DkF1YhZbETOprYeZWZAohDFYonZLsN3lvpFwYPxV7l_c3pXCrSXH0pSm_QJOmj47EFUYP5fs8FF40i9F0JNQH9kLewT4pv-8zkVG8vOEkhqDZN5F0D49GY/s320/ID-10090504.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of donnaspoons/freedigitalphotos.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i><o:p> </o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">When you’re real
you don’t mind being hurt? Excuse me, Mr. Skin Horse, but I think you are
perfectly <i>wrong.</i> Because I’ve got seven children who love me. REALLY
love me. Plus, I’m real. I. AM. REAL. And I mind being hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I don’t know about
you, but this momma thing isn’t for sissies. When my children hurt, I hurt.
When they cry, I feel pain. (Well, unless it’s a temper tantrum or something
manipulative, then I feel peeved.) But when something happens that hurts them
or someone wounds them with words, I hurt too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">There is an old
saying, “A mother is only as happy as her saddest child.” I don’t know who said
it, but she didn’t lie. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">So what’s a momma
to do when sad happens? What’s a momma to do with sad?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Grieve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I know. You wanted
a different answer didn’t you? I want one too, but I’ve searched for years and
can’t find one. So I’ve learned to grieve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">This hasn’t been
easy for me. I come from a long line of stoics who hid their tears, picked themselves
up by their boot straps, charged on through pain. And they taught their
children to do so too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Perhaps it was the
Great Depression, the World Wars that molded and shaped their survivor
mentality. Or maybe it’s all they truly had time to do. I’m not sure. I just
know, it doesn’t work for me. And my eighty-six year mother admitted recently,
“I’ve learned to cry. I do a lot more of that than I used to.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We didn’t chat
about her admission any further. We didn’t have too. She’s a woman of few words,
and I understood her comment. I’ve learned to cry too. Not to wallow, not to
wail, but to recognize each sadness as it comes, acknowledge the loss, sit in
its presence, and allow the tears to fall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Tears heal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">So at this point in
my life, as I parent for the second-time around, I can relate to the Skin
Horse. Several of my joints are loose, many days I feel shabby, and I certainly
don’t mind being real. Yet, I still mind being hurt. But now I know what to do
with it. And that’s no lie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Next week. Should
we cry in front of our kids? <i>The Wisdom of Shared Tears: When to Cry for Our
Kids, When to Cry with Them</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="color: blue;"><i></i></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="color: blue;"><i></i></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="color: blue;"><o:p>If you would like to continue to read Carolyn's hard-earned wisdom on parenting, please subscribe to her new blog, <em>Wisdom from a Second-hand Mother: A Momma Parenting for the Second-time Around.</em><a href="http://www.riseandshinemovement.org/Wisdomfromasecondhandmother"> Click here.</a> Tamar's Redemption will be under construction soon and designed solely for survivors of sexual abuse and those who love them. Thank you.</o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-48077685909614856662013-09-19T06:00:00.000-04:002013-09-19T06:00:04.721-04:00The Wisdom of Relationship: Navigating the Whitewater of Life with Your Child<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was like the first day of Jr. High School all over again
for me. With a lump in my throat, I stood at the top of the cliff and looked at
the water below—the whitewater. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I was on mission. A step-out-of-my comfort zone mission. A
kid mission. A momma on a mission. Take the Middle-Girl-Child on a get-away,
that hopefully she’ll never forget, and talk about life, boys, sex, and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jr. High</b>. And to do this, I had to love
the twelve-year-old in a language she could understand and that meant—whitewater
rafting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
You see, she’s a true-blue tomboy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I had taken her older sister on a mission a few years
earlier. Similar goals. Different language. The oldest is a bit more like me. We
are <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i></b>
tomboys. So our adventure began at Asher’s Chocolate. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Yep, the oldest got to pick out a pound of chocolates. The
only rule—eat them whenever you want—no restrictions. Then we drove to the
salon. Manis and pedis, please! An hour later we, and our shiny nails, were off
to the Pocono outlets for a little shopping and then my brother’s condo for a
sleepover with chat time, junk food, and a movie. Oh, it was delightful! I knew
how to pull this off. It was right up my comfort ally. I know the language. I
can speak chocolate, shiny nails, and shopping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Now I found myself at the top of the cliff, waiting in line,
to traverse down primitive stairs etched into the side of the river bed, trying
to look the part. But shaking in my water shoes. So much like my first day of
Jr. High. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I looked around at my peers, my fellow whitewater rafters.
All different shapes, sizes, ethnicities. Most were playing it cool, excited
for the venture. But I wondered if any were nervous, like me. And I wondered if
my soon-to-be junior higher was feeling a bit bubbly in the tummy as well. As I
stated before, she’s a tomboy. If she was nervous, she wasn’t going to show it.
I’d have to ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Are you nervous?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“A little,” she grinned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Me too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So unlike Jr. High where no one admits anything that
might not be safe to admit. I was glad she felt safe with me. And I was glad I
had sucked it up. Whitewater rafting was sure to provide more metaphors and
word pictures to draw on to get Middle-Girl-Child through Jr. High, not without
some bruises, but intact.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Before I knew it, we were preparing to enter the raft. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two other adventurers joining us, a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>play it cool lanky male, in his early twenties,
and his, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do you love me, do you really,
really love me,</i> girlfriend. (A writer can assess personalities, both strengths and character flaws, in a few
short minutes. It’s a gift and a curse. Trust me.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“So are you ready to be our captain?” Mr. Lanky, male child,
soon to be man, asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“Ah, yeah,” I said, swallowing hard, wondering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When will I learn? Why did I raise my stupid
hand?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
You see, before we left the rafting adventure center, they
placed us in groups. Then they asked, “Who has ever done this before?” I raised
my hand all strong and proud. “That’s your captain, folks!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Note to self, I must tell Middle-Girl-Child to never raise
her hand in Jr. High with a prideful attitude, unless, of course, she’s ready
to accept all the consequences. Yet, I was pleased, another word picture to add
to my lessons in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How to Succeed in Jr.
High without Really Dying.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So there I was, folks, in the back of the raft, paddle in
hand. And like it or not, I was in charge, incredibly grateful for the rafting
refresher course given, in fifteen quick minutes, back at the adventure center.
It wasn’t much, but it was all I had to go on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Mr. Lanky Boy, soon to man, was sitting to my right, Ms. Please,
Please Love Me, directly in front of me, and my Middle-Girl-Child diagonally
forward to my right. Our guides pushed us out into the river. Our six hour
adventure began. And it was an adventure indeed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
Let me just stop and say, Mr. Lanky has no idea how many
times I wanted to take my paddle and knock him and his annoying little comments
right out of that raft.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Hey bud, you don’t
need to prove your manhood here. And stop speaking to your girlfriend like she’s
stupid.</i> And, yes, there were even a few times I wanted to smack Ms. Do You
Love Me, Really, Really Love Me up side her pretty little desperate head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Honey, you’re worth more than this. Let him
go, tell him to come back when he’s a man. </i>But they were far more
interested in their relationship dance, which was pitiful to watch, than
getting us past the boulders and keeping us all in the raft. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
However, I refrained. I chose to view it as more fodder for
my lessons in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How to Succeed in Jr. High without
Really Dying</i>. And I actually rallied all my momma instincts and reached long
and far to keep Mr. Lanky and his gal in the raft on several occasions. Just
call me Elasti-Momma.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But when I wasn’t focused on keeping the river rats and
myself in the raft and we had some time to float and drift, I thought of all
the ways whitewater rafting is like Jr. High. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The unseen boulders -</i></b> Our guides told us that it’s not the
boulders on the surface, making the most noise that can be the most dangerous.
It’s those quiet, hidden masses of rock that can sneak up on you, that can send
you flying out of the raft.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jr. High -</i></b> Peer pressure.
It’s quiet. Sneaky. It can send you places you don’t want to go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our instincts -</i></b> Our guides also informed us that when you’re
about to hit a boulder, your <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>instinct
will be to slide your body away from the boulder. You want to move toward it,
distributing your weight in the raft, so it won’t tip up into the air and dump
you all into the water. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jr. High -</i></b> Fears. They will keep you from taking risks, good
risks. Move toward your fear. Have courage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My metaphors continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But then we encountered more and more whitewater, again and
again. And I noticed something. When we were paddling, especially toward a
boulder, the raft would pitch in directions I didn’t want it to go. I often
felt like I was paddling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">alone</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then wisdom surfaced. A wisdom that spoke quietly. The kind
of wisdom that speaks from having done this before, from parenting for the
second-time around and knowing that in parenting, one plus one rarely equals
two. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You can give Middle-Girl-Child
all the word pictures you want comparing Jr. High with whitewater rafting. Word
pictures are good. But what good are they if she goes through Jr. High thinking—she’s
paddling alone?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<o:p> </o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">So I spent the rest of the day, attempting to stay in
the moment, simply enjoying the trip with my daughter. </span>Because if I’ve learned anything over my twenty-six years of
parenting it’s this: <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The battle against
most of the perils of Jr. High and beyond</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> are best fought on the field of relationship.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Later, on our ride home, I spoke wisdom, in as few words as
possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I’m wondering. When we were on the river, did you ever feel
like you were paddling alone?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She smiled. “Yeah, I did.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
“I did too, especially when we were heading right toward a
boulder. Jr. High can feel a lot like that. And sometimes you’re going to feel
like your paddling alone. What are your dreams? What are the things you most
want to do with your life?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She’s a thinker. She had a list and shared them with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
“I want those things for you too. And I’m here to help you
get there. To help you achieve those dreams, I believe, God has placed in your
heart. But here’s the thing, sometimes in Jr. High, you’re going to feel like I’m
not paddling with you. You’re going to want to go one direction and if I think
it’s not going to help you achieve your dreams, I’m going to steer you in
another. But please know, when we were on that raft, facing that whitewater, no
matter how it felt, I was always paddling with you. And no matter how you feel
in Jr. High, you are not alone. I’m paddling with you.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sometimes the best wisdom
we can share with our kids is to just shut-up and be there—be fully there.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<br />
<o:p><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>If you would like to continue to read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog </strong><a href="http://www.riseandshinemovement.org/Wisdomfromasecondhandmother"><span style="color: #990000;"><strong>here</strong></span></a><strong>. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.</strong></span></span></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-72108436593456886722013-09-12T06:00:00.000-04:002013-09-12T06:00:10.309-04:00The Wisdom of Bread Crusts, Novels, and Naps: Encouragement for Too Pooped to Party Mommas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I remember riding out of the church parking lot, the back of
the mini-van stuffed with kids, passing by one empty nest, middle-age mother
after another, my jealousy brewing. I thought . . .<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Ms. Blonde. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I bet she’s going to recline on her sofa this afternoon and read a novel.</i> An empty nest meant more time to relax, uninterrupted.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Mrs. Auburn. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I bet her
husband is taking her to lunch.</i> An empty nest meant some extra cash, less
cooking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
The Brunette. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I bet she’s going to a quiet house to take a nap today.</i> An empty nest meant more time to rest, refuel.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I know these things, because I was once so close to the
empty nest, I could see it. Feel it. Almost touch it. But if you remember my story,
you know, just as I was near the end of my full nest, three precious little girls flew
in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And, yes, on this particular Sunday morning, this Second-hand
Mother, the Mother of the Cottage was having a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">woe is me</i> moment. Wondering how I ended up in a mini-van. Again.
And who the heck were all these kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
So I did what I usually do when I’m overwhelmed and feeling
like a scum. I cried out to the Lord of the Heaven’s. “Why me? Why now? Why?
Why? Why? Help!”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
But when I finally stopped whining and listened to the CD playing
softly in the background, I heard <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP4nBMLkfko"><strong>this song</strong></a>--not just the music--but the words.
And I found the strength to ride on, in that mini-van, home to make lunch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7455/9325247626_b76a6d1948_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7455/9325247626_b76a6d1948_b.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So if today is one of those days, you know, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those days</i>, and you’re wondering if this
service, we call motherhood, is worth it? Give yourself a few minutes, and
hear <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP4nBMLkfko"><strong>these words</strong></a> above life’s noise. And during nap-time, if you can just let
the dishes sit in the sink, the laundry lay in the pile, recline on your sofa,
read that novel, munch on those leftover P and J crusts, doze-off. Let’s
not let those empty nesters have all the R&R!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>If you would like to continue to read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog </strong><a href="http://www.riseandshinemovement.org/Wisdomfromasecondhandmother"><span style="color: #990000;"><strong>here</strong></span></a><strong>. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.</strong></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-82634957194990730072013-08-15T06:00:00.000-04:002013-08-15T06:00:09.748-04:00The Wisdom of Simple Prayers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Handsome Aging Husband had to go slow in his
relationship with The Three Little Girls. Father-figures weren’t safe. And he
did. But there came a time when it seemed natural for him to tuck The Three
Little Girls into bed at night. So, he did.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Then one morning after such a time, the eldest of the three,
the eight-year-old mother, came bounding into the kitchen, a smile lighting her
face. “Last night when Uncle Ken was praying, he thanked Jesus for making me special
and asked Jesus to keep me safe. I liked that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bHlPGJtx-27jDw8MtJiPt3TS2Ttc4xSLAiM5FPoz4GfMqTU3zJhMtQh0KHyIAYbNS99rmxUTcY5bPSlCnCTZOg28gWIQxNgh_Hb_u_cZFsQybZtYaCrUpy0ojUEnWsGcquVyWFnhvAI/s1600/ID-10038931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bHlPGJtx-27jDw8MtJiPt3TS2Ttc4xSLAiM5FPoz4GfMqTU3zJhMtQh0KHyIAYbNS99rmxUTcY5bPSlCnCTZOg28gWIQxNgh_Hb_u_cZFsQybZtYaCrUpy0ojUEnWsGcquVyWFnhvAI/s320/ID-10038931.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of tungphoto/freedigitalimages.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And the Mother of the Cottage smiled. She liked that too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>If you would like to continue read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-Hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog </strong><a href="http://www.riseandshinemovement.org/Wisdomfromasecondhandmother"><span style="color: #990000;"><strong>here</strong></span></a><strong>. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.</strong></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-79859989638925198202013-08-08T06:00:00.000-04:002013-08-08T06:00:05.019-04:00The Wisdom of Slow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It’s been five years since The Mother of the Cottage said, “Yes,”
to the Lord of the Heavens and opened her home to The Three Little Girls.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Five years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
Time. Where does it go? In those five years, I’ve moved from
my early forties to the later. Fifty is approaching. Fast and furious. Crazy!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And the girls are growing. Growing in stature. Growing in
trust. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
They didn’t trust us when they came. Nor should they have. I
knew this going in. Each reaction, each day, was going to be a test. And sometimes
I passed. Sometimes I failed. I knew in my heart of hearts that as much as I
wanted to be a healing balm, I am not the Healer. I would add my own flaws to
the mix. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
I pray they are few.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
My husband’s exam was even more challenging. He had to go slow.
Slow to speak. Slow to react. Slow to touch. Father figures weren’t safe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
So he went S.L.O.W.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And one day he received his blessing for slow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
The eldest, she saw much, experienced much. The protector of
her little sisters. The eight-year-old mother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
We were hanging out on the deck of my sister’s vacation
home. Playing a game. Our older kids doing their thing. Acting out words, so
others could guess. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
That’s when I witnessed his blessing—the A on his exam. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And it took my breath away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflUiJFc7PHR5e6SWWq2SwVu_Qf2lUq52ulRfC_BZAfUDnYTgtmNQjXL3NcHDdTo1tfKEPBcyQATKdMdRcJOHo0_XCEzqixV-4WttT6VvAlr2rkjNnjfSwGXP2SWCH8cZ8EGtWdjnVB5o/s1600/ID-100111828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflUiJFc7PHR5e6SWWq2SwVu_Qf2lUq52ulRfC_BZAfUDnYTgtmNQjXL3NcHDdTo1tfKEPBcyQATKdMdRcJOHo0_XCEzqixV-4WttT6VvAlr2rkjNnjfSwGXP2SWCH8cZ8EGtWdjnVB5o/s320/ID-100111828.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
She was giggling. A joyful, no holds barred moment. And just
as naturally as all my kids, she forgot her reserve and hopped up on his lap,
her arms surrounded his neck. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
And, for me, time stopped … just long enough to capture a
memory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><strong>If you would like to continue read more stories by the Mother of the Cottage, AKA The Second-Hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog </strong><a href="http://www.riseandshinemovement.org/Wisdomfromasecondhandmother"><span style="color: #990000;"><strong>here</strong></span></a><strong>. She will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.</strong></span></span></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-79677307310210161032013-08-01T06:00:00.000-04:002013-08-01T06:00:11.443-04:00The Story of the Second-hand Mother<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"> </span><strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT"; font-size: 28pt;">Once upon a time</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS"; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></b></span><strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">there was a mother, who loved shoes, and lived in a <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMqTfrRXOKBLSsD-LX7JcMlzNTtFfd1Xe0mA-XX6Qkhv8pRw8GZ4Xj8ge9q7wXxnDHwRHXwzVQu4ez7ews1eOBYfoj2XgVwmkIiMV2BeWmbxIoGYVmgJB72_zHEKngnA6oaGtIItuf7Ts/s1600/carolyn2+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMqTfrRXOKBLSsD-LX7JcMlzNTtFfd1Xe0mA-XX6Qkhv8pRw8GZ4Xj8ge9q7wXxnDHwRHXwzVQu4ez7ews1eOBYfoj2XgVwmkIiMV2BeWmbxIoGYVmgJB72_zHEKngnA6oaGtIItuf7Ts/s1600/carolyn2+copy.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Copyright R&SMovement 2013</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
cottage with
her Handsome Husband. And, yes, she had so many children, she didn’t know what
to do. One child had dyslexia, another ADD, another ADHD, and still another
apraxia of speech. She loved and cared for each one, grieving their losses,
celebrating their victories. She watched them grow. They turned into Three Fine
Young Men and One Special Young Lady. And the mother smiled, her job</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";"> </span></b></span><strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">nearly done. So she made plans for her future.<o:p></o:p></span></strong><br />
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Then the Lord of the Heavens
said, “Oh, not so fast, Mother of the Cottage. I will send you three more
children to fill your home.”<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">But the mother cried, “I’m
older. Have you seen my gray hairs? Lord, do you have any idea how hard it is
to be a parent? And besides, I can finally afford more shoes. Surely you’ve
chosen the wrong mother!” <o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">But the Lord of the Heavens
said, “Do not fear. I will be with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Then Three Little Girls, with
broken dreams and sad hearts, but sparkly bright futures, came to live with the
older Mother of the Cottage and her aging husband. <o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Each day, the mother asked—no,
she cried—to the Lord of the Heavens for wisdom, patience, mercy, grace,
forgiveness.</span></strong><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">Time passed. Then something mysterious
and marvelous happened—the Mother of the Cottage, her Handsome, Aging Husband,
the Three Fine Young Men and Special Young Woman fell in love with the Three Little
Girls. And although the Mother of the Cottage still cries out to the Lord of
the Heavens for wisdom daily, she knows in her heart there is nothing more
important she can do with her future. And she surely doesn’t need more shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></strong></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "Comic Sans MS";">And this is the beginning of
the story of the Second-hand Mother—a momma parenting for the second time
around.</span></strong><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT"; font-size: 28pt;">Twice upon a time . . .</span></strong></div>
<div align="center" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT"; font-size: 28pt;"></span></strong> </div>
<div style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
<strong><span style="color: #3366cc; font-family: "French Script MT";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">If you would like to read more stories from the Second-Hand Mother, please subscribe to Carolyn's new blog <a href="http://www.riseandshinemovement.org/Wisdomfromasecondhandmother">here</a>. Carolyn will continue to address issues for survivors of sexual abuse at Tamar's Redemption beginning this fall.</span></span></strong></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-40453546558254238832013-07-11T06:00:00.000-04:002013-07-17T10:33:32.038-04:00Expectin' Perfection? Wisdom from a Second-hand Momma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She stood at my front door. Tears in her eyes. A toddler in the
stroller, by her side. “I blew it,” she said. “ I yelled at her. What’s wrong
with me? I wanted this child more than anything. I’ve never done this before.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had waited years for a baby. Untold doctor visits.
Countless procedures. Numerous miscarriages. Endless tears. But then her joy
was complete. A baby girl. Healthy. Strong. Beautiful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And sinful.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQC_UJBOiuxhKQueK2EohWgBeuNfyh8bX-H6AL2J38iIGmVmSFPKrFYWpx9TTnVHdRoQ-bhRVox7M-hyAOkVxyjTR6eMaAQedfk8vgZIXYsD50YZQx4fUUCmTzZD0fn6Fa0ujqhtVNWhc/s1600/ID-10070716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQC_UJBOiuxhKQueK2EohWgBeuNfyh8bX-H6AL2J38iIGmVmSFPKrFYWpx9TTnVHdRoQ-bhRVox7M-hyAOkVxyjTR6eMaAQedfk8vgZIXYsD50YZQx4fUUCmTzZD0fn6Fa0ujqhtVNWhc/s320/ID-10070716.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Clare Bloomfield/FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, sinful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know. Who has a heart to call a precious, wanted, and longed
for child sinful?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did. Let’s just say, I was a bit stressed out that day and was a year's worth of dirty diapers, temper tantrums, and a few yells ahead of her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mary, she’s sinful just like the rest of us.” I said. “She’s
going to get on your nerves, pluck your feathers, make you mad, do things wrong.”
The words slid off my tongue. I didn’t even know if she believed in sin or hem,
hem . . . sinful children. It was one of those moments when you hear your words
and think, W<i>hat the heck am I saying?
She’s going to think I’m nuts!</i> Just call me Frank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I continued, invited them inside, while attempting a
softer approach. “You can’t beat yourself up over it. You’re not going to do
this perfectly and that’s okay. Motherhood is hard.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mary still reminds me of that morning and my word choice. We
laugh. Her baby girl is all grown up now, a lovely woman. She had survived her
mother’s first yell and probably several more along her way toward
adulthood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Mary and her daughter are the best of friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Parenthood is hard. We
all blow it from time to time. Even a momma like me, parenting for the
second time around. But sometimes, the best gift we can give our kids is to not
expect perfection from them or ourselves.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-5660580904699763162013-06-27T06:00:00.000-04:002013-06-27T06:00:02.147-04:00Some Momma Battles Are Best Left Unfought<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I’ve been thinking a lot about boys lately—my boys. I have
three of them, one taller and meatier, and two not-so-tall and on the lean
side. They’re all adults now, so we talk about stuff—stuff you don’t chat about
when they’re younger because all you’d get is a grunt, a groan, an eye roll, and
little perspective. Now they indulge me. I like that.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I was talking with one, of the not-so-tall ones, who
is on the lean side. He said something that I thought was worth posting (with
his permission, of course).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said, “Some people were meant to move boulders and others
were meant to climb them.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOQwDj-elr5nb3eyDdR9OsdXcW377gKqSnNf4pn_zJroJ9YCyKtzrfzjfyJdItzrJh59tksg_o5YyiB5cPOz_hy1h3QugYV8vjBSeDmrrKhByhbrwNd0V7BlA-TdejyJA0P4hBFq6Nto/s1600/ID-10036345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOQwDj-elr5nb3eyDdR9OsdXcW377gKqSnNf4pn_zJroJ9YCyKtzrfzjfyJdItzrJh59tksg_o5YyiB5cPOz_hy1h3QugYV8vjBSeDmrrKhByhbrwNd0V7BlA-TdejyJA0P4hBFq6Nto/s320/ID-10036345.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Imagine courtesy of Sura Nualpradid/FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p> </o:p>That made this momma smile. Smile from my gut.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, for far too long, he’s felt bad about not being
able to physically move boulders. I’ve observed that it’s tough being a not-so-tall,
lean young man, in this world that honors height and strength. I would imagine
it’s even harder when the taller, meatier males decide to demonstrate their
strength using your lean body as their weights. This happens. I’ve witnessed it, not from his taller, meatier brother—he’s a gentle soul, but from others. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You stand there, as his momma, watching, as all the dudes
laugh it off, but you notice—not everyone’s laughing. It’s all you can do not
to march up to the big guy and stamp on his foot and yell, “Put him down. NOW!
You ... YOU, BULLY!” But you don’t, because you know that would only make your son
feel worse. He doesn't want his momma fighting his battles. So you watch. You wait. You pray. And you guide him into other
areas to build his confidence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on that day, when he realizes that he was meant to climb
boulders, you celebrate and cheer him on as he climbs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-8278775971647581932013-06-20T06:00:00.000-04:002013-06-20T06:00:07.547-04:00A Lesson from a Little Boy and a Big Tornado<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I smiled as I listened to the little boy, an Oklahoma
tornado survivor, give an account of the reunion with his dad, after the
devastation, during a radio interview.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I saw you [his father] and I just jumped, because I knew
you’d catch me,” he said.</div>
<br /><o:p></o:p>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He jumped because he <i>knew</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He jumped because he <i>trusted</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What a beautiful image, after such a devastating tragedy—a son
jumping into his daddy’s arms with abandon, without a second thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love that!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I imagined—a different child, a boy or a girl—after
a different kind of devastation saying,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I saw you and I just told, because I knew you’d listen to me,
believe me, and take action.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The child tells because he <i>knows</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The child tells because she <i>trusts</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I smiled as I thought, <i>If adults would begin the conversation, regarding sexual abuse, with
the kids they love, more children could live life without a devastating secret.</i>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love that!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-F-gXnDcPi0bC0l4cyt-erd5584l5j6m5O9QaeNjg1ONMlD89owhcYnmJgJlB1R9na7ovQWLT1s3ced234qADJY5V-xpL5lXEamKjNbrJUks-_QYKgEAY8Uc8_JtVAaOB4q5784mLgk/s1600/ID-10063649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid-F-gXnDcPi0bC0l4cyt-erd5584l5j6m5O9QaeNjg1ONMlD89owhcYnmJgJlB1R9na7ovQWLT1s3ced234qADJY5V-xpL5lXEamKjNbrJUks-_QYKgEAY8Uc8_JtVAaOB4q5784mLgk/s320/ID-10063649.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Ambro/FreeDigitalImages.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC";"><span style="font-size: large;">When we teach
our kids about sexual abuse, we build a trusting relationship with them. It’s
summertime. Time to relax. But don’t relax until you’ve talked with your kids.
Begin the conversation. Build the bridge. Break the silence.
RiseAndShineMovement.org</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-3040850063790523892013-06-13T06:00:00.000-04:002013-06-13T06:00:04.657-04:00Not Feeling Like an Amazing Momma? Advice from a Second-hand Mother<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I could have been an amazing mother if I could have just parented
our kids a week at a time,” I said, confessing to my husband.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are an amazing mother,” he said—always the encourager.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well maybe so, but I just had the best week with the girls.
We baked, did crafts, read stories, I didn’t even need to worry about dinner.
If I didn’t have to worry about cleaning this house and cooking, I’d be the
most amazing mother!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can you relate?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the stuff we have to do in life that gets in the way of
our amazing. I know this, because, you see, I’m a mother parenting for the
second time around. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My four kids were nearly grown, launched, out-a-here, when
God brought three little sisters to my door step. We started keeping them a
week at a time. A momma for a week. It worked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had time to plan. I knew when they were coming. The dates
scratched on my calendar months in advance. Craft ideas planned and purchased. <span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC";">Check.</span> Meal ideas, planned and
groceries purchased. <span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC";">Check. Check.</span>
A thorough cleaning before they arrived. <span style="font-family: "Bradley Hand ITC";">CHECK.</span>
I was ready. My ducks were in a row. And, perhaps more honestly, I knew there
was an end. I could shop and clean next week. It was time to play and do mother
stuff. The fun stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0vBF_AQY5SnaSVlYXpQKjG5psshNwPANcjw_F3lWzZxTRUJFq3uA2GNHl9eGH5hGVP1r1FSrpc2SD9NsWJOAscuN5k-Uaae63VSDQcV-fBJiXCZ6YEb0ZGhEfmNsWJUOdtg37Q3Q3HE/s1600/ID-100124219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0vBF_AQY5SnaSVlYXpQKjG5psshNwPANcjw_F3lWzZxTRUJFq3uA2GNHl9eGH5hGVP1r1FSrpc2SD9NsWJOAscuN5k-Uaae63VSDQcV-fBJiXCZ6YEb0ZGhEfmNsWJUOdtg37Q3Q3HE/s200/ID-100124219.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Stewart Miles/FreeDigitalPhotos.net </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>And I was AMAZING! And I felt AMAZING!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then came a summer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the summer ended. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then . . . the point of no return. Literally.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They came. They stayed. Oh, and yes, they conquered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could barely breathe. So much to plan. No time to plan. So much to consider. No time to consider. It
was no longer camp at Aunt Carolyn’s. It. Was. <b>Life</b>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry kiddo, I can’t help you with that puzzle, I’ve got to
go make a grocery list.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stop what you’re doin.’ Everybody in the mini-van, NOW!
We’re outa milk.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry Squirt, I can’t read right now, the cat just used the
mound of dirty laundry for his litter box.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You would think because I’d already parented before, it
would have been easier. I’m a second-hand mother for crying out loud. Ha! So
much for thinking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, if motherhood, well . . . could just be motherhood. If
we didn’t have to be a maid, a teacher, a personal administrator, the cook, the
house keeper, the taxi driver, the recreation director, the “If you don’t get
this right, you’re going to screw up the lives of three otherwise healthy human
beings” director. Yeah. Did I miss anything? (Please feel to comment below.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know about you, but sometimes, I’d just like to
parent a week at a time. So then I can feel amazing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But somehow I think it’s in the feelings where I can lose
perspective with AMAZING.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids do need clean underwear, whether doing laundry makes
me feel amazing or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids do need meals, whether grocery shopping or making
dinner makes me feel amazing or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids do need a semi-organized home, whether cleaning up
makes me feel amazing or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I think we can be amazing mothers, whether we <i>feel </i>that
way or not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-5495548872739217922013-06-06T06:00:00.000-04:002013-06-06T06:00:00.897-04:00Can a Mother Find Rest? HOPE for Too-Pooped-to-Party Moms<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I sent my pal an email today. We had bailed out of the last
day of a training conference last week to go home and be moms. I wrote, <span style="font-size: 11pt;">“So glad we didn’t go Saturday. I needed to be a mom
and rest—not sure rest and mom fit in the same line, but somehow I managed to
do both.”</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Is life tugging at you? Are
you too pooped to function, let alone party?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Yep, I get that way too. I no
sooner run toward one end the see-saw and the other end soars up into the air.
My stomach rolls. I do a flip with a twist. Land with bent knees. A jolt. Facing
the opposite direction. Racing toward the other end, I attempt to bring balance
back to this thing called life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Exhausted. Grumpy.
Overwhelmed. Out of balance. Dizzy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">This does not make for a
happy contented Carolyn. This does not make for a peaceful, contented mom. And
if mom ain’t happy . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">So how did rest and motherhood
collide for me last weekend and land in the same sentence on Monday? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I ignored a bunch of crap.
Yeah, crap. Crap like dusty furniture, sticky floors, and dirty laundry. Crap
like weedy flowerbeds, empty flower pots, and grimy porch furniture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">And I played. Yeah, played.
My daughter had a craft project she wanted to complete for a teacher who is
retiring. So we hopped in the mini-van, went to Lowes, and got our supplies.
Then we made a mess. A big mess. But in the mess, we made a gift for someone
else. And a memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgk7ldEfwNervS9Te7A37-0gG3negJ7FQ-flgzjOLjxp6PL7VdY3ugW2t1hHgZ4fpkGVAnsDKpgfZySv1Zplqnbva9vR24AfAtu6Z5xYtL2kDVLwFtihps9NongZwGm0l8HlB8aBMZQu0/s1600/ID-10048565.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgk7ldEfwNervS9Te7A37-0gG3negJ7FQ-flgzjOLjxp6PL7VdY3ugW2t1hHgZ4fpkGVAnsDKpgfZySv1Zplqnbva9vR24AfAtu6Z5xYtL2kDVLwFtihps9NongZwGm0l8HlB8aBMZQu0/s320/ID-10048565.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Lisa McDonald at FreeDigitalPhoto.net</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I don’t know how you play.
Perhaps for you, a craft project is torture. I get that. But have you played recently? Do you remember how? Take some time to reminisce and then play. Play with one of
your kids or all of them. Play until you giggle. Play until you don’t care
about the mess. Just play. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">And in the play, I promise you—you
will find rest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">We will always have the crap. But we won’t always have our
kids. I know this to be true, because I’m a momma parenting for the second time
around.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px;"><b>When was the last time you played? I'd love to hear about it. Add a comment, and I'll draw one winner at random for a <span style="color: blue;">FREE</span> copy of <i>Nowhere but Up: The Story of Justin Bieber's Mom. </i>The winner will be posted next Thursday. So, be sure to stop back.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15px;"><b>Share this post with a friend. I humbly thank you.</b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-22800291944607556172013-06-04T06:00:00.000-04:002013-06-04T06:00:08.265-04:00A Summer Rest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Thanks for stopping by. <i>Tamar’s
Redemption</i> seeks to bring hope and encouragement to survivors. In order to
do this well, we invite you to share your needs with us. We know it’s difficult
to hit the comment button. That is why we invite you to share your needs
privately at <a href="mailto:TamarsRedemption@verizon.net">TamarsRedemption@verizon.net</a>.
What do you want to hear about? Where do you struggle most in your healing
journey? Where do you feel most alone? We will collect your questions and
requests all summer and be ready to serve you best in the fall.<div>
<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY0PU4cwoShr2erZIXDJyZxhCwLYe-cZ27cpNeJqr-amRJpzS0cFWXgDyGzKSo_DpJ1myWjy176LmnDGp0XGszlM0OMZv584RH17j1J7GU3ZBoFI99vT-MwEJlSxHXJd2UHqM_J53xKBM/s1600/ID-100114918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY0PU4cwoShr2erZIXDJyZxhCwLYe-cZ27cpNeJqr-amRJpzS0cFWXgDyGzKSo_DpJ1myWjy176LmnDGp0XGszlM0OMZv584RH17j1J7GU3ZBoFI99vT-MwEJlSxHXJd2UHqM_J53xKBM/s320/ID-100114918.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Pixomar at Freedigitalphoto.net</span></td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Until then, please send your questions and comments . . . and
rest. Yes, rest. Just be. Feel the grass tickle your toes. Feel the sun warm
your face. Listen to the crickets sing their evening songs. And know that the
sun will rise again, each and every morning, with the promise of hope and an
invitation to rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-50321302038820079232013-05-30T06:00:00.000-04:002013-05-30T06:00:03.552-04:00 I Know Why My Momma Hummed. Did Yours?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You could hear her humming in the kitchen. Washing dishes,
stirring mixes, spreading frosting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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You could hear her humming in the laundry room. Loading the
washer, loading the dryer, folding the clothes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When my mother worked she sang, whistled, but mostly hummed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She’s nearly eighty-six now and her mind is as sharp as mine
or better. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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How did she raise six children, three boys and then three
girls, and keep her sanity? There are days I wonder this, especially when I
feel like I’m losing mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The other day, I had one of <i>those moments</i>, when I thought I was on the brink. One of my kids,
who I’m convinced could be a lawyer one day, was stating her case. I’m an older
mother now, a more tired mother now. Keeping up with her twists and turns, her “But
you said last week . . .,” and remembering my own name, all at the same time,
is just too much for me sometimes. This moment was no different. She stomped
off to her room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That’s when I plunged my hands in some soapy dish water and
began to hum. And I hummed. And I hummed. And I hummed . . . one old hymn after
another.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And the longer I hummed, the better I felt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I smiled. <i>I now know why my mother hummed.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-32118613752667866422013-05-23T11:17:00.001-04:002013-08-04T22:17:21.945-04:00Are You a Reverend Mother? Hope for Mommas Lost in the Land of Motherhood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJVjzJhCY99ZzSo-v2eo2g-MEnu7e_kwphX-3SJA0vKdvt6Tx-0kiiXkK80jMYMFiOcGxKQyt8ZvwlQDLHhNdoKSduSO7rw-r9bC19D9ORp4S1-0c23rlbwDAYEHeDD1afGGTefOk1WA/s1600/IMAG0121_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJVjzJhCY99ZzSo-v2eo2g-MEnu7e_kwphX-3SJA0vKdvt6Tx-0kiiXkK80jMYMFiOcGxKQyt8ZvwlQDLHhNdoKSduSO7rw-r9bC19D9ORp4S1-0c23rlbwDAYEHeDD1afGGTefOk1WA/s320/IMAG0121_1.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
“I feel like all I get done all day is minister to our kids,”
I said. Well honestly, I cried. Yeah, I cried. You see, I was in the midst of a
momma meltdown, seated on our little timeout stool in the kitchen,
my husband next to me, seated on the floor.<br />
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<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
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“Did you read that somewhere?
“My husband asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Read what?” I sniffled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The part about being a minister. I think being a minister
sorta gives respect to the whole motherhood thing.” It was then he stood up and
excused himself. He had to pee. (I know, I know, TMI! But my husband pees and
so does yours and it’s important to the story—really, it is.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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This gave me time to think, no reflect. (With seven kids,
this kind of think-time is limited.) So I reflected about all the times,
through the years, when I’ve struggled with my identity. Yep, the big <b>I</b> word which is really the big <b>ME</b> word. Are you tracking with me,
Sister? Hang in there!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The truth is, I never dreamed of being a momma. Yeah, you
heard me. You probably thought a woman with seven kids grew up dreaming of
being a momma. But it wasn’t what I replied when someone asked me, “So little
girl, what do you want to be when you grow up?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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You see, I was going to be a veterinarian, a psychiatric
nurse, a truck driver (I still love wide open spaces and having control of the
wheel. That would be another blog post. But I digress.), a counselor, a
teacher, and the list was longer, but you get the idea—momma wasn’t on it. Sure
I played with baby dolls, but enter Career Barbie and I was hooked. Compare
changing diapers to changing into stylish clothes, cute shoes, and driving a
convertible and well, there was no comparison. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then I met Ken. No, really, I met Ken. A real Ken. And Ken
and Barbie, okay, okay, Ken and Carolyn got married. And then other things
happened. (I’ll keep my TMI, my TMI here.) And before the ink on my teaching
certificate was barely dry, I was going to be a Momma. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I still remember the day, standing by the copy machine in
the elementary school office, my tummy the size of a watermelon, cranking out
reading papers for my class, when the principal cleared his throat and said, “I
hear you’re not coming back next year.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yep, Barbie had decided to trade in her convertible for a
station wagon. (That’s a half-lie, I’ve never owned a convertible. It was
actually an Oldsmobile Forenza. But it had pin stripes! But again, I digress.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Years passed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And just when I thought, I might have the career and
convertible, three little girls showed up. They needed some mothering. And I
was doing what I never dreamed of doing—mothering. Again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That leads me back to last week when I said . . . no, I
cried, “I feel like all I get done all day is minister to our kids!” I had hit
one of <i>those days</i> when everyone
needed me and I felt like I just couldn’t keep up. I was just plain burned out. I had lost my
sense of true identity. It still happens to me some days, even after all these
years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, I wouldn’t trade being a mother, not for all the
letters I could have put after my name. I made choices to keep and serve each
child that has come my way, either by my womb or some other miraculous process.
And my parents taught me to stand by my choices, even when my choices have led
to more dirty diapers than paychecks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So as I stood up, from that little timeout stool in my
kitchen, and reflected, it hit me. I am a Reverend Mother. The title rolled
through my mind. I smiled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not a Reverend
Mother in the catholic sense, although, I certainly have bellowed out “Climb
every mountain . . . follow every rainbow,” and such, through the years. I’d
like to think that I’ve been my children’s strongest cheerleader.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m not a Reverend
Mother in the theological sense, although I think I’ve listened to more sermon
hours than it takes time to get an M.Div. And my older kids will tell you, I’ve
certainly preached enough sermons. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But I am a Reverend Mother because motherhood is a sacred
calling. Each time I choose to lay down <b>ME</b>
to listen to my kids, to guide them, to weep with them or for them, to love
them without return, I’m doing the sacred. It’s something close to holy.
Something that goes so against my inner core, my human nature, that I get a
glimpse of the miraculous.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So I will hold my head high, determined to embrace my new <b>I</b>dentity<b> </b>and lay down <b>ME</b>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Sister, whether you have twenty titles or one, three
careers or one, seven kids or one, if you listen, guide, weep, love, and lay
down your <b>ME</b> for your kids or your
step-kids, so are you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Embrace the title with me. Say it with me. Out loud. Head
held high. <b>I am a Reverend Mother.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<i>So Sister, what did
you want to be when you grew up? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-92045692481336382112013-05-21T10:35:00.000-04:002013-05-21T10:35:57.726-04:00The Lie (What's Wrong with Me?)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've written it before. I'll write it again. I've said it before. I'll say it again.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sexual Abuse creates lies.</span><br />
<br />
And those lies, according to my survivor friends, are more destructive than the abuse.<br />
<br />
I invite you to click on over to Cec Murphey's blog (<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://menshatteringthesilence.blogspot.com/2013/05/whats-wrong-with-me.html">Men Shattering the Silence</a>)</span> today. Cec is a New York Times best-selling author. He is also a survivor of CSA. He gives hope to millions of male survivors each week and crafts into sentences, so clearly, what many struggle to speak.<br />
<br />
Male or female, if you've ever thought <i><a href="http://menshatteringthesilence.blogspot.com/2013/05/whats-wrong-with-me.html"><span style="font-size: large;">What's wrong with me?</span></a>, </i>I know you'll find hope in his words and his new book, <br />
<br />
<h1 class="parseasinTitle " style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span id="btAsinTitle"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Not-Quite-Healed-Survivors-Childhood/dp/0825442702/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1369146360&sr=8-1&keywords=not+quite+healed"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;">Not Quite Healed: 40 Truths for Male Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse<span style="font-weight: normal;">.</span></span></a></span></h1>
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lJnUIvxOjPESpTtgmt58u0ivx1_n7qhqCsIBE51QJcuRI2SgxU3gcCzDMTzTcF3aOpnUKGG8fUgA8UmJ26bnd6WYyYjdzYTKM6_PXx-p4rsyog8tdmCtH2WN8KEN6HZoxKTxeZ5oJVw/s1600/41S9-dvLnKL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lJnUIvxOjPESpTtgmt58u0ivx1_n7qhqCsIBE51QJcuRI2SgxU3gcCzDMTzTcF3aOpnUKGG8fUgA8UmJ26bnd6WYyYjdzYTKM6_PXx-p4rsyog8tdmCtH2WN8KEN6HZoxKTxeZ5oJVw/s1600/41S9-dvLnKL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-22929137132941607162013-05-16T06:00:00.000-04:002013-05-16T06:35:09.791-04:00One Parenting Thing I'm Sure of . . . No, Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had a half-day of school, so we took a walk. I learned a
lot as we walked, she talked, and I listened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42Dv5BCLvwU5cpMNZ8dBV_9gxWIpOU81e2Y0eNQhxR8CFNCE8r2J_nFqGTBZUThbXBVdsWzg_24SHPf2Lk0zyUYblGltsLaGHxxV0bN6ksUUY6ERtMOtQ-0aZn9IHgYPkJt14fuSYmfU/s1600/ID-10063273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42Dv5BCLvwU5cpMNZ8dBV_9gxWIpOU81e2Y0eNQhxR8CFNCE8r2J_nFqGTBZUThbXBVdsWzg_24SHPf2Lk0zyUYblGltsLaGHxxV0bN6ksUUY6ERtMOtQ-0aZn9IHgYPkJt14fuSYmfU/s320/ID-10063273.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Ambro/FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish I could tell you when my older children had a
half-day that I walked with them and listened too. But I can’t remember any
specific walks—true confessions from a mother parenting for the second time
around. Some of my children have grown up. So have I. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now mid-life has given me a few more kids. I am parenting
the children of another. I’ve had some time to examine some of my moma failures and
successes. And, yes, there are some things I want to change, like time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is nothing like time-spent in developing a
relationship with someone, to truly know and be known. Relationships take time.
Yet life is busy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps you have to work from nine to five or from three to
eleven, or from eleven to seven. You have to provide. Food and clothing are
necessities. I get that. No condemnation here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But two things I’m convinced of, after nearly twenty-six
years of parenting, are that time spent listening to a child is never wasted
and that the only way to have a relationship with a child is to spend time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><b>Prevention Tip of the Week</b> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Children who are in a
relationship with their parents, one where they are known and heard, are less
likely to be targeted by a pedophile. Those who chose to violate children like
lonely kids. Yes, food and clothing are necessities, but relationships are too. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-79576609605379184202013-05-14T06:00:00.000-04:002013-05-14T06:00:06.911-04:00It’s Not Over When It’s Over (Part 2) <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="text-opnggraf" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">by Dawn Scott Jones</span></div>
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Sexual abuse is one of the most devastating traumas a person can experience. A
survivor’s life is scarred in ways that go beyond our comprehension. Once abuse
is over and the survivor is out of danger, she is left with the devastating
aftermath abuse.<u5:p></u5:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Perhaps you’ve seen it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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You’re in a relationship with a woman who has been wounded by sexual assault.
You want to help her, but you’re not sure how.<u5:p></u5:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">When sexual abuse
happens, it shatters trust and the ability <i>to trust.</i> It destroys feelings
of security. Because the abuse is usually done at the hands of someone older or
more powerful and against the child’s will, she is<b> </b>left stripped of her
boundaries—feeling powerless, vulnerable and fearful. She’s been
intimidated—her self-confidence, decimated. And since a child is too
young to place responsibility where it belongs—on the abuser—she blames and
belittles herself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Regardless of the form
of abuse suffered, whether a single experience or a lengthy season, the woman
experiences a<b> </b>wounding invasion—a molestation of her mind and soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Well in adulthood,
survivors struggle with:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• Shame and guilt<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• A sense of worthlessness and damaged self-esteem<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• Fear, anxiety, and panic attacks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• Sleep disturbances and eating disorders<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• Impaired memory and flashbacks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• Fear of trust and intimacy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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• Depression and suicidal thoughts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">These plaguing symptoms persist because most survivors try to ignore the abuse
committed against them and repress their emotions. Confused and bewildered,
survivors often are unequipped to interpret or process the intensity of emotion
that’s present: pain, rage, fear, panic, guilt, shame or pleasure. Emotional
circuitry is overloaded.<u5:p></u5:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Rather than process the
trauma, many abuse victims shut down their feelings and go emotionally numb to
mentally survive. Tragically, they grow-up disconnected from their feelings,
unable to experience the full spectrum of emotions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">As one survivor put it;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“I’m afraid that
if I start to cry I’ll never be able to stop or if I start to “feel” I’ll fall
into a black hole and never find my way out.” <u5:p></u5:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Learning to feel,
however, is the beginning of healing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">When the dam breaks and
emotions are allowed to come, survivors are faced with a decision to walk the
healing journey or find other suppressive, unhealthy methods of coping with
emotional upheaval.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"> If healing is
chosen, the process of wholeness will include stages of healing such as:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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1. Denying the truth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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2. Deciding to heal<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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3. Surviving crisis <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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4. Remembering<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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5. Choosing to tell<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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6. Releasing responsibility<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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7. Finding the inner child<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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8. Grieving loss<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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9. Expressing anger<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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10. Forgiving<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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11. Resolving the conflict<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Choosing to heal is
excruciating at times, but the journey is life-giving. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">If you’re a survivor,
take the hand of Jesus and trust him as you walk into the light. Remind
yourself that you are safe now, and you can start to feel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">If you support a
survivor, help her recognize and feel the damage that was done to her.
Encourage her to be honest about the pain of her sexual abuse, and to choose
wholeness. Her healing is possible, and with your love and help she can
explore the depths of her wounds and begin recovery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="color: #339966; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Dawn</span></em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To read more, please read Dawn's book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/When-Woman-You-Love-Abused/dp/0825429757/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1368467733&sr=8-1&keywords=when+a+woman+you+love+was+abused">When a Woman You Love Was Abused</a>. </i>Thank you, Dawn, for sharing your wisdom with us. We are truly blessed and encouraged by you and your work.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQpdIfcaCwhz_Qsu5Zj7jjtvB7gNtJHsmZbUgYIIubS9t-LZ0NXYwz3-UTyzaaXZVhEbVx7bpPk0SEQPfNwNSmfKKz3VOZ8fnk76O7q3sD99YYNoFGw_pyXZWDOCYwRkdlibOyhcNem4/s1600/512MSI8J8dL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_SX240_SY320_CR,0,0,240,320_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-15889501280707312792013-05-09T06:00:00.000-04:002013-05-09T06:00:08.464-04:00A Little Man, a Yellow Bus, and a BIG Attitude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ben was only five years old and three foot nothing. But on
this day, he had the confidence of a six-foot-three, two hundred pound male.<br />
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He stood next to his four year old little sister, Anna, by
the front door. We watched her bus pull up to the curb. I opened the door to
let Anna walk out and Ben slipped right out with her. “Ben, where are you
going?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With one hand on his hip and the other around Anna’s
shoulder, he said, “I’m walking her to the bus. No one’s gonna pick on my
sister!”</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1slRGrUc_4wzn_BQmFU3Y9J-2oqtz4P8fEcsQ1P_WXPLqZpejrQmiGncpt32ZJiwoP6GRjSPfrE37xCcdHZ4SREjRhoh5o5x-xgAXotmDeM2txr-J95ZFp4YAqLf6wH9egQ3ma3uwv5g/s1600/ID-10015177.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1slRGrUc_4wzn_BQmFU3Y9J-2oqtz4P8fEcsQ1P_WXPLqZpejrQmiGncpt32ZJiwoP6GRjSPfrE37xCcdHZ4SREjRhoh5o5x-xgAXotmDeM2txr-J95ZFp4YAqLf6wH9egQ3ma3uwv5g/s320/ID-10015177.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Arvind Balaraman/FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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It was one of those Moma-proud moments.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My heart was already weary for Anna’s future. Starting her
in home speech therapy at age two and now sending her out to a therapeutic
nursery school was more than I was ready for. To make matters worse, that <b>BIG</b> little
yellow school bus just seemed to swallow her up each morning and spit her out
each afternoon. And when she had come home in tears the day before and had told
me in broken sentences that someone had teased her, I was done. So done! My Moma
heart hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I never noticed Ben had taken it all in. He had remembered
Anna’s tears from the day before and when that BIG little yellow school bus
pulled up, he was ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I continued to watch in amazement from the door. He marched his
attitude and his sister safely up to the bus door and said, “Bye.” Then he
stared at the bus, hands on his hips, as it drove away. His mission
accomplished.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know if Ben’s presence made an impression on the
teaser on the bus, but I do know the teasing stopped.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I also knew that I wasn’t the only one who was concerned
about protecting Anna. She had a <b>BIG </b>older brother who would be watching out
for her too. And my Moma heart danced.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><b>This weeks prevention tip:</b></o:p></div>
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<i>It’s a lonely place, attempting
to protect our kids by ourselves. But we don’t have to do it alone. When we
speak about sexual abuse to those around us, we break the silence and draft
others on our team. Because the more we speak about it, the more others know
about it. And when we work together, we protect our kids better.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-77942041692498071792013-05-07T06:00:00.000-04:002013-05-07T06:00:06.612-04:00It’s Not Over When It’s Over (Part 1) <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today, we welcome Dawn Scott Jones, author of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/When-Woman-You-Love-Abused/dp/0825429757/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1367883346&sr=8-2&keywords=When+a+woman+you+love+has+been+abused">When a Woman You Love Was Abused</a>.</i><br />
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZTduXWiP2vkIWJ80k88nFcejGhyckK1VndaefomV4y8vBuOCR68KBiiLqmzeagStxxI0ceqm2PCFI9H_wh5bIQtb8G9vIo4Fv5YZzhRxmhnsMv-qqHxEYZvbUJIXUk-0xbhDWYyrOLg/s1600/512MSI8J8dL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click%252CTopRight%252C35%252C-76_SX240_SY320_CR%252C0%252C0%252C240%252C320_SH20_OU01_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimZTduXWiP2vkIWJ80k88nFcejGhyckK1VndaefomV4y8vBuOCR68KBiiLqmzeagStxxI0ceqm2PCFI9H_wh5bIQtb8G9vIo4Fv5YZzhRxmhnsMv-qqHxEYZvbUJIXUk-0xbhDWYyrOLg/s1600/512MSI8J8dL._BO2%252C204%252C203%252C200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click%252CTopRight%252C35%252C-76_SX240_SY320_CR%252C0%252C0%252C240%252C320_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></i></div>
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I’m a survivor of childhood
sexual abuse. I want to tell my story because I’m hopeful that by doing so, others
can draw from the insights I’ve gained and find help and comfort in knowing
that they’re not alone. Indeed we’re not
alone:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->One in three girls have encountered sexual abuse.
For boys, the generally accepted statistic is one-in-six. <b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Ninety percent of victims know their abuser. Commonly
reported abusers are fathers, stepfathers, brothers, uncles, and grandfathers. Other abusers are babysitters, teachers and
neighbors.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Until recently, I couldn’t have told you how deeply I was
affected by sexual abuse, but years later I’ve come to know that abuse is not
over, even when it’s over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>My Story</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Although I don’t have total recall, I have vivid memories of the
sexual molestation I encountered. Behind
the curtain of love and security given in my childhood home, lurked a monster—a
sexual predator. I wish I’d never known about him, but bit-by-bit the drape was
pulled back until finally I met the monster.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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He was my dad by day, but something else by night. One evening I
went to bed with the innocence of a child and the next morning I awakened with
intense shame. My father, my childhood hero, had become my abuser. The one I
looked to for protection, security, and love was the one stripping it from me. My
innocence was stolen—my sense of worth, shattered. <i>Is this all I’m made for?</i> For the next several years I questioned
my value, my abilities, and my worth. I
tried to ignore my past by stuffing my emotions and minimizing my pain. I denied
the impact of sexual abuse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But soon my body told on me; Panic attacks, depression, anxiety,
and sleep disturbance, began to plague me. Anger erupted at the slightest
perceived threat. Trust issues and intimacy fears surfaced in relationships. I
was unraveling at the seams of my soul. Although sexual abuse had been over for
years, it wasn’t over at all. I was
still a victim caught in its grip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Many survivors find themselves in a similar vice-grip. They tend
to minimize or dismiss the trauma of their abuse by reasoning, “It’s in the
past.” Or “ It wasn’t that bad.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Reality is often too devastating and overwhelming to face, so
they suppress their abusive past, hoping that the residue of trauma will
disappear with the passing of time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The psychological imprint abuse leaves on its victims, however,
is massive. Soul-wounds like these don’t just somehow mysteriously fade away
when abuse ends. On the contrary, only when abuse is over, can a survivor start
to process the event and thaw out from her emotionally frozen state. Often, this
is years later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you, or someone you know is suffering with the aftermath of
abuse, it’s not uncommon—in fact, it’s expected. Survivors question if they’ll ever
find peace. Haunting memories lurk on the peripheral of their mind and they wonder
how long they can evade them. They desire wholeness, but doubt it’s possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, the hope of healing and overcoming is alive. Survivors can experience
a healing journey and find freedom after abuse. It’s an exhilarating and
excruciatingly painful pathway, but Jesus will walk with anyone who calls on
his name. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Next week, in Part 2, we will explore what it means to find healing from
S.A.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Dawn Scott Jones<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://dawnjones.org/">Dawnjones.org</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-20380706953537080662013-05-02T12:44:00.000-04:002013-05-02T12:44:21.754-04:00And the Winners Are . . .<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We are pleased to announce the winners of our, first-ever,
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rise and Shine Movement</span> contest.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Drum roll, pahlease!</span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja35IdDeE9TDDWlZI3Wa6POQyzpA-G8I_xwJtsnqvKlqSgT5rmnsa3SYFvFLCSrZfpu7n4-chw8sHOxj8ELBkk59YkdLD8gzULQe5_1XquN6qy_k1Oma3AF5yXAsPiJbW7bytxQ9CSZtY/s1600/ID-10077458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja35IdDeE9TDDWlZI3Wa6POQyzpA-G8I_xwJtsnqvKlqSgT5rmnsa3SYFvFLCSrZfpu7n4-chw8sHOxj8ELBkk59YkdLD8gzULQe5_1XquN6qy_k1Oma3AF5yXAsPiJbW7bytxQ9CSZtY/s200/ID-10077458.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of AKARAKINGDOMS/freedigitalimages.net</span></td></tr>
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Our first place winner is <span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Verna Bowman</span>. Verna, you win an
autographed copy of <i>Rise and Shine: A
Tool for the Prevention of Childhood Sexual Abuse. </i><b>Congratulations!</b></div>
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Our second place winner is <span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Jennifer Willard Kurtgis.</span> Jennifer,
you win the <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">beautiful</span> bracelet and earrings compliments of Kate Cook of <a href="http://www.skawarenessjewelry.com/">S&KAwareness Jewelry</a>. <b>Congratulations!</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank you to all who made our first contest so successful.
But more importantly, <span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">thank you to all of you</span>, who raised their voices and
raised awareness during <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Childhood Sexual Abuse Awareness Month. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: x-large;">When we speak about
sexual abuse, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: x-large;">we lessen its power<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: x-large;"> over children and survivors.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We will <span style="color: blue;">not </span>shut up.
We will <span style="color: blue;">not</span> be silenced. Together <span style="color: blue;">we make</span> a difference.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">*Verna and Jennifer, please contact me at <a href="mailto:Carolyn@RiseAndShineMovement.org">Carolyn@RiseAndShineMovement.org</a> with your addresses. Thank you.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-88606114320060629222013-04-25T06:00:00.000-04:002013-04-25T06:00:11.412-04:00Your Fifth Chance to Protect Children and Win a Prize (Poster #5)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Remember, I want you to be free to be
everything you were created to be.</b><b><span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">Sexual abuse damages a child’s
heart, mind, and soul. It takes away a child’s voice, their ability to trust,
their sense of worthiness, their freedom to become all they were created to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">We take many actions to protect
our children from harm, car seats, safety latches, bike helmets, etc… And
actions often speak louder than words. But we can never go wrong adding words
to our actions. “</span><b>Remember, I
want you to be free to be everything you were created to be”</b><span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> are
precious words our children </span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">(no matter their age)</span><span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> need
to hear. They help you build a strong, sturdy bridge of communication with your
kids when you speak with them about sexual abuse. Speak them often, so your
children’s hearts can hear the whisper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">This week's poster</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkumd9jW0ARpwDnp-t7qRRb8uY5t7cM4_HYt8muFngu-K2wltmOxmDAFdxPsqnxYi13mu5bJn0vRb2BWeNAu2UNsU7b7al_3IezOAJ07YAEbxCgYWrXXU1X-Kq7JWn651sb7BSGRkH3Kk/s1600/Rob,+blog+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkumd9jW0ARpwDnp-t7qRRb8uY5t7cM4_HYt8muFngu-K2wltmOxmDAFdxPsqnxYi13mu5bJn0vRb2BWeNAu2UNsU7b7al_3IezOAJ07YAEbxCgYWrXXU1X-Kq7JWn651sb7BSGRkH3Kk/s400/Rob,+blog+poster.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Please see</span> <a href="http://tamarsredemption.blogspot.com/2013/03/your-chance-to-protect-child-and-win.html" style="color: #9f3535; text-decoration: none;">contest rules</a> <span style="color: #6aa84f;">and help us protect kids by sharing our poster/s on Facebook (</span></b><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement" style="background-color: transparent; color: #9f3535; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration: none;">https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement</a>)</span><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">, </span><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Twitter</span><span style="color: #6aa84f;"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.222222328186035px;">(</span></b><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;"><a href="https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove" style="color: #9f3535; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration: none;">https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove</a><span style="font-size: 12.222222328186035px;">)</span></span></span><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">, and Pinterest </span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">(</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove" style="color: #9f3535; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove</span></a></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">)</span><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">.</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b> </b><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When we work together, </span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">we can protect more children.</span></span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;">Thank YOU!!!</span></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-15718695484296403032013-04-23T06:00:00.000-04:002013-04-23T21:25:14.911-04:00Friendship, The Adventure Continues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">“You know that girl I was
telling you about? We were in the bathroom for a while chatting about stuff.
You know, the stuff nobody really tells each other. We cried. It was great!” My
daughter said.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINTVa_MlA0g3H7WPGlfFluGeOom4NG0NP2VtxeL9Rd0-TFXXWnIaEnv70qrH3F1VciMK0B_d1_BCfn8po1Cm84biQjOiOecl2LNYmll9TLc_NDhi2RL_75o0RqsX3Qt-EHEDnZDYW2Rk/s1600/ID-10085091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINTVa_MlA0g3H7WPGlfFluGeOom4NG0NP2VtxeL9Rd0-TFXXWnIaEnv70qrH3F1VciMK0B_d1_BCfn8po1Cm84biQjOiOecl2LNYmll9TLc_NDhi2RL_75o0RqsX3Qt-EHEDnZDYW2Rk/s320/ID-10085091.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image courtesy of Chaiwat/freedigitalphoto.net</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">I smiled. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I know she’s on a new friendship adventure—one
that will be touched with giggles, joy, perhaps some pain, maybe some disappointment,
and </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">hopefully personal growth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I’m thankful she has this new
friend at school. She’s been cautious. She’s slow to trust. And in the words of
Anne of Green Gables, all she really desires is “A bosom friend, a really
Kindred Spirit.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When I relayed the above to
my husband, he didn’t skip a beat. “I hope this friend can be trusted.” He’s a
cautious one too. A private dude. He has
one best friend. He’s also protective of his girls. A tender dude. He rarely understands
the girl drama, but he cares. He hurts when they hurt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I have another daughter who
has a new best friend on a regular basis. Oh, she doesn’t necessarily abandon
the old best friends, she loves them all. She is happiest when everyone loves
her. She can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t love her. The more friends the
better. She trusts easily, too easily. And her heart gets broken sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Then my husband and I both
hurt because she hurts. So we talk about friendship with her and ask questions.
“What do you think makes a good friend? What did you learn from this
friendship? What can you do differently next time?” And<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">“What makes a friend trustworthy?”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Webster
defines trust as “assured<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> </span></span><span class="ssens"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">reliance on the
character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something</span>” or</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;"> “</span></span><span class="ssens"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">one in which confidence
is placed</span>.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="ssens"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">It defines friend as “one
attached to another by affection</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></span><span class="ssens"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">or
esteem</span>,” or “</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">a favored companion</span>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">I think my definition of a trustworthy friend has
been a little more complicated at times. In my younger years, a trusted friend was
someone who I could be completely comfortable with, completely myself with,
share my secrets with, and never worry that she was going to hurt or disappoint
me <b>in any way. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">*Please note the emphasis on what she does for me—on
her being perfect. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">*Please do not note the lack of emphasis on me. I thought I
was, well, the perfect friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">Pssp . . . listen closely. I got a free pass. She
needed to get it right or I’d take my toys and go home. You hurt me. I’m
done!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">Ah,
the passage of time, the</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> giggles, joy,
pain, disappointment, and personal growth that has stretched my thinking. The <b>humility</b> of accepting that I hurt
others, even if I didn’t intend to, has softened my heart. The <b>grace</b> that I’ve received when I’ve
asked for forgiveness has soothed my soul. I am <b>free </b>to focus more on what I bring to a friendship rather than what
I expect in a friend. I don’t like the hurt and disappointment that comes with
human friendship (I think this is why some people prefer dogs.), but I do
expect it. And that paradigm shift in my thinking has made me a better friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I hope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years teach the teachable.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> So
I pray my girls become teachable, that with each friendship, they learn—something
about friendship—something about themselves. I want them to learn how to trust
without demanding perfection. Understand how to give grace. Receive grace. But
also know when it’s time to go home. Because sadly, there are some people who
are not trustworthy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">My husband and I will still
hurt when our girls hurt. We’ll talk with them about friendship and continue
to ask questions.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 15pt;"> </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">What does a
trustworthy friendship look like?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">How do you give
grace, receive grace, yet know when it’s time to go home?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">Pssp . . . comments
are welcomed and replied to. But I can't promise answers. I'm a friend in training. :)<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt;">Trust is a
hot button for survivors, as it should be—a sacred trust was broken. But that
doesn’t mean that survivors have to live without trust—without friends. My
survivor friends will tell you, it hasn’t been easy. The years teach the
teachable. And learning to trust has been worth the risk.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-51111174597002293532013-04-18T06:00:00.000-04:002013-04-18T06:00:12.438-04:00Your Fourth Chance to Protect Children and Win a Prize (Poster #4)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;"><br />Remember,
No Matter What, We Will Always Love You.</span><span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">We take many actions to protect
our children from harm, car seats, safety latches, bike helmets, etc… And
actions often speak louder than words. But we can never go wrong adding words
to our actions. </span><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 18.0pt;">“Remember, no matter what, we will always love you,”</span><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span><span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">are
precious words our children </span><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;">(no matter their age)</span><span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> need
to hear. They help you build a strong, sturdy bridge of communication with your
kids when you speak with them about sexual abuse. Speak them often, so your
children’s hearts can hear the whisper.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #550000; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: large;">This week's poster</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_Y0GCc8rXCADT39qthsANoFIpdB-aGII5w2BrBVSaG5tu-dLf74fKDyxdJplD-G7lCj-hBQYuYiCJTsq8wZiLkx9vqWVszLGc7BF8K-w2C7bTH9wb7cYbo49sXgZ0ltzThf3FYqMQHs/s1600/April+give-away+photos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_Y0GCc8rXCADT39qthsANoFIpdB-aGII5w2BrBVSaG5tu-dLf74fKDyxdJplD-G7lCj-hBQYuYiCJTsq8wZiLkx9vqWVszLGc7BF8K-w2C7bTH9wb7cYbo49sXgZ0ltzThf3FYqMQHs/s320/April+give-away+photos.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Please see</span> <a href="http://tamarsredemption.blogspot.com/2013/03/your-chance-to-protect-child-and-win.html" style="color: #9f3535; text-decoration: none;">contest rules</a> <span style="color: #6aa84f;">and help us protect kids by sharing our poster/s on Facebook (</span></b><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement" style="background-color: transparent; color: #9f3535; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration: none;">https://www.facebook.com/RiseAndShineMovement</a>)</span><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">, </span><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Twitter</span><span style="color: #6aa84f;"></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.222222328186035px;">(</span></b><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;"><a href="https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove" style="color: #9f3535; font-size: 12pt; text-decoration: none;">https://twitter.com/RiseNShineMove</a><span style="font-size: 12.222222328186035px;">)</span></span></span><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">, and Pinterest </span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">(</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove" style="color: #9f3535; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">http://pinterest.com/RiseNShineMove</span></a></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">)</span><b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">.</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b> </b><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When we work together, </span></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">we can protect more children.</span></span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-size: medium;">Thank YOU!!!</span></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3054709894957561408.post-29700955714007572762013-04-16T06:00:00.000-04:002013-04-16T06:00:10.742-04:00If I Could Save Friendships in a Bottle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I remember our giggles in the tub. We filled the lid from the shampoo bottle with shampoo and pretended it was an egg. We took turns cracking it over each
other’s heads and dumping the slimy liquid on top of our hair. It oozed down
the sides of our heads like egg whites separating from a yoke. We thought it
was hysterical. What a silly memory.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But honestly, I hardly remember much about my best friend
from elementary school, her likes, her dislikes, her secrets. And I don’t
remember the day when our friendship ended. There wasn't a disagreement. There weren't tears. We just hit Jr. High and she went one way and I another. We ran into each other at a wedding a few
years ago and reminisced briefly, but at the end of the evening, I went home,
and I assume she did too. We haven’t spoken since.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t feel sadness when I think back about what we had. It
was innocent. It was fun. Our friendship served its purpose in both of our
lives, but we grew apart. These things happen. We both moved on to different
friends, different experiences. And I’m sure that each friend we've had since
has grown us and stretched us in different ways, molding and shaping us into
who we are today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some friendships come. Some friendships go. If I could save
friendships in a bottle, I think I’d choose not to. Because I think friendships
were meant to be poured out, flowing over, each friend desiring God’s best for
the other, through the joys and the sorrows, the together times and the separate
times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUA_x-TITYKqA656lvkFkTegA1eo1GCuYhigj4MM56Lelqv2JiCV_raCPV0yYLGpCO33Jvp6ytsoYuDSf-erygkuPw56fvsUVKdNGxY4rEHDjhpPNJpktWS3QZpT80ymaTlxaNjxyEpmo/s1600/ID-10020194.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUA_x-TITYKqA656lvkFkTegA1eo1GCuYhigj4MM56Lelqv2JiCV_raCPV0yYLGpCO33Jvp6ytsoYuDSf-erygkuPw56fvsUVKdNGxY4rEHDjhpPNJpktWS3QZpT80ymaTlxaNjxyEpmo/s320/ID-10020194.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image appears courtesy of Paul/freedigitalphotos.net </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And filled with giggles and silly memories.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>I love my survivor
friends. There are few topics we can’t explore. Recently, we've been discussing friendships. What do healthy friendships look like? When
are they toxic? </i></div>
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<i><b>What ingredients do you think belong in a healthy friendship?</b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12496903539850226981noreply@blogger.com0