The Search

Small decisions weaving our lives.

The fabric of our universe being mended by humans’ decisions.

Our lives are worth more than pleasure for the moment, more than working, eating, sex, sleep.

I want to connect to my Jesus. I want to spend time with Him in meditation.

Yet, I digress. Is it due to fear?

Fear of missing something. Fear of not connecting even though I’ve tried. Fear of getting close and then falling away again. Fear of needing to change the way that I’m living. Fear of being called out in love. Fear of looking for Jesus and finding a mirror and staring back at myself, disappointed.


Image result for searching painting


Artwork: “Searching” by Rudy¬†Panucci



The people chanted, “You’re a dreamer!”

I cried for a moment, then raised my head.


The winds whispered, “You’ll never make it.”

I shivered, then put on my coat.


Image result for determination painting

Painting cred: Determination by Julie Rogers



I’m going to see my King today.

I brush my hair, thinning and damaged.

He’ll welcome me with loving arms, kind eyes, a Father’s heart.

I look around my chamber for a gift to bring.

All I have is my pain wrapped in a tattered brown box.

It’s not the kind of gift I wish to bring His Majesty, but I know

Because He loves me, He will gladly take my bottle of frozen tears.

A familiar, warm wave consumes me from head to toe.

I slip my bruised and crooked feet into slippers made of crystal.

Button my gown made of silk, covering the deep wounds on my chest.

I hear my drums. My entrance song reverberates from inside my chest and echoes throughout the Palace halls.

I pick up my box, adjust my crown ever so slightly to the left in a mirror that shines as though it were more of a lamp than a looking glass.

I step out of my chamber.

My escorts there waiting.

We walk. My heart increases time as the drums follow suit.

Through the courtyard, up the stairs. I can see the train of His robe. It fills His temple with Glory.


Image result for red headed princess painting



Tragedy is relative. It can range from losing a child to being a prisoner of war. You may perceive a divorce or an affair as a tragedy. Perhaps your tragedy is monetary, being completely helpless and without. No tragedy is easy to overcome.

Without looking to any professional resources for assistance, and at the risk of being completely inaccurate, I would define tragedy as a circumstance in which one loses complete control and sense of comfort. It is a place in time when a person is violently stripped of something they once held dear. It is a time of shock, apprehension and disbelief. It shakes you to your core and makes you second guess all that you thought you stood for and believed.

A tragedy may even be getting drunk for the first time after five years of sobriety. It is tragic because this person has been stripped of their most upheld accomplishment in their lifetime; robbed by their worst enemy. At this moment in time, decisions have to be made and a vast array of self-offending emotions need to be sorted out, organized, and dealt with.

The emotional experience of a tragedy reminds me of when I decide I’m going to clean out my closet. It seems like an awesome idea at 10am on a Saturday. Yet, when 1pm hits, and I’m completely over it, I want to stop. I want to go back to 10am and not even begin this process. But, I can’t. The reason I can’t is because every piece of clothing, every printed 4×6 picture and every holiday decoration I own is now laid out on my bed, which of course, is the one place I want to rest.
In this moment, I have two choices.
First, I can either decide to complete the tedious task and slowly work through all of by belongings to ensure they are put back properly. This is the best option, but please don’t get me wrong. Even if I decided to go this route, there may be a small pile of what-nots that I pile up in the corner because I have no idea what to do with them. This is never a seamless or perfect process.
Secondly, I could throw everything back in the closet completely unorganized and have trouble accessing everything for the months to come. My last choice is one that I believe most people choose when it comes to tragedy.
The last option is to leave everything on the bed and start sleeping on the couch. After all, if I can’t see it, it’s as if it is not there.

One of the most beautiful parts of tragedy is its ability to set us on a figurative mountain top. Here, one can look down at their entire life. Every ledge they had to straddle over can be seen and remembered. The rivers that you were supposed to swim through, but instead walked along for miles, glisten down below as only a miniature model or a glimmer of what was once seen. During tragedy, our past becomes emphasized in such a way that it sometimes can not be ignored. That is, unless, we put effort into ignoring it.

My mountain top experience seemed much like a musical crescendo. My soundtrack was emotion inflicting, and entrapping. Then, rhythm escalated, volume increased, and cymbals crashing until silence swept the orchestra. I was pregnant, newly married due to the pregnancy, and my abusive husband was living a lifestyle of a single swinger, who had no concern or respect for the law regarding legal and illegal sexual or domestic acts. In this moment, with my family not understanding what I was going through, my friends being removed from my life due to the violence, and my faith having been “uninstalled” by choice for the last 10 years, I was in my time of tragedy.

There I was at the mountain top. I guarantee you that if I weren’t pregnant, I would have killed myself. So, rather than throwing myself from the most rigid peak, I had to survey the land and choose to camp there, walk back to where I came from or walk down the other side- uncharted territory. As I looked back from whence I came, I saw a lot. But then again, during that past era, I drank a lot, too.


Stale cereal.

Watery coffee.

I’m so thankful.

I’ve had much less.


Messy home.

Dirty car.

I sleep well.

My son is safe.



Image result for thankful painting

Two Souls Tearing

Something is very wrong with our society.

We take children from their parents who love them.

God never designed parenthood to include the tearing apart of a child from their parent.

It’s a tearing of one soul from another at an age much too young.

I still have nightmares that I can’t find my son, though he sleeps 20 feet away from me.

My abuser threatened many times to take him away from me.

I thought I saw him at a store once and went into a full blown panic attack because surely, he was there to take our son.

Yet I’ve done the same thing to him in order to protect our son from his abusive ways, to ensure his childhood is not a platform for a life of pain and recovery. I know that hurt too well.

I wonder if it hurts a father as much as it hurts a mother. Is it still a tearing of two souls?

I chase my son and search for him in my dreams. I experience fugue states where I don’t think he’s safe, although he is.

Something is very wrong with our society.

We take children from their parents who love them.

God never designed parenthood to include the tearing apart of a child from their parent.

Yet, without these systems, some children would not be safe.

Tear to protect. Preserve happy childhoods. Our pain will pass.



Image result for painting of child custody case