He Pulled Me Up by Barbara Waters Scott

Even though I received a scholarship and achieved the Dean's list with all A's, I dropped out of college on the first day of Easter vacation. It was also my twenty-first birthday and the middle of my junior year. My parents gave me a surprise birthday party, trying to cheer me up, but I was crying inside. Outwardly I had reached the point of no emotion. My condition especially upset my mother, who said when I told her about wanting to end my life, "The good Lord won't let you do a thing like that. He gave you life. It is His right to take it away."

My mother suffered a lot because of me. I often told her that I felt like the "living dead", that there was no meaning to life, that within a few months I would either be in a mental institution or a grave. But Mother kept saying, "I know everything will work out for the best. The Lord is letting this happen for a purpose."

Even though I was deeply depressed, I knew I was a Christian. The summer before I dropped out of school, my steady boyfriend rejected me for another girl. Hate and bitterness consumed me. It was then that I read the paperback Peace With God by Billy Graham. Not long afterward, I watched a televised crusade, which ended in my accepting Christ as Savior.

But I didn't make Jesus my Lord. When I returned to college, I returned to my old life—seeking pleasure and recognition. This lifestyle clashed with my newfound spiritual insight and resulted in a deep depression. I could not concentrate on my studies and withdrew from all relationships. It was then I decided to leave school until I could resolve my conflicts.

My mother had a friend who knew the supervisor of the psychiatric ward at the county hospital. Since the doctors were residents who charged a minimal fee, many people were on the waiting list. I was told that the fastest way for me to get help was to enter the hospital and later be put on outpatient care. Me? In a psychiatric ward? The very thought was humiliating. But I was desperate—I hadn't stopped thinking about taking my life, even though I hadn't actually harmed myself. I was so afraid of myself that I consented to admission. The doctor assured me the ward was not a "funny farm" and the patients were no different in outward appearance than anyone who might be seen in a department store crowd.

After the ward door was locked behind me, I realized that he had failed to tell me how emotionally disturbed the patients really were. One pretty sixteen-year-old girl, who felt her parents had given her everything but love, had tried to leap out a window. An older woman, who bore the scars of deep razor cuts on her throat and wrists, told me that her children had found her just in time. She had been recently divorced by a man whom she loved very much and who left her for another woman after thirty years of marriage. The worst case I saw while I was there was a former school teacher who had shot herself in the arm while attempting suicide. She entered in a catatonic state, not realizing who or where she was. She sat immobile and never spoke a word.

These were the kind of people that I had heard existed, but they never seemed real. Now I realized that this situation could happen to anyone. I was thankful that I had walked in instead of being carried. I also understood that my suffering was not as severe in comparison, as I had thought it was.

My doctor confessed that he could not work any miracles, that I was the one who had to do the changing if anything was to change, that I had a "right to my feelings". After I confided in him, I felt some relief, but I knew that I should never become dependent upon him.

When he told me the last week in July that he was taking a vacation for a month, my heart sank. I still hadn't stopped contemplating suicide. Although I had been seeing the doctor on an outpatient basis for several weeks and attending the last six weeks of summer school, I wasn't sure I wanted to return to school in the fall, because of the fear I might have to drop out again.

Then I received a phone call from Dan, a friend from college. He asked me for a date. I accepted. I had always enjoyed Dan's company. He never seemed to worry about anything and was consistently in a happy mood.

I felt I could trust Dan, so I confided in him. He told me that he had undergone a similar experience. He said that like many freshmen he came to college for fun. After his sophomore year, he began wondering what the future held for him. He realized he was unhappy as a business major, but he didn't want to "change horses in the middle of the stream." He went through a period of depression, also. Finally, a friend took an interest in him, and they talked a lot about the Christian life. Dan had considered himself a Christian, but he had never comprehended what completely surrendering one's life to Christ could do. This friend told him about a "quiet time", an early morning period of Bible study and prayer. Dan said that just fifteen minutes a day were valuable enough to give him the personal inspiration he needed. He said that the Bible, "God's inspired word," was actually the revelation of God Himself. Then Dan suggested that I try reading it on a regular basis.

So I started waking up fifteen minutes earlier each day. Often I had to force myself to get up, because I began making up excuses why that extra fifteen minutes sleep was necessary. Arising early and spending the time in fellowship with God was worthwhile. My mind gradually began to clear. "Principles in this book actually make sense. They can apply to me here and now," I thought.

One verse in particular was meaningful. I read Proverbs 3:5-6: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." I realized I had never completely trusted the Lord enough to turn all areas of my life, including my problems, over to Him. I recalled as analogous occurrence. After trying to rise on water skis for two summers, I finally succeeded. I understood at last that the boat must pull me up and that I had been trying to pull up by my own power. As I remembered, I prayed, "Lord, You are like that boat. All the time I've been resisting You and trying to make it on my own. Please "pull me out of the water!" Suddenly I experienced a tremendous sense of relief.

Truly surrendering myself to the Lord's will made all the difference in my life. I could actually live life for the first time. I found pleasure in simple things—a quiet sunrise, a glorious sunset. My perception of my surroundings deepened and enabled me to write poetry. I could share Christ in a natural, relaxed way. Christ's Spirit caused me to care more about others and their needs. I found a "spiritual family" in a local church. My life took on new meaning and purpose.

Although I will never completely understand why this experience happened, to me, it definitely made me depend upon the Lord. The psychiatrist could only enable me to see that I needed to change. I had to do the changing, and I did it in God's power. I know now that I needed Him to pull me up, to bring me to my feet so that I could ride the waves. With this knowledge, I can face whatever obstacles may be ahead, whatever course is laid for me.

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February 29, 1980

Mr. Roger C. Palms, Editor
Decision Magazine
1300 Harmon Place
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55403

Dear Sir,

The enclosed manuscript is the result of many hours of revising and rewriting* Hopefully, the work spent on my English degree at Texas Christian University has contributed to a well-written copy.

The story itself has been ten years in the offing. During that time period I represented my city in the state final of the Miss America Pageant, taught high school, married, and had two children. My husband Lyndell and I are presently members of MacArthur Blvd. Baptist Church in Irving, where he is a deacon.

My goal in submitting this testimony is that the Lord Jesus be glorified. He is the one who delivered me and who is blessing my life.

Yours in Christ,

Barbara Scott

Gotta Love Being Triggered

I should have stayed off social media today. In back to back posts on my Facebook feed, I read about one woman's reasons for changing her stance on abortion, and another woman's account of accidentally starving her first baby based on the premise "Breast is Best".

Both accounts triggered memories of Austin's Birth Story even though circumstances in the second story were completely different.

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You see, when my main doc got Austin's 20 week ultrasound results, we were told to meet with a particular obstetrician who dealt with complicated pregnancies. I just assumed something minor was wrong, and they would just be monitoring me more closely since I was almost 40.

However, apparently it was his job to give people the "really" bad news. It was his job to describe all the deformities he could already see and the challenges that would mean. It was also his job to describe all of the potential, and probable according to him, mental and physical challenges the child would have as well as the burden we would have to care for this child. It was his job to present us with all the bad things that would probably happen if we continued the pregnancy. It was his job to scare the hell out of us and convince us to have an abortion. And he would be the one to perform that abortion.

I remember being numb with shock. I remember staring at a family photo of five or six sitting on the shelf behind him thinking he could talk about killing babies without blinking an eye.

And I remember thinking, yes, I have a way out of this nightmare that we were being presented with. I have a way out of what I initially thought would be the shame in having a deformed child that would interrupt our perfectly "normal" family unit. I have a way out of a most unknown of all unknowns, caring for a medically complex child for the rest of my life.

The next moments were critical. My world pivoted and spun. I had no idea what to decide or say. And I'm not sure what my husband thought either because he was in shock as well. I don't remember if we even looked at each other.

But I do remember doing one thing. I asked the doc what the abortion would entail. And he obliged me with an answer. He began to describe in detail what would happen.

With each new piece of information about the "procedure" I began to feel more and more nauseous. Finally, I couldn't take any more information, I pushed back my chair and demanded to leave.

Everything in me wanted to get rid of what sounded like a mistake of a human being inside me while at the same time everything in me screamed, I can't be responsible for killing someone, I can't, I can't, I can't!

So we left in a hurry amidst stumbling, awkward goodbyes. The doctor told me I needed to decide soon within the next couple days because I was already 20 weeks. If I waited too long, they couldn't do it.

We drove home in silence and the rest is history.

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After Austin was born, the NICU doctor repeatedly and defiantly tried to convince us to take Austin home on what they called "comfort care". It was basically hospice status which meant to expect death within a few days. We were supposed to just hold him and give him pain meds until he passed. We were not supposed to offer him a drop of food or water. We were supposed to starve him to death.

And my initial thought again was, yes, I have a second chance and a way out of this crazy mess. I have official permission and a legitimate reason to kill my baby.

But again the longer I imagined trying to do what she wanted, the more the thought sickened me (and apparently my husband too, who became Austin's primary advocate since I was on morphine after an emergency pelvic surgery that followed Austin's birth). I had just enough awareness to know and hear what was going on, but not enough to make emphatic, declarative decisions.

But I did know I couldn't go home and not try to feed my baby. I can't be responsible for killing someone, I can't, I can't, I can't.

Smiling In The Rain

She turned and caught her husband smiling and it dawned on her that she was dancing at the sink in the kitchen to one of the Christmas songs. Well, dancing might be a little too generous, maybe more like wiggling her butt a little (or a a lot) to the beat.

As she walked into the pantry, she became aware of herself grinning. When did this happen? When did the "I feel sad" thoughts every hour, everyday shift into a dancing, grinning lunatic who is ok with life's stuff and ok to be alive?

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Typically when they were planning a trip, her first thought was to call the local non-profit nursing facility to see if she could sign up Austin for a stay. While this usually guaranteed less stress and more freedom on the trip, they were also limited to only seven nights at the facility.

Last summer, she decided she wanted to try an extended three week family vacation to the lake. This meant taking Austin with no nurses, no extra help. Just their family.

They loaded up the truck along with a special needs stroller and headed across the country on a 3 day road trip to their destination.

She was nervous and had packed as much as she could trying to anticipate anything that might be needed for Austin. It was exhausting trying to envision and plan for everything that might go wrong with a medically complex kid and then hope to be ready for it.

But they did it. She felt a little pride and excitement then that they could travel as a complete family and survive. Of course, there were a couple of road bumps like forgetting the small tanks of emergency oxygen, but they managed to make it work.

She began envisioning some kind of normalcy returning to her family.

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She lay on the beach like a starfish on its back with her eyes closed and her face towards the sky. She listened to the ocean waves pound the shore and paid attention to her breathing. She wiggled her toes and then her fingers. She noticed the bumps in the sand beneath the sheet the yoga instructor had given them.

She was glad she changed her initial no to a yes when her friend suggested a second, "Why don't you come?"

She was at the end of the class where they were supposed to try to have no thought. Just relaxation. Just experience. Just breathing.

She felt the drops first hit her nose and then her cheek. More followed on her right eyelid, her lower lip, her forehead. Eventually her state of no thought became lots of thought specifically about her tennis shoes next to her in the sand possibly getting wet. They were the only athletic shoes she had brought and nothing seemed to dry in the damp oceanside climate even inside.

She smiled and accepted how easily she could become distracted as she sat up and peeked at the instructor while discretely turning the tennis shoes upside down.

A couple seconds later the instructor ended her state of no thought and encouraged them to carefully sit up. She put her hands together in front of her heart, bowed slightly and said "namaste". They namastayed back, "the divine in me bows to the divine in you."

They all jumped up talking and giggling about the rain holding off until they were almost done. As they scurried off the beach, she said "see you tonight" to her friend and made her way down the beachside walk towards her room.

How different things seemed, she mused again as more rain came down. How light. How in-perspective. How...dare she think it...joyful. How did she rise from that place that was so dark for what seemed so long. It seemed miraculous.

Yet there she was, smiling in the rain.

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"And whether you believe in miracles or not, I can guarantee that you will experience one. It may not be the miracle you’ve prayed for. God probably won’t undo what’s been done. The miracle is this: that you will rise in the morning and be able to see again the startling beauty of the day." William Kent Krueger, Ordinary Grace

At 1:15 AM Everything In Me Screams Retreat

I was still lying awake at 1:15 am tonight with thoughts swirling through my mind, trying to force my eyes to stay shut, but ended up staring at all the LED lights that shine in our room from Austin's machines. Green, blue, red. We have them all. I try to cover as many as I can, but I usually miss a couple or they glow through the covering.

Maybe the thoughts are the result of the bowl of pasta I ate around 9:30 pm or the fact that I worked all day in the yard trimming trees so my sinuses are nice and clogged with allergies, and my eyes are constantly watering.

But, I'm awake. So I figured I might as well record my thoughts. The usual. Get them out of my head. Maybe I'll sort something out. Maybe I'll realize its all nothing. So here goes:

First, I learned something today. I learned I need to be more careful what I share and who I share with. I need to hold some things, the most important to me things, closer to my heart. Not everything needs to be "out there" especially when I feel like I'm in a state of transition, of learning, of just figuring things out.

I also learned that I read things differently. I hear things differently. I interpret things differently. And even though I can't pinpoint what that difference is, I just know that I'm getting a different message from everyone else. However, I do think the information I'm getting is in correlation with what I'm seeking. But it might not always be the message I think the author or speaker is intending. I know. It's weird. I'm probably doing it all wrong.

So it kind of hurts my heart to feel alone like this, but I also know I can't go any other direction right now. I just have to keep taking the steps in front of me. I don't know what to do with words that resonate with me especially when they seem to be in conflict with what I'm supposed to know or accept. They appear to be outside my box, yet they are so in my box right now.

So I'm at a crossroads. It originally felt like things in my world were expanding. People seemed to be responding positively to me, my words, to what I shared. And it's not that the reactions have changed. But all of a sudden, tonight, I feel like I need to reel it all back in. I need to diminish. I need to retreat, to hide.

Second, I agreed to sing at a church thing that is coming up. I was asked to sing a solo based on my singing at mom's memorial. So tonight, I'm lying here worrying I only said yes because my ego was riding high from all the compliments I got. And now I'm seriously nervous about people finding out the truth. That maybe I'm not as good as they thought. My ego has not let me back out of my commitment yet, but I'm considering it because, again, I just want to diminish, retreat and hide.

So, is it just the pasta that is making me feel this way? Is it the allergic reaction to the Mesquite tree?

Maybe I'll know more tomorrow. The day will come. The night won't be closing in around me. I'll eat more protein. Things will be clearer somehow. Or I'll feel brave again. And I'll either feel at peace with the level of openness and fearlessness I've allowed, or I won't and I'll have to figure out what to do about it.

And that's that.

Heart Surgery: A Mother's Reflections by Barbara Waters Scott

When our family doctor explained that my ten-month-old son Daniel would have to undergo cardiac tests at the Children's Medical Center, I was stunned. For once I had not expected the worst. The first two years of his older sister's life found me envisioning every cold as pneumonia, every sore muscle as polio, every high fever as spinal meningitis. Most mothers harbor fears for their children's health. Mine were extreme.

But this time, my anticipation was positive. I was certain that my son's x-rays would show that nothing was abnormal and that only allergies were causing his rattly breathing. However, the results revealed that my baby's trachea was being pressed by a swollen blood vessel. He must be hospitalized for three days of tests.

Following the examinations, my husband Lyndell and I consulted the pediatric cardiologist. "The operation involves removing the narrow area and then sewing both ends of the aorta back together," stated Dr. Johnson, as he informed us that Daniel had a fairly rare birth defect—a co-arctation of the aorta, a condition in which the main artery leaving the heart is "pinched-in". The defect causes the child's blood pressure to be higher in his upper extremities (thus the swollen vessel) and lesser in the lower parts of his body. Daniel would require heart surgery when he was four; otherwise, he could die of cardiac arrest.

Needless to say, at first I felt guilty, wondering whether anything I did during my pregnancy could have caused my child's condition. Also, anger overwhelmed me that this precious child should have to suffer through surgery; finally self-pity expressed itself in my crying a lot. These painful emotions had to be acknowledged and accepted as normal. With the help of Dan's specialist, an understanding and patient husband, and a sometimes wavering faith in God, I was able to resolve my feelings.

The next few years literally zoomed by. I was so busy caring for two small children, keeping house, and getting involved in outside interests that these years were relatively free from concern about Daniel's heart condition. After all, he looked and acted normal—except that he tired easily. Wearily he would remark, "Mommy, I'm soggy." ("Soggy" was his word for "tired".) His dad and I were grateful, however, that he had no withered limbs.

Too soon, at the end of a summer, our son's fourth birthday was imminent. A decision had to be made. Since we were planning to move into a new home, Lyndell and I decided that surgery would add an unnecessary stress factor. So we postponed the inevitable until March.

Prior to the operation I discovered a magazine article entitled "Questions to Ask Before Surgery". I copied a multitude of questions with which I later bombarded the surgeon in his office. Afterwards Dr. Adam grinned and said, "I'll be glad to meet you at the operating room door for inspection, if you like."

The day we checked Daniel into the hospital found us filling out more forms than we knew existed and meeting two other doctors: the anesthesiologist and the surgeon who was to assist. The latter was a young man, a Dr. Lowell, who repeated once again the main risk in this type of surgery— total paralysis from the neck down.

When I had first learned this risk from Dr. Adam, I could visualize myself caring for a quadraplegic for the rest of his life. It almost devastated me.

But this time I was prepared to sign the release forms. That very morning as I was reading chapter forty-one of Psalms, two verses literally leaped from the pages: the first part of verse two, "The Lord will protect him, and keep him alive," and verse three, "The Lord will sustain him upon his sickbed; in his illness, Thou dost restore him to health." Someone could have accused me of taking those verses out of context, yet it seemed as though God Himself were speaking directly to me. And so I had the strength to face this one last hurdle.

After completing all the paper work, I escorted my son, who had had his final x-rays and blood tests, to his bed in a ward. Other parents were trying to make themselves comfortable in the recliner chairs which were to serve as their beds for the night. Although a light sleeper, I was determined to stay with Daniel. He became sleepy after several stories and coloring. Since he had not yet had surgery, he did not complain when I climbed into bed beside him.

We slept, and morning came too soon. I bathed and prepped Dan for surgery. He cried because he was not allowed to eat. After Lyndell arrived, we accompanied our son to the operating room. Daniel admitted softly, "Mommy, I'm scared." I told him once again, "Even though you cannot see Him, Jesus will be in there with you." Our brave little boy, without another word, was wheeled away.

I could not pray for Dan any longer. So in the intensive care waiting room, my prayers were for the other parents. One mother said she did not know whether her child would live after stomach surgery. A father paced the floor. His son was having brain surgery.

My family and several close friends waited with us. Surprisingly, the three hours slipped by. Then Dr. Adam entered the room. He paused. "Everything wiggles."

I wanted to hug him. My sister tearfully squeezed me, and my father dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. The tension others had felt was released. Other parents were congratulating us. I now am amazed at how calm and relaxed I was during and after the ordeal. It was totally unlike me. God's sustaining grace, which answered our prayers, is the only explanation I have.

This same grace got me through the next few days. I was definitely unprepared for the intensive care unit. My four-year-old was the oldest one there. The sights and sounds of the monitoring equipment, the constant activity of the personnel, the crying of the infants as nurses pounded their backs to dislodge phlegm and encourage the coughing which would prevent pneumonia—all of these impressions are vivid even now.

My son had a drainage tube sticking out of his side. He was breathing oxygen through a plastic mask. They told me his incision was on his back. Then it was Daniel's turn to be pounded. I hurt for him. His weak attempts at coughing made me his sideline coach. "Come on, Daniel, you have to cough. Come on, you can do it."

Then he needed sleep. We visited him one other time that day. My husband stayed overnight, while I went home to rest.

The next evening, Daniel was moved to a semi-private room. His roommate was a two-year-old boy who was hospitalized for cystic fibrosis tests. The child's mother finally quieted him for the night. Daniel slept. Exhausted, I tried very hard to get comfortable in that recliner. Just as I would doze, on would come the lights, off and on for two hours—a nurse to check Dan's glucose, one for his temperature, then the pounding again. I could not take it. I phoned my husband at one in the morning; he arrived to take me home thirty minutes later.

The next few nights we allowed the nursing staff to watch our son. They did a beautiful job. At first I felt like a failure, because I really wanted to be with Daniel. But then I realized my goal deep down was to play the role of martyr mother. Daniel needed me, but not at the expense of my own well-being.

Our "baby" thrilled us with his rapid recovery. The second morning after surgery, Lyndell walked into Dan's room to find him coming out of the bathroom. "I needed to go" was his matter-of-fact explanation. The third morning Daniel's grandad witnessed a tricycle race between Daniel and a new found friend. From that point on, we were sure of a complete recuperation.

Thank God for the moments of humor thrown into a serious situation. Like the time Daniel observed a little girl loudly protesting a shot and the nurse commanding, "Take this like a little lady." Dan then declared, "I'm not going to cry. I'm going to be a little lady." Also, my son reacted with distaste for his surgeon who visited him the day after surgery. Only the day before surgery, Daniel had liked him. And when we were leaving after a week, Dan begged to go back sometime, "because they give me goodies Mommy won't".

The day we brought Daniel home, I reflected on his stay: the quiet, wide-eyed way a small child erectly sat on the bed being wheeled into surgery as if expecting to see a circus, the weakness of this very active little four-year-old in intensive care, the amazing idea of his racing a tricycle in the hospital halls only three days after surgery, his sweet response to the nurses and the many friends who visited, his eagerness to return. These many memories set into relief my own tensions, worries, and inconsistent faith. I prayed, "Lord, give me the trusting attitude of a little child."

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March 20, 1979

Mr. Arthur Gordon
Guideposts Magazine 
747 Third Avenue
New York, N. Y. 10017

Dear Sir:

As a homemaker, mother of two, and former English and biology teacher, I have had no more profound an impact upon my life than the situation which the attached manuscript relates. I hope that my struggle of faith might touch and encourage another person. Surely parents can identify with my anxieties and doubts. Perhaps there is someone who has yet to experience a crisis such as mine, but who would benefit by knowing there is a personal God who can comfort, strengthen, and even cushion by His presence a personal trial.

I humbly request that you read and accept this article.

Sincerely yours,

Barbara Waters Scott

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Did y'all know that mom and I had a couple of pretty big things in common? We both had one child born with life threatening conditions. We both had one child who experienced surgeries at an early age. We both felt the fear and discomfort of extended hospital stays with that child. We both felt compelled to write about it eventually.

It's amazing that we still managed to miss the boat connecting on a deeper level. Or maybe we did, but neither of us knew how to manifest that connection in our daily lives.

Daniel's prayer request post on Facebook reminded me that I was going to publish my mom's story that she wrote and submitted to Guideposts Magazine back in 1979. Although, it was rejected and went unpublished into a home file, I feel like her intent was to put her story out there. So I'd like to fulfill that intent for her.

Born To Be With You: A Eulogy For My Wife by Lyndell Scott

Our marriage was so improbable that God had to engineer circumstances to get a beauty queen together with a shy introverted nerd who drove a pickup with a camper on the back. That is a story for another time, and I don’t have time to tell now. Let’s just say it had its share of twists and turns.

She told me her family at first questioned her choice as she could have chosen from a number of suitors. However, it wasn’t long before I was fully accepted, and I think they came to agree with her choice.

She used to say she chose me because I already owned a home. Never knew if she was serious or not. BTW, that camper came in handy on our honeymoon.

When I said beauty queen, I literally mean it, as she was the reigning Miss Irving and had already competed in the Miss Texas pageant when I met her. The portrait of her you see on display was her official Miss Irving photo taken in 1969. The portrait was used as promotional by the photography studio and was sent to us out of the blue in 1977.

I have to admit that being a guy, I was first attracted to her by her physical beauty, but I soon learned she had inward beauty that matched her outward beauty as she loved Lord with all her heart.

It is no secret that Barbara suffered with episodes of depression before and after our marriage. However, she was able to overcome each episode and live a full and rich life except for this last episode. It lasted for several years that many of you were witnesses to which finally ended with her passing.

She was able to serve the Lord despite her on and off struggles with depression throughout her life. Remember, Elijah struggled with depression, but there was no doubt he loved the Lord and continued to serve Him. Charles Haddon Spurgeon had severe bouts of depression, but he is recognized as one of the greatest preachers of all time. Ron Dunn, who was our pastor in Texas and officiated our wedding, experienced severe depression, yet was still used of God as he was one of the greatest expository Bible teachers of our time. He wrote a book called “When Heaven is Silent” where he tells the story of his experience with depression. Barbara and I found it helpful, as did Daniel recently. If you are struggling with depression or have family members struggling, I recommend this book.

We had a good life together and were able to raise two wonderful children. Barbara was a stay at home mom so most of the credit from a human perspective for how our kids turned out goes to her as you are witnesses to. She taught and trained them well.

I could talk about Barbara’s various ministries, but you can read about those in the excellent obituary Rachel wrote. What I want to talk about is more personal. And that is how fully committed Barbara was to our marriage and to me. She lived out the biblical imperative that wives were to lovingly submit to and respect their husbands. It is only now that I have fully come to realize how well she did that.

This included changes in our finances, several moves, changing churches, and her being totally faithful to me. There is a popular country and western song titled “Stand by your Man”. The lyrics may not fit, but the title certainly does.

I was making good money when I was downsized by the company I worked for. I decided to start a business from scratch which required us moving from her dream home to the country with enough land for a workshop and having our income cut by 2/3rds. Throughout that process, she never complained nor berated me and continued to be very supportive and encouraging.

That also meant she had less contact with her friends, so she had to make new friends at our new church home. Again, she did not complain.

She would accompany me to antique stores, auctions and flea markets. I would look for furniture pieces I could restore and sell, and she would look for vintage glassware and figurines she could sell. We made a good partnership during that time.

A few years later when I decided we should change churches to a church that was located in another town, she was very supportive even though it meant giving up the ministries she was involved in at our former church.

When I became physically ill in 2001, and the doctors could not diagnose my problem, she was a tower of strength. She eventually had to do everything for me as I became worse and could do nothing for myself except lay on the sofa. She saved my life by forcing me to go to the hospital when I was within days of not making it. That’s when they finally diagnosed my problem. Our doctor confirmed how serious it was by immediately having me transported to Baylor Hospital in Dallas. You can see why it was easy and a privilege for me to be her full time caregiver during the final months of her life. She had already set the standard.

She was fully supportive when we decided to move to Arizona away from much of her family and friends. OK, this time she also had something to gain by being close to her grand kids. Again, she was a tower of strength through the drama of selling our house and buying one in Arizona. Stuff happened that caused a lot of stress on my part such that I became physically ill. She had much more faith that things would work out than I did, which they did and even better than we expected.

And finally, I would like to briefly mention her faithfulness to me and the Lord. Because she was physically attractive, she attracted a lot of male attention at parties and get togethers. Yet, I never felt any jealousy as I knew she was totally faithful and committed to me and the Lord. I guess I got a perverse enjoyment out of knowing the nerd would get to take home the beauty queen. This truth is expressed in another country/western song titled “She’s Going Home with Me”. Not all the lyrics fit, but much of them do. The song ends with these lines:

I don't have to get jealous
Just wait around and see
She made her choice, forget it boys
She's going home with me.

I would like to end with reading the lyrics of a song that expresses how I felt about Barbara. When I acquired radios and radio phonographs to restore and sell, they sometimes included record albums. One such album was by Sonny James which had a song titled “Born to be With You”. I shared it with Barbara and told her, “this is how I feel about you”. You can hear it by searching “Born to be With You” on YouTube. There are several renditions, but I much prefer the one done by Sonny James. Here are the lyrics to that song:

"Born to be With You” by Don Robertson 

By your side, satisfied
Through and through
Cause I was born to be with you 

Wondrously, love can see
So I knew that I was
Born to be with you 

Do I find peace of mind
Yes, I do, cause I was
Born to be with you 

All life through, yes
I was born to be with you

Thank You

-Lyndell Scott

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Dad gave me permission to post the eulogy he wrote and read at mom's memorial service. I asked to share because it gives a broader perspective of who she was and the impressions she left behind besides just what I experienced as a daughter. I love how my dad remembers her. I love that it is reminding me to see her and remember her the way he saw her. ❤️

At the beginning of this year, mom was hospitalized on the psych floor for not eating. She stayed a month. Dad visited her almost every day there. The hospital finally ended up discharging her and docs said there was nothing more they could do especially since she had directives for no feeding tubes, etc. They told us all we could do is take her home or put her in a group home, and that she would need 24 hour care. Dad considered a group home, but he decided against it bc he couldn’t abandon her to strangers. He felt mom would prefer to be home. And he wanted her to be home.

He proceeded to cancel all of his woodworking projects and church commitments so he would be available to her 24 hours a day. The only time he left home for the most part was to get groceries or run an errand, and only when Daniel or I was available to come sit with her during those hours.

It Is Well, It Is Well...With Her Soul: A Eulogy For My Mommy

I sat on the couch in mom and dad's house the morning of the day she ended up passing, with the old hymn "It Is Well" running through my mind. The day before, the hospice nurse had told us mom would probably only be with us another 24 hours or so.

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

I always took this song as being about contentment that translated into having a blissful, peaceful life. But once you get past the "peace like a river" it mentions "sorrows like sea billows roll".

"Sorrows like sea billows roll" can include anything from emotional turmoil, physical pain, to mental anguish. "Sorrows like sea billows roll" describes immense suffering.

This song is not about having a blissful, peaceful life, although it is about contentment. It's about assurance and a promise. It's about hope in a destination. Its about knowing deep within that there is something beyond this physical world that calls to our inner most being. It's about knowing we have a spark within in us that can and wants to respond to that calling.

And all of this in the midst of both peace AND suffering.

But for some of us, and if I'm going to be honest with you - myself at certain periods in my life, we can get to a point where our minds tell us the pain and suffering of this world is too much to bear. If we are chronically unhealthy or have experienced or are experiencing trauma, our thoughts can become irrational and erratic. We begin to think we want do anything to make it all stop.

Somehow our brains tell us lies, day in and day out. Our thoughts of hopelessness, fear and anxiety consume us. To escape the mental torment, we try to spend most of our time sleeping. And while awake we spend every hour begging God for healing, and if not healing, death.

Doctors and therapists like to diagnose it as this or that and throw some pills at it hoping they find the right cocktail. Sometimes it works.

Pastors and counselors like to assume and identify a spiritual problem and throw some prayer and scripture reading at it. Sometimes it works.

Mom’s first bout of depression occurred in her early 20s. She wrote an article that was never published about her experience. Circumstances collided that caused "sorrows like sea billows roll". As part of her quest for healing, she wrote she had accepted Christ as her Savior. However, she still briefly dropped out of college and stayed in a psychiatric ward because in her words, "I was desperate--I hadn't stopped thinking about taking my life, [and] even though I hadn't actually harmed myself. I was so afraid of myself."

She claims to have gotten some relief from her stay and subsequent therapy sessions with the doctor, but she panicked when he told her he would be going away on vacation for a month, thus ending her therapy with him. However, soon she met a new friend who came along side her and taught her how to open her Bible and have a "quiet time".

She wrote, "My mind gradually began to clear. Principles in this book actually make sense. They can apply to me here and now." She concludes the article with the following sentiment:

"Truly surrendering myself to the Lord's will made all the difference in my life. I could actually live life for the first time. I found pleasure in the simple things--a quiet sunrise, a glorious sunset. My perception of my surroundings deepened and enabled me to write poetry. I could share Christ in a natural relaxed way. Christ's Spirit caused me to care more about others and their needs. I found a spiritual family in a local church. My life took on new meaning and purpose.”

She continued:

"Although I will never completely understand why this experience happened to me, it definitely made me depend upon the Lord. The psychiatrist could only enable me to see that I needed to change. I had to do the changing, and I did it in God's power. I know now that I needed him to pull me up, to bring me to my feet so that I could ride the waves. With this knowledge, I can face whatever obstacles may be ahead, whatever course is laid for me."

As many of you may or may not know, mom struggled on and off with depression throughout her life. She overcame it many times, probably using most of the lessons she learned the first time, some medication, and a lot of Jesus.

And this last time after all medications had been tried, and whether or not her brain could rationally comprehend her physical decline, mom continued to try to express her faith. She continuously requested prayer for the depression and anxiety to leave, for the physical tremors that plagued her body for the last four years to stop, and for peace. And to the very end, mom spoke about her desire to someday go home to be with Jesus.

Based upon my experience with my son Austin, who is missing many structures in his brain, I've had to come to the conclusion that our brains have nothing to do with that innermost light or spark of life that is truly who we are. And even if something happens to us like mental illness, a tumor, a traumatic brain injury, a stroke, or dementia so that our physical manifestation in this body overshadows that spark, and the world can't identify the current state of our heart, I think the the light within us knows. And God knows that light.

It is well, it is well...with her soul.

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My dad, brother and I each spoke (well, Dad and I read ours) at mom's memorial service. This is what I wrote/said for those interested or who didn't get to attend ❤️.Dad gave me permission to also post what he wrote/said too. I'll be sharing that when I get it copied into my blog.

Please take these things we are sharing as intended: i.e. honoring her memory and declaring our love we had for her, each in our own way. I hope you see that I mention her mental illness/mental health struggles only to paint a better picture of what she had to endure and what she overcame. I'm primarily speaking to myself when I write. (And if it can help someone else, then she has another lasting legacy in addition to what people already remember her for) ❤️.

Love to all.

Dear Mommy: I'm Sorry

I had been crying for what felt like non-stop for a few days when I wrote this. Too much sadness, guilt, and regret filled my head. However, I knew that writing helps me cope with big stuff so I just sat down and unloaded what I couldn't stop thinking about. At the time, I didn't feel the need to publish. It worked its magic, and I hadn't cried much since.

Sometime towards the end of February 2018, my mom was discharged from the local hospital's psychiatric floor for the last time. The doctor basically said he couldn't do anything else for her, and his suggestion was to check her into a group home and be prepared to consider hospice services.

Dad couldn't bring himself to just drop her off somewhere with strangers so he canceled all of his church obligations and wood working projects and committed himself to her full time care. But sooner instead of later, because mom still wouldn't eat and was basically wasting away, falling and stumbling if she did get up, and talking somewhat incoherently, we decided to request hospice.

Although there were strange, surreal moments of brief hope, mom steadily declined even more over the summer. She passed away on August 14, 2018.

I guess I'm choosing to share this now because I need to work towards closure and healing, and I've found in the past that writing the private things and sharing them publicly helps me relieve the pressure of holding things in. No carrying secrets equals no carrying guilt. And I certainly don't plan to or mean to disparage any memory of her that others have, but we were "mother and daughter" to the full extent of all that entails.

-------------

March, 2018

Dear Mommy, 

I ask you if you're awake, but I get no response. You lie there pretending to be asleep. Maybe you aren't pretending, but dad says he thinks you are mostly awake during the day.

So you ignore me hoping I'll go away. Which I will. I've learned. I've learned if I continue to ask questions you will eventually loudly whine at me to leave you alone, to leave the room, to just LEAVE which hurts worse than just backing out softly after the initial question and no response.

I've decided now, I won't cause you anymore pain or stress than what you are already experiencing. I won't press a conversation. I won't beg for resolution. Your physical and mental suffering is enough without my adding to it. You suffer physically from unrelenting tremors throughout your whole body even during sleep, and I assume you suffer mentally because you describe yourself as depressed, empty inside.

I barely remember the story "of us". I'm sure there was one, right? A story of a mother who doted on her daughter, and a daughter who idolized her mother? The iconic mother/daughter relationship emerging somewhere after birth? Were we close? Did you adore me? Wasn't I a "little you"? Did the little brother's birth two years later and subsequent heart condition break that bond? Or was there never a bond there to begin with? Did you love me? Did I love you?

I try to think back to those very young years on Tacoma. It would have been before I was six because we moved to Plover Lane after kindergarten. I have glimpses of things, a sugar bowl at the breakfast table, pink milk from red food coloring, a screen door into the garage, tall weeds in the privacy-fenced backyard, an old metal swing set, a sandbox full of cat poop, a driveway, an alley.

I had a few friends in the neighborhood all connected by the alley. I can still remember some of their names: Kristy B., Kimberly S., Cammy, and Giovanna. I remember burning my hair in a candle at Kristy's birthday party. I remember playing "Emergency" on Kimberly's swing set and fighting over who would get to be the good-looking fireman (she always won), and I remember riding my bike up and down the alley to Cammy's house, and wishing I was pretty like Giovanna.

I also remember spending time outside in the backyard or in my room alone. I remember swinging on the swing set with my eyes shut, feeling the gravity pull at my face with every dip of the pendulum. I remember sifting the sand in the sandbox using a kitchen sifter. This was how I found the crumbly clay like stuff which I now know was cat poop. I remember squishing it with my fingers, wondering why it wouldn't compact and build like normal clay.

I remember my room. Dad had built shelves on the wall. My record player was on the shelf. My bed had a canopy, and it and the matching desk were painted white with gold highlights. I remember the color pink.

But I barely remember you. I remember your dark, black hair. I remember it was always perfect. I remember your black and white photo on your dresser in your room. I remember you lying on the floral green and blue couch in the living room. I remember you in the kitchen. I remember watching "Sound of Music" with you on your bed. And I remember you behind your locked bedroom door screaming at me to go away as I sat and cried outside the door. I think you were crying too.

After the first move, I remember you more, perhaps because I was getting older now. We lived in this next house from when I was 6 to about 15 or so. I remember you kept it very clean. You were nice, I think. You let me have friends over, and I spent time at friend's houses. I remember shopping for clothes sometimes. But you would also take me to get hand-me-downs from your friend's older daughters. I didn't mind.

You and dad were very involved at church. You led or taught classes, and you had "fellowships" at our house or attended them at other's houses. You seemed the life of the party, an extrovert that my increasing introverted self wished to be. You were beautiful and everyone seemed to love you, at least from my perspective. You also kept that Miss Irving trophy on the fireplace behind the TV. Every now and then, I would go look at it, and wonder if I would ever live up to that, if I would ever be considered so talented and beautiful to get a trophy for it.

You tolerated my piano practice. I began to notice how often you fussed at dad. You huffed and puffed around the house about things that didn't seem to matter. The story of "not us" began in my preteen years, I think or assume, and extended into adulthood. For years we fought with snippy sharp words and door slamming. We didn't get along for whatever reason. I think I always hoped it was because we were too different, but I suspect it was more because we were too alike.

I moved away, and always thought things would be different then. But as soon as we were together for 3 or more days, the polite charade wore off, and we let each other know in one way or another that we were only tolerating each other's presence. Outwardly there seemed little remorse once we separated and went back to our own corners in our own homes.

The phone calls were strained, at least on my part. I couldn't pretend all was well even from a distance. I faked friendliness all the while yearning for the typical mother-daughter friendship my adult friends seemed to have with their mothers. I kept thinking...someday...someday we'll get it right.

Well that someday never really came. Various physical illnesses along the way seemed to trigger a relapse or enhance your depression and anxiety and threw you into loop after loop of seeking help from psychiatrists, always spiraling worse and worse. Medications were started and stopped and started again. ECT treatments came and went, at times helping, and finally not helping at all. The now unrelenting tremors began after another half-hearted desperate attempt to escape the rollercoaster of mental suffering a few years ago.

And here we are. You hiding in your room, clinging to the safety and support of your bed; me feeling like time has run out, knowing things between us may never be resolved.

I'm sorry I didn't try harder. I'm so, so sorry.

Your daughter,

Rachel

15 Minutes, Flip, 15 Minutes

It all happened so fast. There she was just lying there minding her own business, trying to get her 30 minutes of sun by the pool for the week, 15 minutes on one side, 15 minutes on the other - she sets a timer, y'all, she's precise.

Now on her second 15 minute side, she had moved to a raft in the pool because she was literally melting into a puddle of sweat while lying on the chaise lounge. She got balanced on the raft and positioned herself at just the right angle for the afternoon sun, no shadows on either side, perfect alignment. (You tanners out there know).

A couple of bees buzzed her head, and since they were persistent, she splashed around trying to convey to them that she was neither a landing pad nor a source of food. She must have succeeded because she finally couldn't hear them anymore. She rested for a moment from all the energy expended from the splashing.

She then realized she had splashed herself out of alignment so she reached out for the pool edge to pull herself back.

ZAP!!!

What the heck?! She squealed/yelped and brushed her hand across her hip, rolled to look at it, and instantly realized there was a barbed, black stinger in her skin which she pulled out with lightning quick reflexes!

Seriously folks, what could she possibly have done to deserve that? She loves the bees, provides for them in spring with her yellow flowering palo verde tree and in the summer with her purple sage shrubs.

Yet here was this bee probably thinking those sparkly droplets of water on her skin would be an easy source of water to drink. Do bees even drink? She's giving the sucker the benefit of the doubt - the poor thing was thirsty, it felt threatened when she moved her hand to grab the side of the pool, it tried to push off extra fast and just accidentally used its stinger like the down direction of a pogo stick.

After she said "fudge" several times, she got out of the pool and patted dry. She could see the tiny thing floundering in the pool. He was so small and fuzzy, and he had sacrificed himself out of fear. She felt sorry for him.

As she hobbled into the house to find the insect lotion and Tylenol and to tattle on the bee to her husband, she tried to be brave and tell herself it didn't/couldn't hurt that much. She had birthed one baby without drugs. She had dislocated her pelvis during another birth. She had tried to walk before she knew about said dislocated pelvis. (Don't try that at home.) She was pretty tough.

Yet this bee. She marveled at how a small creature could make such a big impact. This small creature made her write all these words hoping for fake sympathy or at least to entertain someone. And she wonders if she can brave the outdoors tomorrow. There are lots of prickly small creatures out there...

Barbara Waters Scott: March 20,1946 - August 14, 2018 (Obituary)

Barbara Waters Scott, 72, of Buckeye, Arizona, beautiful wife of 48 years, proud mother and grandmother, beloved daughter and sister had her final heart’s desire fulfilled when she went home to be with Jesus on Tuesday, August 14, 2018.

A memorial service honoring her life will be held at 2:00 pm on Sunday, August 26, 2018 at The Church at Sun Valley, 26252 W Desert Vista Blvd, Buckeye, Arizona. In lieu of flowers, the family requests memorial donations be made to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (https://www.nami.org).

Barbara (Louise) was born to John and June Waters at St. Paul’s Hospital in Dallas, Texas on March 20, 1946. She grew up in Irving, Texas where she attended Irving public schools. In 1964 she graduated from Irving High School, 3rd in her class of over 300 students. The following year, she attended Texas Christian University on a full scholarship where she majored in English and minored in biology. Upon graduation in 1969, she briefly worked as a biology teacher at MacArthur High School.

In 1969 Barbara won the title of Miss Irving and, subsequently, competed in the Miss Texas pageant that summer. Several months later on April 10,1970 Barbara married Lyndell Scott and took on the role of homemaker. Just over a year later she was blessed to become a mother.

Barbara accepted Jesus Christ as her personal Lord and Savior as a young adult in her early twenties. After getting married and while her children were young, she and her husband, worked in the singles ministry at MacArthur Boulevard Baptist Church in Irving, Texas. Barbara also greatly enjoyed singing in the MBBC choir. After their move to Midlothian, Texas, she continued to sing in the choir and also served as the church librarian at Oakcrest Baptist Church. When they began attending Waxahatchie Bible Church, she continued her volunteer role in their library as well. Later in life, she and her husband moved to Buckeye, Arizona, to live close to their children and grandchildren. There she took on a discipleship role with several of the women in The Church at Sun Valley.

Barbara is survived by her husband, Lyndell Scott; daughter, Rachel HagEstad and her husband, Patrick; son, Daniel Scott and his wife, Mindy; and 7 grandchildren, Michael, Jonathan, Benjamin, Matthew, Jayden, Jordan, and Austin. She is also survived by her mother, June Beyer Waters; sisters, Betsy Haynes and Marianna LePori; and brothers, Jim and Johnny Waters. She is preceded in death by her father, John Waters, Sr.; her sister, Teresa Roberts; and her brother, Billy Waters.

Barbara is remembered as a prayer warrior, mentor, and encourager. Taking the Great Commission to heart, she courageously shared the gospel with family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers as she felt God’s prompting. Her favorite book in the Bible was Philippians, and her most underlined passages were 4:6-7; 4:12b and 4:13.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” and “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation” and “I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

Be Brave and Pray

I'm often admonished to be brave and pray; talk to God and that God is listening. After writing this post, I realize it comes across a bit negative about prayer, but I assure you its not. I'm at a good place on this subject now. Just read to the end.

I don't really like to talk about prayer. It's changed for me. A lot. I know I don't think about it the same way as I did before Austin. I've learned that its not a way to get what I want, magic words repeated over and over again that will somehow convince the Big Genie In The Sky to grant me my wishes if I say them in just the right way and with just the right earnest heart. I know its not a way that God proves "he's got my back."

I do still express needs and wants, however, out of habit and with just as much desire, but now with no supernatural expectations: "Please, Jesus, help me..." or "Please, Jesus, help him/her...." They are just generic phrases that really mean nothing to me except to announce to the universe what I want so I'm not holding it inside. It's not prayer. At least not to me anymore.

And I don't really like participating in group or corporate prayer that much either. I had so much resentment towards God not "answering" when I was doing all the "right" things, that I refuse to pray that way anymore, especially not in church. I keep my eyes open. If I close them, they tear up as I listen to the list of needs and wants being announced, feeling these are just words, a list of demands, not any kind of communion. And just because the prayer ends with something like "but let your will be done", I know that was not the intent of the prayer in the first place, otherwise why even present a list? The true magic words "in Jesus name" are said in hopes of getting the results. The preacher or the congregants want something specific. The good thing, maybe, is I'm not quite as negative about corporate prayer anymore. I let it happen because that's what people seem to need. I just don't really participate. I just watch and observe wondering if that's what everyone else is doing too.

When I've had to pray out loud for someone in a small group setting or when my mom asks me to pray for her one on one. I panic at first. I know what they want from me. A prayer that requests a list for specific things to happen. And a prayer that sets up an expectation that could lead to disappointment if not fulfilled to their satisfaction.

In those circumstances, I find myself being very vague in my request during prayer and mostly saying things like "I pray for acceptance, peace and contentment" because that is one "prayer" I can pray and mean. And it's one that puts some of the burden on the requester to seek those things themselves instead of just waiting on the material miracle. It eliminates disappointment because it is achievable. At least in my mind.

When you accept your current life situation, you find there is nothing to ask for in prayer because you aren’t trying to change your circumstances at that moment. Instead prayer becomes less talking and more listening, more silence, more stillness, waiting for the next step and surrendering into it.

I've come to find that the purpose of prayer for me is to seek oneness with God, the logos, the image I reflect, the vine I am a part of, the Christ that is with me and lives in and through me. It's to commune with His/Its essence. It's listening in the silence (hello "quiet time"). It's meditating on the stillness. It's seeking truth. It's breathing in and breathing out. It's sensing the Spirit. It's knowing. It's feeling alive. It's feeling peace. It's surrender.

Prayer to me is less about God listening and more about me listening. And that is how I pray.

You Are Braver Than You Know Journal Response

I tentatively joined a Facebook group to read a book/devotional (100 Days to Brave by Annie F. Downs) I've never heard of. I was supposed to start on Memorial Day and it goes through Labor Day, I think.

I usually avoid these kind of books because the author's picture is always a big perfect, toothy grin with perfect lipstick lips, and smooth, shiny hair with a head tilt that's just right. I don't trust them.

I don't trust them to tell me anything I don't already know, or I can't imagine they've been through anything like I've been through. They exude "I have an easy life." (I'll apologize now since I know it's not true. Everybody has something they've gone through. And sheesh, an agent and/or publisher thought this person's experience was meaningful enough to publish a book about it.)

I'm always late in these book groups/studies. I get my book late. I try to catch up over several days. And then I get behind again. Eventually, I'll just shelve it along with the rest of the started-but-didn't-finish self help type books.

And with that said, even though it's technically Day 4, I am choosing to respond to Day 3 prompts today. Day 3's excerpt says "I never felt brave. But day after day, I just did the next thing, took the next step, said the next yes." And then the journal prompt says "Think back on your life. Journal about two or three moments you or someone else might label as "brave".

I laughed to myself. Two or three moments? I'm to the point where just getting up every morning is a story about being brave. So here is my journal contribution to the Facebook group this week. I don't know if this is a story of being brave, but it's definitely a story of putting one foot in front of the other and keeping on when everything in me said "I don't want to, today".

------------

Anxiety and sadness have been all over me this week like a thick, sticky syrup. I kept trying various tools I'd come up with that usually help, but I just couldn't escape it.

It started on Monday. I was ancy and felt my typical holiday guilt for not planning a family event for Memorial Day. No magical mom-generated memories around here. Instead I spent the day going from room to room spilling my angst onto everyone in my path.

Sometime in the afternoon, I was gazing out the back window when I noticed a weird looking bird sitting on the back wall. He had a little black plume sticking off the top of his coppery head. I'd never seen this bird before and had to google what it was.

It was a Gambel Quail. He was fascinating to watch because of that weird plume thing that kept bobbing up and down like a hypnotic watch. He kept marching up and down the wall. It was a nice distraction. I took some pictures.

Later, I tried to take a nap. I tried to read. I tried to watch TV. I sat in the backyard. Finally, my husband came out and asked if I'd seen all the little baby birds tumbling down off the wall into the backyard earlier. I said no and asked him to bring my camera so I could take a picture if I saw them. The male was still parading up and down the wall. I just didn't realize he had a family.

They were hard to find. The mother must have noticed me when I came out to the backyard earlier and had kept them pretty well hidden for a while. But after I stayed very still, I saw her venture out from behind a blue agave. Following in her foot steps were 8 chicks. They were so tiny, fluffy and cute, and the same color as the rocks; my eyes strained to see them. The way they darted and scurried after one after another, from plant to plant was so funny and terrifying at the same time. Every now and then, one would dawdle, and daddy quail would yell at it from the wall or fly down and herd it along.

I watched them for quite a while. The distraction helped push the mood into the background.

By Tuesday, I decided on a project, thinking the unfinished planning I'd done in the past couple weeks just needed to be followed through. Maybe that's what was bothering me. So I began moving Austin's day bed and equipment into the breakfast nook off the kitchen and moving all the dining room things out to the main room to be displayed where it was supposed to go in the first place according to the house design.

It was a lot of work and kept me really busy. I finally finished up Austin's part of the reorganizing project since one of Austin's nurses was arriving for her shift soon. I needed to make sure she had a place to sit in between Austin chores.

But by evening my anxiety bubbled back up.

Wednesday was the worst. I woke with dread, anxiety and sadness. The "sky-is-falling" in me convinced me this was my last day on earth. It felt ominous. I had one major job to do, and that was get Austin to and from his neurology appointment. I knew if I put one foot in front of the other, just like the project the day before, I could slog through the day and, at minimum, accomplish the task even though everything within me wanted to go hide in bed.

So I did it. The hour drive to the hospital with pesky drivers all up in my business went per usual. I found a handicap spot on the third floor of the parking garage. I adjusted to an unexpected reroute on the way to the clinic when the directory didn't show neurology in that building anymore, but alas, after walking over to the main building to find where they'd moved to, it was actually still in said first building after all.

I didn't freak out too much when the mother with the stroller took forever to exit the elevator so that it closed before I could get Austin's wheelchair across the threshold. I only spilled a little of my mood onto the intake nurse when she apparently didn't know the drill and I had to tell her what needed to be done.

I sat through the doctor's appointment answering questions about how Austin's seizure activity hasn't really changed. I was reminded about his almost total seizure control before Texas. I was given new instructions for increasing the ratio of his keto diet since it seemed to be the original controlling factor. I listened to concerns about the unexplained liver failure and why we were taking the ratio increase so slow. I agreed. The Texas experienced sucked, I'd rather not do a repeat.

I drove home into the afternoon sun and only dozed off four times on the final leg, each time jarring awake to see my car in the midst of drifting across a line or towards the construction cones. I repeatedly took deep breaths, determined to just make it home without killing me and Austin first.

I spent the evening sparring and poking with the family. Nothing I did or said and nothing they did or said felt good or soothing. It all just felt prickly.

I went outside and looked for my quail family. I snuck up and looked behind all my agave and cactus where I'd seen them hiding before. There was no dad stationed on the wall. They had moved on. It added a little to my sadness; I was hopeful for their survival, but I was sad I couldn't watch them anymore.

In fact, most of my Spring nesting birds were gone last night. My trees in the Spring are basically bird hotels with lots of loud squawking every night when the parents return to their nests. The competition for space appearing fierce, although somehow they all work it out. But now they're gone. Summer is coming, I guess.

I woke up today with a renewed sense of calm. Somehow I'd survived the past few days with hopefully as little damage to my family's psyche as possible. I'm sure the big kids will all need some kind of "my-mom-ruined-me therapy" eventually.

Oh, and I miss "my" birds.

The Boy

When I think back about my childhood/teen years, I can see how much the characters in my books influenced my thoughts, actions, and expectations in life.

————

As breakfast came to an end, she quickly grabbed a hot chocolate, the requisite daily devotional materials, and headed outside into the chilly, crisp air to "find a spot for her 'quiet time'", i.e. to look for the boy.

She'd seen him exit the youth camp cabin alone a few minutes before. Her junior high crush sported sandy hair, soft brown eyes, and a lop-sided grin. Popular and outgoing, yet also a hint of reservation and mystery, he was the perfect fodder for her imagination, a physical manifestation right out of her teen romance novels.

As the morning sun filtered through the trees casting hopeful rays across her path, she hurried along hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

She quickly slowed her pace and came to a stop when she spotted him near the creek. He stood on the small boulders at the water's edge casually skipping rocks. She tucked herself into the shadow of a nearby tree.

"What could he be thinking about?" she mused, "an anticipated boy adventure? a cute girl? a disagreement with a friend?*

The next rock skipped 4 or 5 times as he stooped to pick up another one.

*Sigh* If only he was thinking about her.

But she accepted she was an invisible introvert and bookworm, her looks plain except for too much eyebrows and an unruly head of dark hair that needed 21st century hair products yet to be invented.

He was still boyish enough to be a naive Henry Huggins, Tom Sawyer, or Huck Finn just planning a day full of adventure. But he was also mature enough to fit the bill as an irresistible 'Sweet Dreams' or 'Sweet Valley High' boy-next-door.

He turned slightly and she caught the look on his face.

"Wait! Did she just glimpse a deep brooding, sad expression?!" her heart fluttered with the thought.

If only she could catch his eye, and he could look into her soul, then he wouldn't be able to prevent himself from seeing past her dowdy looks and awkward social skills. He would know deep down that she was the only one that could tame his restless spirit and save him from himself.

It was so obvious. She was Jane Eyre to his Mr. Rochester.

I Have Something To Say

I want to tell y’all something. It’s important because it was life saving for me (like now I don't lie in bed everyday and think about all the ways to leave this earth), and I want to be able to mention and talk about it here in this space. Perhaps it might help someone else who might be feeling stuck within the confines of solutions that have been suggested to them so far (but aren't working).

I am mostly at peace. I say "mostly" because, duh, I'm human and humans are reactive, emotional, and thought-ridden. But if I'm not at peace, I know how to get back to it. I know how to work on it and towards it. I feel I'm finally aware of what "born again" means. A glimpse, an opening, a doorway, a breath, a release, surrender. Things in my life have not necessarily changed, but my perception has.

In the spring of 2016 (as best I can tell based on my blog posts, i.e. Fighting For Peace) while I was still struggling (and praying and begging God for help) to overcome the effects of my grief (overwhelming disappointment, depression, anger, rebellion) due to my “life situation” (caring for a medically complex child, unrealized expectations), my "you know I'm almost 80 years old" aunt (as she refers to herself), with whom I had recently reconnected, asked if I had read “The Power of Now” by Eckart Tolle.

So I read it (listened to it) which led to my reading (listening to) his second book “A New Earth” (which led to me listening to and reading them repeatedly over the last two years plus his selection books "Oneness With All Life" and "Stillness Speaks".)

Now I know what some of my Christian friends and family may be thinking, “Holy cow, the girl is reading and listening to new age heresy!” which is why I've been reluctant to talk about this outright before now. Don't worry, I haven't denounced "the faith", however, why should I keep a secret part of the reason I'm able to live again?

Obviously I read the books through the lens of Christianity. I mean, I've been a "born again" Christian since childhood, heard the teaching twice on Sunday and once on Wednesdays from the time I was born until I left for college. And even in college and beyond, I've done a pretty good job at making it to "Bible" studies and Sunday morning services, including serving in all the various capacities church membership entails.

But over the years, and specifically since Austin (and researching his brain, how fragile a brain is, how brains work, how it can change, the chemicals, structures, thoughts), I’ve experienced doubt and questions about some of what I’d been taught about God and the Bible. Yep. You heard me. I don't have child-like faith. This has led me to take Christian author's interpretations and Sunday morning sermons with a grain of salt, always filtering and searching for the nugget of actual truth.

So for me, it’s easy to read secular books in the same way - in fact, I feel like I've always read secular books that way. I filter and search for the nuggets of truth no matter what the genre, and I take in everything with a grain of salt. Because if there's One God, One Divinity, (shall I dare to go so far to say, One Consciousness?), then there is one Truth. And won't It (whatever It is) reveal itself within me no matter the source? For aren't we all created in One Image? If we seek, will we not find? Won't the rocks cry out? Hasn't God/Truth been revealed to us since the beginning through creation? The Word spoken and manifested? I could go on...

And so I've been open to consider everything that comes my way. Especially "accidental or coincidental" things that enter my path that I was not actively searching for or seeking (besides searching and seeking the Truth.) And I don't have to fear anything that comes my way because the One Spirit is not a spirit of fear.

Which brings me back to my aunt and those books I mentioned above. While I wouldn't say they paint the whole picture of how I overcame my funk (there were many other factors including blogging, other books, counseling, husband, kids), I would definitely say both my aunt and the ideas in the books played an extremely large part (as in a profound turning point) and still do.

So I wonder: Why couldn't I get this same result with my Christian background and all the knowledge that entailed? Why couldn't I find peace? Why was I drawn to reconnect with this family member who became my therapist, my confidant, my best friend? Why was I able to be open with her and how did she have the capacity to give me space, to listen without giving advice? Why did it take the way that author phrases things for me to finally begin to heal, "to see the light"? Why did it take this particular perspective and vocabulary? Why...?

Well...I have ideas. But they are just ideas. So I'll just leave you wondering, too.   :)

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But wait, I have something else to say: I love you Aunt Barbara! Thank you for opening your heart to me. Thank you for your unconditional love. I bequeath unto you all the heart emojis: 💛💛💛...