I Will

Today is Dec. 6, 2012 - Day of National Action on Violence Against Women.  Marc Lépine entered the École Polytechnique de Montréal, on the afternoon of December 6, 1989. He had long complained about women working in non-traditional jobs, and after separating men and women in a classroom, he shot the women, claiming that he was fighting feminism. He then moved into other parts of the building, targeting women as he went, before killing himself.

I am shocked and disappointed that today, I did not hear one thing on the radio or television marking this day or the memory of the 13 women he killed.  Let's take a few moments to reflect on how we all must take responsibility bring and end to violence against women. 

I wrote this last year for an event that I attended.  Please read and take some time to reflect. 

I Will

I saw you on the street yesterday, pushed up against that wall,

cowering from the man who was in your face.

I caught your eye and at that moment, even though we could not speak, you pleaded with me to 

mind my business, that stepping in would only make things worse.

God it hurt to see you like that.

And I walked away, hating myself for feeling so powerless. 

And I vowed… never again!

I heard your screams through the wall, as he knocked you about. You begged, he yelled and the 
baby cried. So I called the police and they came. Took your man away.

The next day, you told me to mind my business.

Mind my business?  Sister, you are my business. Whether you like it or not.

You told me about the threats, the lies and the verbal abuse. You made excuses… and then 

more excuses and then then, you ran out of words.

One day , you came to an epiphany and finally got a clue.

You asked:

Who will listen without judgement or blaming and just let me cry it out?

And I said:  “I will”

You asked:

Who will tell me the truth, when I kid myself  into believing that he won’t do it again?

And I said:  “I will”

Who will remind me that I am worthy of love, respect and happiness?

And I said “I will”

Who will remind me that the abuse is not my fault and it not going to get better or go away on its own?

And I said:  “I will”

Who will take me and the baby in when I need a safe place to be?

And I said:  “I will”

Who will promise not to give up on me when I just can’t stay away from him.

And I said: “I will”

Who will steer me to the helpers, the protectors and the resources that can get me out of this mess?

And I said: “I will”

And I did. I made you my business. And I’m glad.

I saw you the other day, looking beautiful, bright, laughing and strong!  And I thought,

 “Man, she’s got it together at last.”

I caught your eye and at that moment, even though we could not speak,

you pleaded with me to reach out and ask for your help, but I was too ashamed to admit my 

secret.

God it hurt to see you doing so well,

when all I could do was walk away, hating myself for being so powerless.

You heard my  screams through the wall, as he knocked me about.

The kids were crying and things were flying.

You called the police and they came.  Took my man away. 

I tried to tell you, “Mind your business!”

And you said:

Mind my business?  Sister, you are my business. Whether you like it or not.

You reminded me about the threats, the lies and the verbal abuse.

How someone reached out and told you the truth:

 No Woman Has to Live Like This!

That was my  epiphany and I finally got a clue.

And I reached out and asked for your help.

 I asked:

Who will listen without judgement and just let me cry it out?

And you said:  “I will”

Who will tell me the truth, when I kid myself  into believing that he won’t do it again?

And you said: “I will”

Who will remind me that the abuse is not my fault and it not going to get better or go away on its own?

And you  said:  “I will”

Who will remind me that I am worthy of love, respect and happiness?

And you  said:  “I will”

Who will promise not to give up on me when I just can’t stay away from him.

And you said: “I will”

Who will take me and the kids in when I need a safe place to be?

And you said: “I will”

Who will steer me to the helpers, the protectors and the resources that can get me out of this mess?

And you said: “I will”

And you did and I love you.

Sisters, thanks for making me your business.

Ways to help a friend who you know is being abused.

1. Talk to your friend about healthy relationships, about how abuse is not normal and about the type of relationships she deserves. Emphasize that the abuse is not her fault and that it is not going to get better or go away on its own.
2. Listen as your friend confides in you about her abuse. Let her know that you care about her and that you want to help. Never judge your friend or try to place blame, according to the National Domestic Violence Hotline, and never stick up for her abuser. Understand that you cannot solve her problems for her, but you can support her.
3. Encourage your friend to talk to a domestic violence outreach worker or counsellor. Offer to help her find someone to talk to and to come along if she chooses. Professional domestic violence workers are likely to have access to resources and tools that you don't and can provide tips to keep everyone safe.
4. Be a part of your friend's safety plan. Encourage her to pack her most important belongings in a suitcase and leave it at your house so she's ready to leave whenever she has to. HelpGuide.org recommends she have clothing, money, important documents and emergency contacts in her safety kit.
5. Don't withdrawal your support if your friend makes a decision you don't like or decides to go back to her abuser. Abuse takes a toll mentally, physically and emotionally on women and she may make several attempts before she is able to leave. Her abuser also may be threatening her or her family, so she may decide to take some time and regroup or rethink her strategy. Support her during those times as well.
6. Call the police immediately if you witness abuse or if she calls you to tell you that her partner's currently abusing her. Don't hesitate and don't try to go to her house to break things up. It is never a good idea to confront her abuser because he could harm you or take his anger out on her, because you got involved.

Even When I Crash The Car

It's Thanksgiving day; a day when we hit the pause button on our self-absorbed lives and give thanks and acknowledgement to God for the many blessings and abundance we have in our lives... at least, that's the official party line. In theory, it seems like a good idea to mark our calendars on the 2nd Monday of October as the day when we "remember" to be grateful. Just like we "remember" to give to the poor at Christmas time or "remember" the sacrifice made by our veterans on Remembrance Day.

It is not my intention to come off as sanctimonious here. My first thoughts on this morn of Thanksgiving, as I drift back back into consciousness from my turkey-tryptophan-roasted potatoes and gravy-cranberry sauce-pumpkin cheesecake induced coma,  is to be thankful that I get to stay home today and recover from 24 hours of cooking and baking and the 60 minutes it took to chow down on the resulting mountain of food. My body is still in shock from the sheer volume of calories, grams of sugar, and fat that I consumed in one sitting.  I'm hung over from abundance and my biggest challenge today is figuring out how 2 people are going to use up leftovers that would feed a family of 5.  And it slowly dawns on me that, except for saying Grace last night, I left God out of the equation - again - and simply used this statutory holiday as an excuse to gorge myself and have a paid day off.  Every Thanksgiving of my entire adult life has been the same. Sad but true.

This morning, despite my bloated belly and calorie saturated brain, I still managed to curl up on the couch for my daily devotions. As Thanksgiving was the theme, I entered into a stilted prayer of thanksgiving, with the intention to acknowledge God for His many blessings. Somehow it all seemed so hollow and pretentious.  As I searched for the words to give thanks, I suddenly felt convicted and was reminded that as undeserving of Grace that I am, His love for me is everlasting. God loves me no matter what, even when I crash the car.

I am an insecure person, who fears rejection and lives in constant worry that I am going to disappoint people. However, I have come to learn that in God, I need not fear disappointment or disapproval. He made me, warts and all, and is never surprised or ashamed of my thoughts, actions or behaviours. What a strange experience it must be from above, watching me navigate myself throughout each day, zigging and zagging, bumping into problems, getting stuck in corners and side swiped by past, present and future worries that chase me throughout my waking hours and into my dream life. It would be like watching bumper cars at a carnival - me in the little blue car, under the illusion that I  have full control with no need of help, and consequently getting slammed into, cornered and every once in a while making a break for it, only to hit a brick wall. Yet, He patiently waits for me to come back to Him, admitting that I've done it again; admitting to my willfulness, and asking for forgiveness. He, in His infinite loving grace and mercy, gets me through another day. I can't earn His grace, and I don't deserve His mercy, but He gives it freely, because I acknowledge Him as my saviour.

I mess up and fall everyday; and on most days, I begin and end my day thanking God for all the things I do not deserve but received (His grace) and all the punishments I do deserve but did not receive (His mercy). Thanksgiving is meant to be an expression of gratitude to God and that means, that everyday is a thanksgiving day...I'm just glad that we don't have to celebrate it with a turkey dinner.

God loves me, even when I crash the car.

It's me,

Jan

My Body and I

I am into recycling so this is an old post from a few years ago.  It is a Ode to my aging body.

I celebrate my breath and sing my breath and what I hope you willl do if I have no breath is restart my heart with electric shock as the treadmill whirs and hums a song of ironic demise

For every moment belonging to me is as good as gone if you tarry too long with concerns of liability and litigation.

I loaf and invite a bowl of greasy chips to pass my lips as I ignore my heart's pleading "No more!"

Oh body thou has betrayed my trust. A sniff of cake increases my bust an inch or more and gravity drags them towards the floor.

Laughter lines and wrinkles appear out of thin air in concert with my graying hair and my jaw slowly dissolves into jowls; so unjust are you, my aging body.

But all is not as it appears to be. Below the surface of my sagging skin there are forces to be reckoned with that will soon begin to show their might.

Muscles forming, tightness, uprightness, righteous strength! My heart grows stronger, my resolve grows stronger and I grow stronger bit by bit.

Age reversing, start rehearsing for the next chorus, give myself a hand.

It ain't over 'til the fat lady thins.

An Adjective by Any Other Name...

It seems that my body must now be described with all sorts of new adjectives. Some parts (such as my derriere)  have expanded.  According to the nice lady at Additionelle   ~[full figure fashion store] ~ my booty has a new adjective: awsomely delicious. A little confusing and a tad uncomfortable, yes, but compared to my own assessment of my largest asset, a very positive adjective indeed.

Other areas of my body have started to succumb to the earth's gravitational pull, so adjectives such as saggy and droopy have attached themselves (literally) to my boobs, tummy, eyelids and even my awesomely delicious derriere.  It makes a girl want to cry.

I just spent the past 2 weekends assembling a new wardrobe in preparation for a return to work.  Thankfully, I have not moved up a size, but disappointingly, clothing just does not fit the way it used to.  I yearn for the days of yore when I was reasonably fit and did not have to wear any clothing size followed with an X or worse yet, multiple X's.  What does that X stand for anyway, Xena, Warrior Princess?

You know, that is not such a bad idea.  The next time I go shopping for underwear, I'm going to ask the store clerk to lead me over to the Xena Princess Warrior underwear rack. "I'm looking for a size double XPW please." And when she gives me that "Who do you think you're kidding? " look, I'll whip out my sword and lop off her head.

My worst shopping experience so far has been at the shoe store.  God blessed me with a big heart, a tender soul, and big, wide flat feet.  The shoe industry does not make a shoe that fits a size 8.5, DDD Extra Wide in the front and narrow in the heel foot.  Why me God, why me?

And don't get me started on my calves.  Buying winter boots is a hideous chore for me, as well as Eric (who chauffeurs me from store to store, listening to my rants about conspiracy theories and the fashion industry), and the poor shoe sales person who has to risk their life as they kneel at my feet and try to zip a pair leather boots around my "massive" calves.  Yes, I said "massive" calves.  This is the actual adjective that a young man used as he rammed my feet into a pair of tall leather boots.  I used a few adjectives of my own as I explained why his lapse of judgement had cost him a sale.

So, what is the point of this blog, besides lamenting my ongoing fight with fashion. I'm sure there was a spiritual moral somewhere, but failing that, I want to share some adjectives from another blog that I used to write called My Little Black Dress:

Sunday, March 1, 2009

I will not succumb to the tyranny of the measuring tape

I am amazing. I am awesome. I am beautiful. I am bright. I am creative. I am corny. I am delightful. I am determined. I am edgy. I am eating healthy. I am friendly. I AM FINE. I am grateful. I am gorgeous! I am healthier. I am happy. I am idealistic. I am I. I am Jan (duh!) I am jolly (not just 'cause I'm fat). I am kind. I am kind of cool. I am lovely. I am lucky (to have you as my friend). I am mommy, ma, mother and ma ma. I am MAD!!!(in that British kind of way). I am nice. I am naughty. I am open-minded. I am Oh sooo cool! I am polite. I am plumpy. I am Quite MAD (in a pi**ed off sort of way). I am Qute (made that one up.) I am Reaching past my toes which means I am flexible) I am Really Really determined to go the distance. I am Sista to my friends and Sister to my Sista's. I am a Silly-billy (for caring about the scale and measuring tape). I am terrific! I am tired of being fat. I am understanding. I am un-defeated! I am voluptuous. I am Very Very MAD!!! (in that British, pi**ed off kind of way) I am WOMAN!!!  I am Xcited that this diatribe is almost done. I am eXcellent. I am young at heart. I am yawning. I am ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

That's all from this chique, classy, cool, chick.

It's me, Jan

Give God the Blueprint to Your Heart.

Give God the Blueprint to Your Heart.

According to Dictionary.com the heart is defined as a hollow, pump like organ of blood circulation, composed mainly of rhythmically contractile smooth muscle, located in the chest between the lungs and slightly to the left and consisting of four chambers…

In metaphorical terms, we can define the term “heart” as that part of the human existence where beliefs, memories, feelings, dreams, and life experiences converge into a physical/spiritual/emotional phenomenon that affects the way we interact and react to the rest of the world. There is no scientific evidence that connects the heart as a body organ to emotions. However, we all experience a physical sensation in our heart when our emotions are shaken up in either a good way, (i.e. falling in love, being promoted, winning the lottery) or not so great, (losing a loved one, being fired, or going broke.) When we are rocked emotionally, our hearts vibrate, our breathing quickens, our souls ache and the blood (pumped by our heart) rushes to our brain, busting open the floodgates of thoughts, visions, fears, cheers and other such mayhem.

My heart is breaking… have you no heart?... She has a stone cold heart… My heart got out to you… I just don’t have the heart to go on… IYyou…

While our human heart has four chambers, our “heart” – that place where we store our core beliefs – has many rooms. Each room contains a conviction derived from an interpretation of a life event, which in turn feeds our self-esteem and influences our outward behaviour. From moment to moment, as we encounter external stimuli, one room or another of our “heart” is breached, and the floodgate of memories, feelings and beliefs bust open into either a pleasurable or a painful moment. We, the unwitting participants of this phenomenon, have to ride out the physical and emotional sensations, and depending on the positive or negative impact, will go to great lengths to prolong or bring about an immediate end to the experience.

“Heart” is where our love lives; not our minds. When we send valentines, they are heart-shaped, not brain-shaped. Our heart goes all aflutter and seems to swell with that warm, wonderfully swooshy, smooshy sensation that makes the rest of our body go on full alert, pupils dilating, hair standing up and skin tingling. We draw hearts on our note pads, and sing smarmy love songs that also reference the “heart”.

“Heart” is where our pain lives. When life in general or a person in particular does us wrong, we claim to have a broken heart. If someone hurts our feelings, we don’t cover our ears to protect ourselves from the pain; instead, we press our hands over our heart in an effort to contain the hemorrhage of hurt, because the pain is coming from a room in our heart where a locked door has been kicked open and our pain exposed.

“Heart” is where we store core beliefs – those foundational constructs that guide our behaviours, influence our choices, and hopefully cause us to be a blessing to our fellow human beings. “I believe with all my heart…”.  “She puts her heart in to everything she does…”. This being the case, it would do our hearts good to air out those rooms once in a while, and perhaps toss out some trash, especially when we discover that a core-belief no longer holds true. Problem is, we innately hoard these ideals because they appear to define us, and if our belief system is shaken to the core, then we are forced to question everything we ever believed to be true. This kind of inventory cannot be undertaken alone.

Therefore my friends, I am suggesting that we all handover the blueprint of our heart to God, allowing Him to enter each room, and shine His light into those that contain the pain, anger, misunderstanding and negative self-concepts that so limit our lives. He can reveal the truth behind each door, and gently help us face that for the last time and finally put the junk that no longer serves us out on the curb. Garbage in…garbage out. 

Our glorious God will not stop at clearing out the clutter; He will replace that mess with the truth – a magnificent new vision of who you really are, a new understanding of how He has masterfully designed you to make a positive impact on planet earth and all its inhabitants. 

Give God the blueprint to your heart and allow Him to create a wide-open space for His Holy Spirit to reside. Life will get less complicated, peace will seep into every cell of your body, and no matter what life brings you, His grace will be sufficient to see your through.   

I Y U

It’s me... Jan

How to Change a Tire

First... a joke:

It has been raining for a week.  The creek is running high and is over flowing its banks. Jan, who's house is located on a flood plain in imminent danger of being swept away in a flood. An OPP officer in a Jeep knocks on her door and tells Jan to evacuate; she refuses to leave, saying "God will save me." A few hours later the water is running through Jan's first floor, and the local conservation officer pulls up to her second story window in a motor boat, but she sends him away, saying "God will save me." A little later, Jan is on her roof, with flood waters ravaging her house. A helicopter flies over and dangles a ladder, but she waves it off. Jan is swept away and drowns, and when she gets to heaven, she angrily confronts God with "why didn't you do anything to save me." God says " Are you kidding me? I didn't do anything ? I sent a Jeep, a motor boat and a helicopter!"

Old joke, but the punch line is very relevant to today's post. I learned something quite valuable on Friday evening.  I learned how to change a tire.

It all started on Friday afternoon, when I stopped by one of my favourite clothing stores for a quick browse of the end of season sales. Much to my delight, I discovered that all of the summer stock was on sale, for 50% of the lowest ticketed price. So, I delved into the racks, hoping to find some cheap deals. Nothing much for tops or bottoms, so I checked out the lingerie department, and discovered that there were bras on sale for $6.97 a piece!  (If you are male and reading this blog, you might question the need for me to even mention this, but any woman will tell you that finding a bra on sale is always news worthy.  Finding a bra for $6.97, is something that you shout out to the entire world.) Sadly, there were none in my usual size.  While lamenting this fact, the clerk came by and reminded me that the bras are also 50% off the lowest ticketed price, which means the price is actually $3.47.

Guys, just as you have the famous "Bro Code", we girls have a code too. It is a very long and complicated code, and includes hundreds (possibly thousands) of clauses on retail purchasing alone. In the section entitled "Retail Purchasing: Sales -  End of Season Sales: Lingerie Items - Brassiere's:  No brassiere that is on sale for 50% off the lowest ticketed price shall be left behind. So in obedience to this code, I must buy a bra.

I decided to go one size up (I am a realist after all) and buy a $3.47 bra. Out to the car I go, holding up my sacred (just kidding God) purchase high over my head as though it was the Holy Grail (again, just kidding God).  I swear I heard the hallelujah chorus from  a choir of angels (no doubt girl angels). I raced down the highway, screeched into my driveway, run up the stairs, stripping off my top with one hand and tearing open the new bra box with my teeth.  Off goes the old bra, on goes the new one... AND IT FITS!!!!! 

Oh the joy! The ecstasy! This is truly a once in a lifetime find. A moment to savour and record (hence this blog - except the blog is actually about how to change a tire...). Ladies, I'm not kidding when I tell you that I thanked God for this bra.  Yes, I am wonderfully made, but for some reason, He designed me with a bra size and shoe size that are always somewhere in between industry sizing standards . I am not sure exactly why; however, my guess is that He does not want me to fall prey to worshipping shoes and bras.  

I'm not ashamed to say that I did some serious voguing in front of the mirror, admiring my "maiden form" (to get that reference you have to be female and over 40). Then it occurred to me... maybe there's more $3.47 bra's in that size.  And sure enough, when I called the store,  the sales lady confirmed that there were THREE more. We strike an agreement that they will pull everything off the shelf and hold it for me, but only if I return to the store before day's end to pick them up. Very reasonable, considering the circumstances.

Now there was a dilemma.  It was about 5:00 p.m., and my tired, hungry husband was expected home any minute.  I was so excited, I couldn't concentrate on cooking dinner.  So, I paced around the kitchen until he arrived and greeted him at the door.  The poor man was barely in the house when I lifted up my shirt, exposing my bra; (this is definitely NOT standard operating procedure in our home. ) "Guess how much this bra cost?" I squeal, my face beaming with joy and delight.

Eric is no fool; he's been down this road before.  When I show him something and ask him to guess the price, he knows that he is to play along, but NOT guess the price. "10 bucks?", he guesses. "Lower!" I shout.  "Lower? Um... 5 bucks?" he suggests, anxiously knowing that he doesn't have much room to work with.  "LOWER!" I giggle, barely able to contain myself. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, as he ponders his options.  Hesitantly he suggests "Ummmmmm... $2.50?" And even though he had under cut my deal by almost a dollar, I managed a strong comeback with "No, it cost $3.47, and I can get 3 more of them if we go back to town right now. So, what do you say... dinner out, bra's and then home in time to watch Murdoch Mysteries... let's do it!"  A wise man knows better than to get in between his wife and a good sale, so off we went.

1 hour, 3 bras and a steak dinner later, we were ready to take the short drive back home.  As we were backing out of the parking spot, there was a strange sound: fumpa, fumpa, fumpa. "Darn, the tire is flat... I hate changing tires." says Eric. I'm thinking "Just my luck, I buy 4 bra's for just over 15 bucks and now we have a flat tire???  What a buzz kill!" 

Out we get; open the truck to retrieve the spare tire and jack. Of course, in order to get to that, we have to unload the entire contents of our truck which includes two 20K bags of salt, numerous items of clothing, books, winter boots, and other miscellaneous crap. Then we have to empty out the glove box in order to get to the owner's manual in order to figure out how to use the jack. Always the optimist, Eric says "This is a good opportunity for you to learn how to change a tire." (Does that sound a little passive aggressive to you? I think so too.)

I won't bore you with the ordeal, except to say, that I now know where the spare is, how the jack works, that you must not be parked on a hill when changing a tire, that you always loosen the nuts before jacking up the car, etc., etc.  But here is the point of my blog today...

As "we" were labouring over the tire, a nice couple came along and offered to help. Being the stubborn and prideful person that I am, I said "No thanks, we're good." and off they went.  20 minutes later, I'm sweating, filthy, breaking nails, dropping the wrench thingy repeatedly, and getting quite frustrated.  Another couple came by and again extend an offer of help.  This time, I accept, and a nice guy named Chris finished the job in about 5 minutes. Finally, we're back in the car, heading home and that's when we remember that we have OnStar, and a CAA membership.  All we ever had to do was reach out for help and everything would have been taken care of.

Here cometh the lesson.  Ask For Help!

The Good Lord has blessed me with many things.  A husband willing to make an emergency bra run on a Friday evening; a car that contains a spare tire, jack, owner's manual and OnStar; as well as, a mostly able body to change a tire.  Everything I own comes from our Almighty God.  He is gracious and merciful; always there with a solution to the challenges that I face.  He even blesses me with the kindness of strangers, with sincere offers of help.  So, why do I insist on trying to fix everything myself? The truth is, I am too proud to admit it when I need help.

Proverbs 16:18 says: First pride, then the crash - the bigger the ego, the harder the fall. (~ Message). I don't ask for help because of ego.  Ego is that part of me that wants me to believe that I am greater than God.  It is an acronym for Edging God Out. As challenges present themselves on a daily basis, I instinctively turn to ego for the quick fix but seldom, if ever, do I find the easy answer.  Instead, I find self recrimination, panic, worry, and blame. While I'm wallowing in that quagmire, God is patiently waiting for me to turn around and face Him with the problem. A simple admission of "God, I can't do this, please help me out!" is all He needs.  He cares that my heart is broken. He forgives when I have trespassed against others. He offers me travel mercies when I'm driving in stormy weather. He supernaturally saved Eric when the doctors could not revive him after his 3rd heart attack. He saved me form a car wreck that I’m told should have been fatal, and yes, He sends help when I have a flat tire.

How do you change a flat tire? First pray for God's help.  Then, pray for the strength to loosen the nuts on the wheel and to jack up that car.  And if He sends a stranger to help, praise Him and accept the offer.  If it is midnight out in the country on a stormy night, thank Him for OnStar (or your cell phone) and call for help.

Thank you God, for sending help to fix that tire. Thank you also,  that I now know how to change a tire, because someday that is going to come in handy. Thanks  for pouring Your love, grace and mercy into my life and giving me such great joy. Oh, and thanks for the blessing of the $3.47 bra's.

Amen

It's me, Jan

Ya know...slowly but surely, I am in the know.

The Guide

Where am I Lord? Which way now?

My head and my heart can’t seem to agree on who is in charge.

Just when I think I know, I find out that I don’t know enough to know; you know?

What’s the next step Lord? What choices should I make?

Do I run ahead, scout things out and see what I can do on my own?

Do I sit here and stew over all the possibilities, or go with my gut?

My head and my heart and my gut won’t cooperate.

If I use my head then my gut aches. 

If I go with my heart, my head goes crazy with worry.

If I go with my gut, my heart sinks and the voices in my head scream, “Stop! You are insane girl!”

This load is too heavy Lord! I can’t lift it, drag it, or carry it any further.

I can’t sweep it under the rug nor bury it in the back of my mind,

It is just too dang big.  I’m tired 

Lord. Are you there?

Child, I’m here; stronger and bigger than you can possibly imagine.

I see what you are seeing, but I can see beyond your limited vision.

I know what you know, but I know everything there is to know.

So I really do know; you know?

Let me show you, change you, and fill you with My Spirit.

Give your head, heart and gut a rest.

Open up your soul, and trust Me as I light the way ahead.

I’ll get you there, and even further;

I can do anything you know, far more than you can ever imagine,
Or request in your wildest dreams.
I do this not by pushing you around, or leading you by the nose;
but by working within you, My Spirit deeply and gently within you.

Put the load right on me, child; quit trying to carry it alone.

Take a break, lean your back my cross;

Inhale, exhale, and just be quiet for a while.

In silent contemplation you will find Me waiting;

Waiting for you to just say “Yes Lord.”

Understand that right in the middle of your grief and sorrow

Is a blessing for which you can be grateful.

Where there is pain, there is healing.

Where there is sorrow, there is joy.

Where there mourning, there is celebration.

You are my beloved daughter; with you I am well pleased.

Oh Hello Aunt Flo...

Before we begin, I want any "boyz" who are reading this particular blog to know in advance that today I am talking about "girl stuff", more specifically, "old woman stuff".  Feel free to read along if you want, but I'm not holding back.  Read the title and consider yourself forewarned.

My Aunt Flo is here.  She's an old family friend who has been coming to visit me almost every month for the last 42 years.  Quite often, Flo shows up unannounced, demanding that I indulge her every whim. Typically, she kicks in the front door, hands me her bags, goes straight to the pantry for a bag of Cheetos and then hits the couch. From there she proceeds to point out all of my short comings.

"You're looking a tad bloated my dear.  Why don't you go put on a nice comfy pair of sweat pants.", she'll say, as she crams Cheetos into her mouth.  There's no pleasing this woman! If I put on the grey sweats, she'll raise her left eyebrow and suggest that "maybe somebody needs to hit the gym?"  If I put on the larger blue velour pair, she'll roll her eyes and tell me I look like a pregnant smurfette.

Flo's got an attitude.  In her never to be humble opinion, the house is never clean enough, my cooking is "pretentious", my husband is too good for me, and the neighbours all think I hate dogs because I don't have one. [Update:  I got one now, Mookie and she's wonderful]. She insists on going everywhere with me, flipping off drivers who have the nerve to come within 10 feet of the car.  It takes twice as long to get anywhere because she needs to stop and pee every 15 minutes, and she insists that it is just plain rude to use a gas station bathroom without making a purchase so I end up buying her chocolate bars and potato chips. (She never eats Cheetos outside of the house, cause the orange fingers are "unladylike".)  Yet, she'll pass gas with abandon in just about any public place, so long as she can pin the blame on somebody else.)

In the past few years, Aunt Flo has begun to show her age. She's cut back to visiting every 3 months or so, and usually only hangs around for a few days. Quite often, she is accompanied by the menopause twins, Hor and Moan a cranky couple who bicker and complain about getting old. And, they're nuts!  Hor cries, Moan laughs hysterically, usually both at the same time, then they demand ice cream. Aunt Flo has taken the notion that she is now the Human Torch with the superhuman ability to burst into flame. Always the comedian, she gets a huge kick out of waiting for the most inconvenient moment before turning up the heat and then FA-WHOOSH and I've turned into a towering inferno. Not funny, Aunt Flo.

Most of you, who have been reading my blog, are probably waiting for the part where I turn my story into a metaphor for my Spiritual walk with Jesus Christ.  Something pithy such as a stage of transition - towards a higher purpose... a graduation of sorts.  Perhaps I could say that I have earned a Master's degree in Women's Studies. Maybe, I'm now entitled to be a wise guru(ette) who sits atop of  a mountain  dispelling great wisdom and knowledge to younger women seeking enlightenment. Surely, I must glow with beams of serenity and joy now that I have put the years of fertility and child rearing behind me. I have come full circle, from infant, to child, to woman, to mother, to grandmother and now death a time of joyful respite, well earned.

Ya... sure... let's go with that.

It's me,

Jan (saggy boobs, mood swings and all)

P.S. Aunt Flo sends her regards

[Aunt Flo passed away in 2012; she is not missed.  Sadly, Hor and Moan moved in with me right after her death and refuse to leave. I'm trying to evict them but apparently, at least according to Mother Nature,  they have "legal rights" and get to stay until further notice.]

Hey there... it's me, Jan: A Public Apology

Hey there... it's me, Jan: A Public Apology: Ahem... To every Language Arts teacher who ever had the misfortune to try and teach me the range of skills needed to become proficient in ...

A Public Apology

Ahem...

To every Language Arts teacher who ever had the misfortune to try and teach me the range of skills needed to become proficient in using the English language, especially the mechanics of writing:

To Mr. White who stood on his desk and read Shakespeare in an effort to make us Grade Nine nincompoops listen.  To Mr. Reid who read my first attempts at short stories and encouraged me to keep writing. (Naturally, being too cool for school, I didn't.) To Jim Pehura, my grade 11 and 12 L.A. teacher and later my friend, thanks for telling me I was copping out when I tried to down grade from university level to general English courses. And to Ms. Nobel, Mrs. Hewlit,  Mrs. Mackintosh, Mrs. Fullerton, and Mrs. Dewar, (and the rest of my primary school teachers whose names I have conveniently erased from memory), who laboured to drill grammar, spelling and neat penmanship into my fuzzy, daydreamin' little head, I am really, really, sorry!

Sorry for not paying attention in class (although the pictures that I doodled were mighty pretty.) Sorry for not doing my home work.  Sorry my never-ending whispering, humming, giggling and other lapses in good judgement.  Sorry for day dreaming instead of learning about verbs, nouns, articles, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, dangling and misplaced modifiers, interrupting modifiers, verb tenses, subject-verb agreement, pronoun agreement, relative clauses and relative pronouns, comparative and superlative forms, modal auxiliary verbs (huh?), idiomatic construction (what?), commas, periods, question marks, apostrophes, quotation marks, colons and semicolons, and exclamation marks!  Oh - and run-on sentences.

You see, at the time I had other career goals in mind.  Ballerinas dance their dances, not write about them. Doctor's remove tonsils, not dangling participles. And I am sure that my heroine diva Diana Ross hired someone else to write all those songs. What did I need to know about writing for?

Well, at it turns out, I needed to learn  this stuff because now that I've finally grown up, I have discovered that I am a writer. Actually, at present, I am a scribe for all the voices in my head, and for some reason, they insist that I write down every dang thing they say.

And Mr. Ligowski, who referred to me as "Hey you, with the glasses" in grade 8. In spite of your predictions, as it turns out, I didn't end up living in a van down by the river... at least not yet.

Lastly, a shout out to Mr. Greene, my Grade 11 Math teacher who valiantly tried to teach me geometry and algebra.  You gave me an exemption for the final math exam as long as I promised not to ever study math again as long as you were alive.  I kept that promise and as a result, I have am now a writer and not a Quantum Physicist. Thanks dude!

In summary, I am really, really, sorry.  I'll try to do better. And for my beta reader and editor (not going to name her until my book is published) I am absolutely, totally, completely, and awfully sorry; and eternally grateful.

It's me, Jan!

Don't Poke the Bear

There once was an old man with only one arm, who lived in an rickety log cabin on the edge of the woods, beside a well-travelled path.  He had a pet bear which was tamed to the point that although it was free to wander in the forest, preferred to sit quietly by the man's side.  In front of this odd pairing was a dusty crumpled old hat and a hand-painted sign which said: Best advice you'll ever get!  Please put a donation into the hat.

Every day, a small crowd of passer-by's would gather in front of the old man and his bear.  They would toss coins and bills into the hat and wait for the show to begin.  The old man just sat there saying nothing.  The bear sat beside its master, doing nothing.  Eventually, the crowd would grow restless, shuffling their feet and mumbling among themselves that this man was a con artist.  Only when the crowd reached a fever pitch would the old man stand up and raise his only hand for silence. Staring out over the crowd, in a quiet but stern voice he would say: "Don't poke the bear." With that, he would offer everyone their money back, and gesture towards the bear which was now sitting on the hat, snoozing.  

Everyone agreed that the old man's advice was truly the best they had ever heard, and happily went on their way.  The old man would then sit down and wait.  He sometimes waited for hours for the bear to wake up and wander in to the forest for some food.  The old man had learned the hard way to never poke the bear.

I offer this parable as context to what is in my heart and frizzy little head today.  Why do I insist on learning things the hard way? 

My journey of self discovery includes both re-examination of self beliefs that I hold fast as the truth, as well as discovery of new truths about myself.  One thing that I have come to realize, is that I, Jan Christianson, like to poke bears.  No, scratch that... I LOVE to poke bears!  

Bears come in all forms, shapes and sizes.  Some are people, others take on the form of past events and still others are events that are yet to happen.  There's nothing I like better than to summon up a crotchety old she bear (memory) and poke it with an accusing finger until it rears up on it's back legs and bites me square on the butt. (I am tempted to say A** for dramatic effect, but I've sworn off swearing so work with me here.)

The old bear grabs me by my "derriere" so I can't  turn around to defend myself; shakes me up before tossing me to one side and stalking off into the past where she lives and prefers not to be disturbed.  And you would think that after multiple episodes of this self-inflicted abuse, I might get a clue and stop poking that bear.  But I don't.  

Some bears walk upright on two legs and disguise themselves as people. People I know, used to know and even people I've never met.  If any of these bears dare to offend my sensibilities, I will poke 'em right in the eye!  Maybe not to their face, but the minute their back is turned, boy do I like to poke at 'em.  Negative comments, gossipping, mumbling to myself and others about how these people bears have (or are going to) done me wrong.  However, my bear poking days are coming to an end.

Self discovery leads to epiphany and I have come to learn that the only bear I've been poking at all my life is me!  I have become a walking, talking poke in the eye, and  it has to stop. No more kneeling at the alter of past mistakes and trespasses. I have handed these over to Jesus Christ and He has wiped these files clean. And, (news flash) Jan Christianson does not know everything, and therefore she's sometimes wrong! Really, really wrong!  But that's o.k., as long as I continue to take a moment to moment inventory, and promptly admit when I've grabbed the wrong end of the stick. (That is a weak metaphor where I am in fact the bear being poked by the stick instead being the poker.)

So, in conclusion; (and believe me, I am as glad as you probably are that I'm wrapping this one up) DON'T POKE THE BEAR! 

How to Write a Book

Announcement:

I, Jan Christianson, am going to write a book.  TA DA!

There, I said it.  It's official.  Once begun, half done.  ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXZ.  hmmmmmmm......This may take a bit longer than I thought.

As you, my faithful followers, know (if you don't know, take a day off and read my blog from beginning to now - it's kind of a whole journey of discovery thing and dang funny I might add.) So I say again, as you, my faithful followers know, I have been busy figuring out what I need to figure out so I can figure out what I am going to be when I grow up.  Apparently, I am going to be a writer, motivational speaker, and on a part-time basis, a jewelry designer. That is somewhat of a change from my earliest career goals of being a doctor, a ballerina and Dianna Ross of the Supremes. 

The doctor thing didn't pan out because I am too easily nauseated by blood and stuff, and I managed to pull only a solid C- in science throughout junior and senior high school. If that was not enough, vomiting all over my lab partner and the frog we were dissecting confirmed my suspicions that Dr. Jan was never meant to be. However, I do make a damn fine hypochondriac. 

 A distinct lack of rhythm put a quick and merciful end to my dancing career.  I have two left feet, a lead bottom and get horribly dizzy after only one pirouette.  Plus, my mother put me in a tap dancing class when I was 5 years old with a scary loud dance teacher named Mrs. Block unt Tackle (or something like that). There I was, a unwieldy plump frizzy haired kid (not much has changed) cowering in the back row as she screamed "unt von, unt two, unt tree and ball, step, chain... ball, step, chain... and me desperately trying to keep up.  The lessons promptly ended when my mother was informed that although her money was welcomed, the aggravation of trying to drill one simple dance step into me head was too much of a cross to bear.  (I was consequently sent to piano lessons with much the same result.)

Now, I am glad to report that I can sing!  Well, carry a respectable tune anyway.  I've had the lead a few times in a Cabaret, with roles such as Mama Morten of Chicago fame.  Thanks to my inner drama queen, I can belt out a tune and give a convincing performance. But Diana Ross I ain't.  So, it's a writing and motivational speaking career for me. Hence, I am going to write a book.  

But where to start?  It is one thing to make the decision and entirely another to sit down and whip up something amazing. Somewhere between "I'm gonna write a book" and my eulogy where people expound on the sad loss of the 21st century's most prolific author lies my first book. Better get to work.

If you haven't already figured it out, today's blog is strictly meant  to be a procrastination tactic. But I'm going to write that book!  Seriously! Just as soon as I clean the house, do the laundry, walk the neighbour's dogs, mow the lawn, weed the garden...

It's me, Jan 

TGIF -Thank God I'm Free

It's Friday, and supposedly it's going to be a scorcher! I'm sitting here pondering the meaning of life (again), thankful that I am blessed with air conditioning, and that I live in such incredible beauty, surrounded by God's handiwork and having the time to enjoy it.

TGIF: Thank God it's Friday; the mantra of all members of the rat race.  At least it is for those who live a Monday to Friday existence. For everyone else, I suppose their mantra is Thank God that it is My Day Off or TGTIIMDO. A tad cumbersome.

Isn't it amazing how God often pops up in conversation?  People, who may or may not acknowledge that God exists can often be heard to say "Oh my God!" in response to just about anything.  I wonder, who do they think they are talking to? The greatest of agnostics might greet the resident atheist  as they gather around the proverbial water cooler with a glib "Thank God it's Friday, eh?", even though they don't know Him personally. And, when something good happens, expected or unexpected, we often hear people exclaim "Oh thank God" as if to acknowledge that He is their benefactor when in fact they don't actually give Him the credit. Why are these acknowledgments of God so pervasive in our culture?

This is the part of my blog where I would nornally expound some great wisdom on the subject, but truth be told, I have no idea what the answer is.  However, here are some guesses;

It's just tradition, a turn of phrase that was once sincere but now just commonplace. Watch any home decorating show reveal and count the number of times people say "Oh my God!" or "I promised myself I wasn't going to say Oh my God... but... Oh my God!"

It's a genuine acknowledgement that some things are so special that they appear to be a blessing. As in "Oh my God, that was so thoughtful of you.  Thank you so much."

It's a bad habit of cursing God for anything that annoys us. (In the 14th century, people could be heard uttering curses that involve God's private parts - so sayeth the nerdy side of Jan who adores fictional medieval murder mysteries).

It's a sincere exclamation of worship, giving credit where credit is due.  "Thank you God for saving my (husband, wife, child, parent, brother, sister)" from what ever crisis has occurred.

Whatever the reason, I find it interesting that we most often hear expressions of incredulity that include God's name but seldom the names of other supposed deities. How often do you hear someone mutter the oath "Of for the love of Ganesha" or "Oh my Zeus" or "What in Horus's name do you think you are doing?"  There is no "Thank Geb its Friday".  For whatever reason, many, many people no matter the culture, location or language mention God's name in times of joy, anger or just in casual conversation.

I remember seeing a sign on a secretary's desk that said You may know where you are going, and God knows where you are going, but does your secretary  know where you are going?  God, it seems, is everywhere, whether we want to admit it or not.

It is Friday and the end of the week for my husband the only member of our household who is currently living a Monday to Friday existence right now.  When he gets home tonight, he'll exhale and sink into the couch saying "Thank God its Friday. I'm free for the weekend." I on the other hand, have the great fortune, for now anyway,  to enjoy each day as it comes, hanging out with my dear Lord and reveling in the fact that I am free.  Free from the stress of the work week.  Free from the self deception that my self worth is predicated on my paycheck. Free from the ball of pain in my gut and no longer a slave to the favourable opinions of others.

Eventually, I will return to the world of work.  Wiser, happier, stronger, and if it is His will, doing the work that is my passion instead of being  a mill stone around my neck. I suppose the choice is mine.  For now, I revel in the fact that through His grace, I can truly say "Oh my God" and mean it as an exclamation of joyful praise for His grace and mercy to me. I can conduct myself throughout the day simply for the love of Jesus with an attitude of gratitude and receiving blessings from complete strangers, because I bless them.

Thank God I'm Free. Amen!

It's me, Jan

Cleansing of the Soul

This blog may come under the heading of "too much information", but I'm in a mood to share.

Spoiler Alert!!!!  Today, I am going to talk about diarrhea.

At 2:00 p.m. this afternoon, I will be under general anaesthetic while I undergo a colonoscopy. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this procedure, I suggest that you read up on it through Google. But I warn you, it is not for the faint of heart.

The preparation process is awful.  Yesterday, I purchased $60.00 worth of a power laxative, and have taken 3 doses which are meant to "cleanse" my bowels in preparation for the procedure.  I am italicizing this word, to point out the irony of what I am putting myself through, in the name of preventative maintenance.

Procedure.  What a nice word:  A manner of proceeding; a way of performing or effecting something. It certainly sounds better than acknowledging that I am willingly agreeing to have something put where the sun doesn't shine (and have picture taken!) But I digress.

Immersed as I am in my discovery of faith in Jesus Christ and understanding God's purpose for my life, I tend to draw metaphors from all of life's experiences. (See yesterdays blog about IKEA). So, as I purge my body in preparation for this unspeakable procedure, I can't help but think how much easier it would be if we could only find such a quick fix to cleanse our souls and purge ourselves of our sins. An instant cure-all that cleans like a white tornado.  Unholy one day, and all cleaned up and holy the next. No more work to do.

Purging. Another nice word: (a) To remove (impurities and other elements) by or as if by cleansing. (b) to rid of sin, guilt or defilement. (c) law to clear (a person) of a charge or imputation. In order to make this procedure go smoothly, (more so, I am certain, for the surgeon than for myself,) I need to rid myself of all residual "matter".  Ewwwwwwww.  Sorry, back to the metaphor.


16 years ago, I found salvation by accepting Jesus Christ into my life.  I was baptized at the ripe old age of 40, because I wanted to undergo a spiritual cleansing and receive the Holy Spirit. And although God is faithful, and welcomed me with open arms, I did not receive Him with all my heart and soul.  I just kind of "friended" Him and went on my merry way.  We have had an on again - off again kind of relationship since that time.  More to the point, I was the one who was on and off, not Him.  I accepted His friendship, but did nothing much to deepen the relationship.  Pity too, because I experienced a lot of unnecessary pain along the way in my stubborn desire to take care of my own problems and try to medicate the pain through the acquisition of stuff.

But, Jesus never gave up on me.  He has patiently travelled by by my side, ready to take up the conversation where we left off, whenever I came to my senses and admitted that I was in need of Good Orderly Direction. Finally, through a lot of trial and tribulation, I have found my way back to the foot of the cross, humbly admitting that I am a sinner and incapable of living a life filled with peace and joy without a deep and personal relationship with Him.

This is where purging comes in.  When I first knelt down and admitted that my life was unmanageable and committed my life and will to the care of God, I laid out all my sins.  Well, most of them anyway.  I was hoping we wouldn't have to have a conversation about the really bad stuff.  I wallowed in guilt, shame and anger - thinking that this was the way one gets right with God.  Self-inflicted punishment to ensure that I learned my lesson.  But get this:  He knew everything and He forgave me for everything. Done! Finished! Purged! Clean as a whistle.

But, with purging comes responsibility.  I know better now.  I can't just say "sorry, sorry, sorry" and then go back to my old life.  I have to step up, live right, immerse myself in His word, admit that I am a sinner ('cause I am, and continue to pull a lot of boners), and ask Jesus to help me do better. I am in recovery from my addiction to negative emotions such as guilt, fear, worry shame, and anger. I mean, once it is out, flushed away, do I really want to fill myself up with all that nasty stuff again?
No more gossipping and back stabbing.  No more indulging in resentments. Retail therapy? Nope, doesn't work. Lying my way out of an uncomfortable situations?  No longer an option.  Abusing my body in the name of pleasure? Doesn't feel good at all.

So, what's left?  Peace, contentment, joy, being loved unconditionally, loving myself, better relationships, comfortable in my own skin, full of confidence, discovering talent in myself that I had no idea even existed.  I could go on and on. My point is this:  in order to make room for all these wonderful things, I had to purge myself of the miserable beliefs and attitudes that have been my travelling companions for most of my life. Jesus Christ's forgiveness was instantaneous... My willingness to experience the cleansing of my soul took a bit of time due to a lack of cooperation on my part.  But in the last 8 weeks, my soul had opened up and life could not be more beautiful.

As I prepare for today's procedure, I am confident that things will turn out just fine.  No matter the result, I am in God's hands.  Can't think of a better place to be than right there.

Well, off I go, Purged and purged (seriously, I feel as though I am completely hollow). Thanks for listening. Other than letting you all know how it all comes out in the end (pun intended), I promise never to bring up diarrhea ever again.

Opps!  Gotta go!

It's me, Jan

Later today...

4:15 p.m. and I'm back home.

It's all done and dusted, and I am happy to report that I am the proud owner of a pink and healthy colon.  It wasn't bad at all.  I got to have a nice nap, they gave me juice and cookies after, and I even got a report card congratulating me on my healthy colon.  No need to return for another 10 years.  

But now, friends, I think that it's time to bid you adieu, before I think of any more metaphors which rhyme with poo....

You Cannot Find Your Bliss at Ikea (I know 'cause I tried)

How many of you have visited Ikea?  This shopping mecca draws all stripes of people seeking to find their ultimate personal space - that space where everything fits together perfectly, with unlimited storage for all their stuff, complete with an external appearance that says "I am hip, I have it all together and I did it all on my own." No matter what we go through as we try to figure out the instructions, discovering that there are fundamental assembly pieces missing, not to mention the blood, sweat and tears (literally!) we experience as we screw, nail and glue our Ikea furniture together, the end result looks just like the one in the showroom - as long as you don't look too closely or shake it too hard.

If that is not a metaphor for life, I don't know what is.  I mean where else can you go to find all the answers to life's problems if not Ikea?  We walk in with the single desire to purchase a bag of  tea light candles or Swedish meatballs and through clever marketing and store layout, we find ourselves on a journey of discovery that leads us to the perfect answer to hiding our dirty laundry or redecorating our dens of iniquity with comfortable, yet affordable furniture.

But what we fail to remember - every single time - is that Ikea is a parallel universe. Each room assembled by talented technicians with training, aptitude and  access to ALL the fundamental screws, bolts and little pieces of wood necessary to actually put this stuff together.  Professional stagers then come along and place each  beautifully crafted unit in it's proper place, within the perfectly proportioned allotted space, accompanied with the ultimate in lighting, flooring, and ambiance and a choir of angels sing hallelujah songs that promise a little bit of heaven on earth. Luring us, fools that we are, into believing that we can replicate this Utopian existence  in our cramped apartments or houses with nothing more than a screwdriver and a hex wrench (not always included).

Forget those inconveniently placed windows and doorways, unlevel floors and 8 foot ceilings. Never mind that the elevator in our building or a stairwell that cannot accommodate the huge over packaged units.  Can't afford delivery? No problem, Ikea provides free rope so that you can get this stuff home strapped to the top of your tiny Smart Car.

It's as though we are lured by the Ikea sirens who sing melodies so beautiful that shoppers  passing by can't resist getting closer to them. Following the sound of music we steer our carts towards each perfectly staged "room" or jump in and marinate in the beautiful environment to fully immerse ourselves in the promise of unadulterated domestic bliss   Either way, it always ends in disaster on the rocks.

My life has been one big long Ikea shopping trip.  My bible was the Ikea catalogue, full of promises for a coordinated, organized, ultra-cool life complete with storage solutions for every messy little concern. From the lowly tea light to the Pax wardrobe system, my perfect life could be secured for a reasonable price and a small donation for delivery. And Ikea delivered! Brought my purchases right too my door.  And so, in a quest for a better life, I wandered from room to room, department to department, searching for the ultimate solutions to my problems and happily shelled out the price, not matter how high, so that I could find inner peace and contentment.

Except, there was no peace and contentment.  The delivery truck backed up to my door and dropped off exactly what I bargained for: confusion, despair,  disappointment and disillusionment. One promise after another broken and me left sitting on a wobbly uncomfortable chair as I watched my stuff crashing to the floor as my ill-gotten wardrobe system collapsed. No amount of twinkling tea lights  could cast sufficient ambiance to hide the ugly truth: the acquisition of stuff will not give me peace, only pieces of leftover parts and bitter disappointment.

So what's the alternative?  Leon's with their "integrity" pricing? Or the Brick with their best boxing day sale ever plus 50% off the lowest priced mattress and take 18 months to pay sales?  No!  

Listen, if you actually need furniture, then buy the basics and be content.  Don't waste any more of your time trying to find inner peace by chasing after the illusion of beauty.  Mooch from your parents, check out Craig's list, go to yard sales and get the basics. After all, no matter how expensive a chair is, it serves only one purpose, which is a place to park your butt.

More to the point, put your energy into discovering where true inner peace and contentment come from: finding salvation in Jesus Christ and seeking to know Him better. Discover the rich blessings from His father, God, who made the world, who created you in His likeness, complete with all the necessary parts and talents to achieve the specific purpose that He has in mind for you.  No assembly required!  When you come to the realization that laying your life and will on the alter of material stuff is no longer working and you begin to search for something better, take a look at the greatest Life Catalogue ever written - the Bible.

If you are tired of kneeling at the alter of acquiring material stuff with only a massive credit card balance and the hounds of collection agency hell to show for it, then hear this Good News.  You don't need that stuff

I find myself in a curious place these days.  Out of work, limited income, not sure where or when I will return to work, but at the same time, I have more peace, joy and contentment than I have ever had in my life.  Why, at a time when I would normally be frantic with worry and freaking out all day long, am I filled with this kind of peace?  Because, I know Jesus Christ.  I have FAITH!  I have finally placed my faith along with my life and will into the hands of God, knowing that he loves me and wants the very best for me.  He created me and blessed me with talents and skills that will allow me to make my living in service to others.  He is faithful, I am grateful, and we're working out where I will go next.

Stay tuned..,.

It's me, Jan