Today I went to a class. I took more than 2 pages of notes, front and back. I'm not used to going to classes and taking notes, either.
Not that I don't love learning. I really really do. I want to go back to school so bad, I can SMELL it. Seriously. Today I smelled my alma mater on my daughter when she came home. Bandaids!
Anyway. This was a class wherein I learn to be an advocate for my special-needs daughter, who completely baffles me. I was brought to tears twice while I was there. There's just so much to learn, so much to do, and wow, am I overwhelmed on so many fronts.
I had left for class this morning, full of hope and determination and ideas and wanting to jot all sorts of things down that were popping into my head on the way there. I was pumped! But while I was there, I seemed to have so much less confidence and enthusiasm, so much less drive to ask the questions that I can't articulate.
Do I just not know the lingo? No. Am I a brand-new mom of this darling special girl? No, she's 8 years old. Am I new to the school, the district, or the state? No, it's been 5 years she's attended school here, in the district I grew up in.
I just want a silver bullet still. I want the book or class that tells me what kind of food I can cook that will nourish her mind enough to make her able to learn the same as everyone else. I want the medical diagnosis still that will tell me which organ failed her and how to revive or restore it. I want the cure, for me and for her. I want to know, not how to navigate the system of education for those who seem less able to learn, but how to navigate around all the existing systems, to the one that lifts us out of this mist of darkness.
And to be really honest, I have to admit that I was crying about losing my sons, who are making their own ways without much help from me. And I was crying about not being the other moms there, who I feel guilty for wishing to be.
One of them had a much needier child, the same age as mine, but they have plenty of money. That stay-at-home mom was as sharp as a person could be, and was a very willing and assertive advocate for her daughter.
The other one had a much younger child, with a concrete medical diagnosis, and she had a plan, and lots of services already in place. That stay-at-home mom was also very sharp, with a clear vision of what she wants to do, and apparently, the money to do it.
It wasn't just the money that I coveted, although that's a part of it. I was grieving. I still am.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
One Day at a Time
I have this darling page-a-day calendar by Mary Engelbreit. (Sorry I was unable to get the link to work in the title, but if you want to see Mary's art, just go to http://www.maryengelbreit.com) It was a gift from a great old friend of mine named Barbara.
Each page has a colorful Mary Engelbreit (ME) drawing on it, sometimes with a quote. I've been staring at these pictures and quotes this week.
On Monday, July 6th, the picture is of a young girl standing on the beach, pouring a collection of seashells from her pail onto the sand. Within 4 days, my runaway teen will be pouring out the contents of his backpack onto our living room floor, the color of sand, and showing me the shells he collected at Galveston. But for now, I look at this whimsical drawing of a swimsuit-wearing cutie-pie whose swim cap looks like something from a magazine. It's a lovely sunset-inspired color, with a big purple flower that only Mary Engelbreit would have thought to decorate it with, and oh, there are these pretty little curls sticking out all around her neck and face. The carefree feeling of this picture, an escape in which beauty is frozen yet glowing in every detail . . . I need to have this kind of escape. I need to be a child, adoring the beauties of nature, and imagine my collection of favorites, tumbling slow-motion from my own colorful pail, that I can play with and treasure . . . but for now, I am frozen in this place where I must call the sheriff, report my son as a runaway, and give the deputy his picture. Slow-motion, for sure, but not an escape.
On Tuesday July 7th, I see on my calendar, the drawing of a young skinny blond boy flexing his nearly invisible bicep, with a proud closed-eyes grin, accompanied by the quote: "Believe that you have it, and you have it." (Anonymous) My runaway blond-haired boy believes he does not have an addiction, or a problem; therefore (at least in his mind), he has none. Missing for a little over 24 hours, he returns home. When he arrives, we are away. At the temple, with his older brother, who is about his Father's business. The firstborn, he is not perfect. He is looking forward to being able to serve his brothers and sisters in Russia for two whole years, and he already misses his little bro. After the temple ceremony, we take family pictures in front of this palace, and then my husband and oldest son and oldest daughter travel with the extended family away from town, and I come home to what should be a dark and empty house, but instead is brightly lighted, smells funny, and feels very cold. After being greeted by my newly-returned prodigal son without a key, who broke and entered, I call the precinct again to let them know my runaway is home.
On Wednesday July 8th, my calendar shows me a glimpse of a father carrying his blond-haired toddler on a wooded path toward distant mountains, as the little boy points toward this horizon that reminds me of our former home. My blond-haired blue-eyed baby boy is craving escape and adventure, like he used to have, back near the mountains. Missing out on the especially-for-our-family's-teens-trip out-of-town with his cousins, brother, and sister, and dad, this thrill-seeker leaves again, refusing treatment. I call the precinct 5 number again (again, again!), and put all my friends and relatives on alert. Seven long hours after leaving, he shows up back at home again, this time willing to get checked into rehab. We drive the girls to my folks' place, and then to a psychiatric hospital, which turns out not to be the right kind of place for him. We are turned away, and we go home with a list of other possibilities. After 1:30 a.m., I fall asleep in my bed, alone.
On Thursday July 9th, the drawing on my calendar is of a man's arm holding a bouquet of flowers, and a woman's arms holding a vase. The caption is "A soul without a mate is like a vase without flowers." My husband is out of town. I feel I have to take care of getting our boy the treatment he needs, all by myself. I'm grateful to have a husband who has a job and insurance to cover the cost of this great care, and for parents and friends who are just a phone call away, ready and willing and able to fill in for me, take care of the children. My son has not a friend in the world that he really accepts love from. His only friend that he feels close to gave him enough pot to get him high, and then enough more to make him extremely sick. Said "friend" then dragged my son to the back yard before leaving him in the dirt to vomit alone and be chewed up by spiders and bugs. But that was Monday. Today, we take a tour of the wonderful place where my son will be tucked away for hopefully 30 days or more.
On Friday July 10th, the calendar features a darling young auburn-haired bookworm whose dreamscape includes a moonlit night at the beach, where a tuxedoed gentleman puts his white-gloved hand on the shoulder of a beautiful red-headed young lady in a ball gown adorned with flowers, ribbons, and jewels. The caption is "Use your imagination." I've done way too much of that! Just last night, my blondie told me that he always used to dream of wearing a brand-new tux every day. That goes along with his James Bond fantasy, I suppose. Today, I check my son into a prevention and recovery center for adolescents who have abused drugs and alcohol. This place's nickname is the same as the name we all use for a neighborhood playground. This place is beautiful, this place where my little boy will sleep, eat, study, and play. When he sits in the meeting room, he can look out these misty windows and see a gazebo, and ivy, so romantic. My dreamscape involves a 30-day miracle, a son with softened heart and a willingness to change.
Each page has a colorful Mary Engelbreit (ME) drawing on it, sometimes with a quote. I've been staring at these pictures and quotes this week.
On Monday, July 6th, the picture is of a young girl standing on the beach, pouring a collection of seashells from her pail onto the sand. Within 4 days, my runaway teen will be pouring out the contents of his backpack onto our living room floor, the color of sand, and showing me the shells he collected at Galveston. But for now, I look at this whimsical drawing of a swimsuit-wearing cutie-pie whose swim cap looks like something from a magazine. It's a lovely sunset-inspired color, with a big purple flower that only Mary Engelbreit would have thought to decorate it with, and oh, there are these pretty little curls sticking out all around her neck and face. The carefree feeling of this picture, an escape in which beauty is frozen yet glowing in every detail . . . I need to have this kind of escape. I need to be a child, adoring the beauties of nature, and imagine my collection of favorites, tumbling slow-motion from my own colorful pail, that I can play with and treasure . . . but for now, I am frozen in this place where I must call the sheriff, report my son as a runaway, and give the deputy his picture. Slow-motion, for sure, but not an escape.
On Tuesday July 7th, I see on my calendar, the drawing of a young skinny blond boy flexing his nearly invisible bicep, with a proud closed-eyes grin, accompanied by the quote: "Believe that you have it, and you have it." (Anonymous) My runaway blond-haired boy believes he does not have an addiction, or a problem; therefore (at least in his mind), he has none. Missing for a little over 24 hours, he returns home. When he arrives, we are away. At the temple, with his older brother, who is about his Father's business. The firstborn, he is not perfect. He is looking forward to being able to serve his brothers and sisters in Russia for two whole years, and he already misses his little bro. After the temple ceremony, we take family pictures in front of this palace, and then my husband and oldest son and oldest daughter travel with the extended family away from town, and I come home to what should be a dark and empty house, but instead is brightly lighted, smells funny, and feels very cold. After being greeted by my newly-returned prodigal son without a key, who broke and entered, I call the precinct again to let them know my runaway is home.
On Wednesday July 8th, my calendar shows me a glimpse of a father carrying his blond-haired toddler on a wooded path toward distant mountains, as the little boy points toward this horizon that reminds me of our former home. My blond-haired blue-eyed baby boy is craving escape and adventure, like he used to have, back near the mountains. Missing out on the especially-for-our-family's-teens-trip out-of-town with his cousins, brother, and sister, and dad, this thrill-seeker leaves again, refusing treatment. I call the precinct 5 number again (again, again!), and put all my friends and relatives on alert. Seven long hours after leaving, he shows up back at home again, this time willing to get checked into rehab. We drive the girls to my folks' place, and then to a psychiatric hospital, which turns out not to be the right kind of place for him. We are turned away, and we go home with a list of other possibilities. After 1:30 a.m., I fall asleep in my bed, alone.
On Thursday July 9th, the drawing on my calendar is of a man's arm holding a bouquet of flowers, and a woman's arms holding a vase. The caption is "A soul without a mate is like a vase without flowers." My husband is out of town. I feel I have to take care of getting our boy the treatment he needs, all by myself. I'm grateful to have a husband who has a job and insurance to cover the cost of this great care, and for parents and friends who are just a phone call away, ready and willing and able to fill in for me, take care of the children. My son has not a friend in the world that he really accepts love from. His only friend that he feels close to gave him enough pot to get him high, and then enough more to make him extremely sick. Said "friend" then dragged my son to the back yard before leaving him in the dirt to vomit alone and be chewed up by spiders and bugs. But that was Monday. Today, we take a tour of the wonderful place where my son will be tucked away for hopefully 30 days or more.
On Friday July 10th, the calendar features a darling young auburn-haired bookworm whose dreamscape includes a moonlit night at the beach, where a tuxedoed gentleman puts his white-gloved hand on the shoulder of a beautiful red-headed young lady in a ball gown adorned with flowers, ribbons, and jewels. The caption is "Use your imagination." I've done way too much of that! Just last night, my blondie told me that he always used to dream of wearing a brand-new tux every day. That goes along with his James Bond fantasy, I suppose. Today, I check my son into a prevention and recovery center for adolescents who have abused drugs and alcohol. This place's nickname is the same as the name we all use for a neighborhood playground. This place is beautiful, this place where my little boy will sleep, eat, study, and play. When he sits in the meeting room, he can look out these misty windows and see a gazebo, and ivy, so romantic. My dreamscape involves a 30-day miracle, a son with softened heart and a willingness to change.
Friday, July 3, 2009
To everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season
We've had a lot of funerals lately. A lot of people from church, and an aunt, and an uncle, and a slew of celebrities. While these losses affect others more than they do us, since everyone in our immediate family is still with us, it's hard not to notice, and wonder. I know those folks are in a better place, and I'm so grateful for that understanding. But as these ranks up and march away, I can't help but notice they're not all that old. And I didn't know enough about them before they died.
Then there's my baby boy, all grown up and ready to go on a mission, or almost ready. He's taking a big step in just 4 days. I'm thrilled for him, so glad he's making a big commitment to the Lord. This is a season of joy.
Then there's my other baby boy, so tall, artistic, clever and handsome, but so troubled. This is a season of sadness.
Then there are the darling daughters we adore. Drama queens, all four! This is a season of turning and turning and twirling for joy!
Then there's my baby boy, all grown up and ready to go on a mission, or almost ready. He's taking a big step in just 4 days. I'm thrilled for him, so glad he's making a big commitment to the Lord. This is a season of joy.
Then there's my other baby boy, so tall, artistic, clever and handsome, but so troubled. This is a season of sadness.
Then there are the darling daughters we adore. Drama queens, all four! This is a season of turning and turning and twirling for joy!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
If Your Child Gets Stuck in a Baby Swing . . .
...here's what you do. Ignore the yelling of strangers, codependent teens climbing the wrought iron fence between the park and the pool. Even when they gasp, cover their mouths, point, and yell, "Call the fire department!", remember your calm old friend Diane. She told her daughter that since she climbed up the tree, she could also climb down. You're not too far away to see what's going on. You saw this coming. Your 7-y-o dear daughter is not going to die. She may be really really stuck, as the smoking stranger insists, but that doesn't really change anything, now does it? Let him try to dump your darling, 80-lb daughter out of the baby swing on her head by trying to turn the whole thing upside down!
You got up on top of that graffitied multi-slide playground hunk of plastic and metal in order to see something, and see something you SHOULD. Your 12-y-o daughter is competing in the very first swim meet of her life, and you are not about to miss it just because your darling 7-y-o wanted to swing like a baby. You won't actually see her swim because you can only glimpse, over the sea of swimmers and their families and their canopies, a tiny patch of pool, just the last two lanes, in the middle of their race. But you don't know that yet, and you don't want to feel guilty later, so you just keep those numb feet planted right next to the curly slide, and lean on that heavy-duty plastic.
And besides, who wants to get any closer to the drama, and risk getting kicked?
Be sure to tell that darling 7-y-o to calm down, and that you're not coming down to help while she's kicking and screaming. And when her 9-y-o sister whispers that this is embarrassing and that people are taking pictures, just keep your focus on that oldest sister, the one blissfully unaware that this drama is unfolding just yards away from her, but who is probably sadly aware that no one she loves is watching her swim. Even in that crowd of crocodiles and piranhas and all their families, how can she not notice that she does not feel the gaze of her family, or hear their voices cheering her on?
But when you are good and sure that you have done all you could do to see her swim, and to let the 7-y-o feel the weight of her consequences, go straight over to her and squat right under that baby swing, and pull with all your might on that swing, while the kindly stranger and your older child also pull with all of theirs (him on the 7-y-o, and sister on the swing), and that darling 7-y-o pushes her feet on your thighs, until you feel your heart skip a beat, and the stranger says, "Wiggle!", and you ALL do, and she finally slips free.
Then go home and do nothing, because nothing is what you will get done around the house, because your darling 7-y-o daughter will be asking you and telling you all about that dramatic event all evening long. She will say, "I'm never going to the park again!" and you will try to reassure her that you understand she's afraid of getting stuck again, but then you'll give in to the temptation to tell her that you just don't believe that she'll never go there again.
You got up on top of that graffitied multi-slide playground hunk of plastic and metal in order to see something, and see something you SHOULD. Your 12-y-o daughter is competing in the very first swim meet of her life, and you are not about to miss it just because your darling 7-y-o wanted to swing like a baby. You won't actually see her swim because you can only glimpse, over the sea of swimmers and their families and their canopies, a tiny patch of pool, just the last two lanes, in the middle of their race. But you don't know that yet, and you don't want to feel guilty later, so you just keep those numb feet planted right next to the curly slide, and lean on that heavy-duty plastic.
And besides, who wants to get any closer to the drama, and risk getting kicked?
Be sure to tell that darling 7-y-o to calm down, and that you're not coming down to help while she's kicking and screaming. And when her 9-y-o sister whispers that this is embarrassing and that people are taking pictures, just keep your focus on that oldest sister, the one blissfully unaware that this drama is unfolding just yards away from her, but who is probably sadly aware that no one she loves is watching her swim. Even in that crowd of crocodiles and piranhas and all their families, how can she not notice that she does not feel the gaze of her family, or hear their voices cheering her on?
But when you are good and sure that you have done all you could do to see her swim, and to let the 7-y-o feel the weight of her consequences, go straight over to her and squat right under that baby swing, and pull with all your might on that swing, while the kindly stranger and your older child also pull with all of theirs (him on the 7-y-o, and sister on the swing), and that darling 7-y-o pushes her feet on your thighs, until you feel your heart skip a beat, and the stranger says, "Wiggle!", and you ALL do, and she finally slips free.
Then go home and do nothing, because nothing is what you will get done around the house, because your darling 7-y-o daughter will be asking you and telling you all about that dramatic event all evening long. She will say, "I'm never going to the park again!" and you will try to reassure her that you understand she's afraid of getting stuck again, but then you'll give in to the temptation to tell her that you just don't believe that she'll never go there again.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Adamic (Eveish) Language
At the grocery store recently, I was pushing a bright blue car cart with my two youngest darlings at the steering wheels. We were headed down the health food aisle for some sunflower seeds when Louella burst out with "Donut catchers! Can we get donut catchers?" I looked where she was pointing, and saw only pumpkin seeds. Sure enough, these little libido-raising snacks were the very catchers she was asking for. I agreed to buy some, and had a good time telling everyone who would listen about the new name these seeds had been given. When dh Sonny heard the story, he was a little less surprised than I thought he would be. He had been out of town on a campout with our son on the day of the donut catcher christening. And on that day, over two hours away, for the first time in just about forever, he was eating donuts.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Schoolbuses, Sinovial Fluid, and Sobriety
My current gratitude short list.
A cross-section of our family life right now.
Tellingly Mormonish alliteration, tantalizingly randomish combination,
what do we do when we feel something we don't like?
when choosing what to do in order to feel better, do we get feedback about whether the choice is appropriate and healthy?
Sobriety requires that an addict check in with his sponsor when feeling doubtful, anxious, tempted. Before acting out or taking action which might be unhealthy, the addict is supposed to run his plan by a seasoned sober addiction-recovery graduate.
Reminds me of prayer. I can imagine that running a mile in the pouring rain would feel so good while I'm tempted to yell and scream and cry. I might tell someone that's what I'm thinking of doing. Someone else might say that exercise is a healthy way to cope with difficult emotions. But then if I pray about it, I just might get a very specific directive TO do that very thing, but in a certain place at a certain time with a certain someone, and wearing a certain reflective coat. And the answer might not make sense, to me or anyone I might tell about it, but to a loving all-powerful Divine Daddy, these are the best conditions for my plan to work to my best advantage . . . and then again, perhaps He will answer, "No, you will not."
My daughter with the mile-wide aura kept bringing up the idea of walking to school and home every day. I thought I had dissuaded her a time or two, but when the topic arose again, I knew it was time to give her the only answer she would understand. I said that if she was going to walk that route, she'd have to know that route, and how long it would take. So I offered to take that walk with her on the following Sunday evening. Sunday morning came, and my dramatic darling appeared and announced that today was THE day. I reminded her that we would take the walk LATER after supper.
Supper came and went. On went the walking shoes, and out WE went. Right on our street. Right on the street at the bus stop corner. Left at the end of that street. Right at the next corner. Left at the big street. Left soon again. Then just keep walking and mentally reviewing the directions for a long time. Lots of things to see and talk about. Finally this winding street ends and we go left, and we're almost there! We insisted on her going all the way to the front door and touching it before the timer was stopped. 45 minutes, one way!
That means that I would have to get up and get EVERYBODY ready quite early. My walk would be an hour and a half long, if there were no distractions, disruptions, or injury. Not that I couldn't use the exercise, but . . .
When I think of that big yellow schoolbus, I am grateful. No worries of whether my darlings make it all the way to their school. No having to get everyone up 45 minutes early. And no driving for me, which means less stress, and hopefully, fewer self injuries . . .
Several weeks ago, I was driving, and tried to put my left hand on the steering wheel the underhanded way. My index finger poked the wheel instead, and my finger was jammed. No breaks, no blood, just jammed. For a while it doesn't hurt, but then it does again. I had it checked out by a doctor, because I didn't want to suffer longer than I have to. He checked for breaks and assured me that I just have to give it time to heal. Having pulled this finger repeatedly, because that seems to alleviate the pain, I asked the doc whether that was wise. He said sure, that lets more sinovial fluid into the painful joints. It couldn't hurt.
Thank goodness these things I'm taking advantage of and grateful for are harmless enough.
A cross-section of our family life right now.
Tellingly Mormonish alliteration, tantalizingly randomish combination,
what do we do when we feel something we don't like?
when choosing what to do in order to feel better, do we get feedback about whether the choice is appropriate and healthy?
Sobriety requires that an addict check in with his sponsor when feeling doubtful, anxious, tempted. Before acting out or taking action which might be unhealthy, the addict is supposed to run his plan by a seasoned sober addiction-recovery graduate.
Reminds me of prayer. I can imagine that running a mile in the pouring rain would feel so good while I'm tempted to yell and scream and cry. I might tell someone that's what I'm thinking of doing. Someone else might say that exercise is a healthy way to cope with difficult emotions. But then if I pray about it, I just might get a very specific directive TO do that very thing, but in a certain place at a certain time with a certain someone, and wearing a certain reflective coat. And the answer might not make sense, to me or anyone I might tell about it, but to a loving all-powerful Divine Daddy, these are the best conditions for my plan to work to my best advantage . . . and then again, perhaps He will answer, "No, you will not."
My daughter with the mile-wide aura kept bringing up the idea of walking to school and home every day. I thought I had dissuaded her a time or two, but when the topic arose again, I knew it was time to give her the only answer she would understand. I said that if she was going to walk that route, she'd have to know that route, and how long it would take. So I offered to take that walk with her on the following Sunday evening. Sunday morning came, and my dramatic darling appeared and announced that today was THE day. I reminded her that we would take the walk LATER after supper.
Supper came and went. On went the walking shoes, and out WE went. Right on our street. Right on the street at the bus stop corner. Left at the end of that street. Right at the next corner. Left at the big street. Left soon again. Then just keep walking and mentally reviewing the directions for a long time. Lots of things to see and talk about. Finally this winding street ends and we go left, and we're almost there! We insisted on her going all the way to the front door and touching it before the timer was stopped. 45 minutes, one way!
That means that I would have to get up and get EVERYBODY ready quite early. My walk would be an hour and a half long, if there were no distractions, disruptions, or injury. Not that I couldn't use the exercise, but . . .
When I think of that big yellow schoolbus, I am grateful. No worries of whether my darlings make it all the way to their school. No having to get everyone up 45 minutes early. And no driving for me, which means less stress, and hopefully, fewer self injuries . . .
Several weeks ago, I was driving, and tried to put my left hand on the steering wheel the underhanded way. My index finger poked the wheel instead, and my finger was jammed. No breaks, no blood, just jammed. For a while it doesn't hurt, but then it does again. I had it checked out by a doctor, because I didn't want to suffer longer than I have to. He checked for breaks and assured me that I just have to give it time to heal. Having pulled this finger repeatedly, because that seems to alleviate the pain, I asked the doc whether that was wise. He said sure, that lets more sinovial fluid into the painful joints. It couldn't hurt.
Thank goodness these things I'm taking advantage of and grateful for are harmless enough.
Friday, April 10, 2009
That River in Egypt, or Emotional Roller Coaster Part 0.5
Trying to accept the apparently pregnant state of my body, I realized that I needed divine intervention. I knelt down to pray, and the serenity prayer seemed appropriate. So I tried to recite it, but to no avail. I started out all wrong: God, grant me the courage to change the things I can (that's the second phrase, not first), the ummmm ... what is it? ... no, it can't be serenity, I know that's not it ... in fact, I don't know WHY it's called the Serenity Prayer. I don't think that word is even IN the prayer! ... the whatever to accept the things I cannot change, and the courage to know the difference.
Yeah. It wasn't 'til the parents' support group meeting that night that I realized how ironic that was.
The actual Serenity Prayer goes like this:
God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
As it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
If I surrender to His Will;
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life
And supremely happy with Him
Forever and ever in the next.
At Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and other recovery support meetings all over the world, recovering addicts and their loved ones stand together and embrace as they recite the first verse.
Tonight at a parents' support group meeting again, I remembered that I had not recorded this juicy little piece of the story. So out of order though it may be, here ya go.
And as for Emotional Roller Coaster Parts II through XVII, stay tuned . . .
Yeah. It wasn't 'til the parents' support group meeting that night that I realized how ironic that was.
The actual Serenity Prayer goes like this:
God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
As it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
If I surrender to His Will;
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life
And supremely happy with Him
Forever and ever in the next.
At Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, and other recovery support meetings all over the world, recovering addicts and their loved ones stand together and embrace as they recite the first verse.
Tonight at a parents' support group meeting again, I remembered that I had not recorded this juicy little piece of the story. So out of order though it may be, here ya go.
And as for Emotional Roller Coaster Parts II through XVII, stay tuned . . .
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