SUNDAY THOUGHTS: TIME TO GO?

So...I admit I was feeling a bit stalled last week.

 
Before, and since my Dad passed away, I suppose I've been a bit of a custodian. 

A friend called me "Cinderella". 

I laughed, because it was funny. 

I know what he was implying, but if you know me, you know that cleaning and organizing aren't drudgery to me. I rather like order. 

I was raised by neat people. 

My parents were grateful people, too. 

They worked hard for what they had, and took pride in their possessions and surroundings--inside and out. 

 
Every two weeks, just like he always had, our family friend Mark comes to take care of the lawn--as if my Dad is still here. 

Dad liked looking out of the windows at a neat, litter-free lawn.  

In a way, he felt he was doing his part to "keep up the neighborhood". 

His corner of it wasn't going to be an eyesore. 

It represented him, and his respect for his neighbors.

Order, pride, and care has been a running theme in my life, I guess. 

My Auntee Lillian used to say, "If it's supposed to be white, make it white. If it's supposed to shine, make it shine." 

I admit, I ascribe to that. 

I can think clearly, and relax, create, and feel safe in an orderly environment. Deliberate disruption that only serves to annoy, inconvenience, hurt, and make extra work for others, has never made sense to me. You knew what your elders meant when they would shake their heads and lament, "Just can't have nothin' nice!" or "Why you wanna tear up where you live?"

 
What's wrong with trouble-free places, where it's clear that people actually care about what's theirs; aren't inconsiderate, selfish, or destructive; are mindful about what they do, and how it impacts others? 

What's wrong with endeavoring to create, and maintain tranquility, beauty, and harmony? 

It's not always a matter of economics all of the time, just sheer will. 

A few days ago, I was feeling nostalgic, misty and anxious. I know. The Bible says I'm not supposed to be anxious about anything, but that twirling going on in my gut let me know I needed to collect my rambling thoughts, breathe, and refocus on the search. 
I'll be moving soon, and peace and safety are at the top of my wish/prayer list.

I know the house won't be a hard sell, which means I can't impede my own progress. I always knew this living situation was temporary. 

I've always kept that thought in the back of my mind, but three years of maintaining my parent's home has been bittersweet. 

This place could use a family, though. 

It begs for happy children; people to occupy all of the rooms who will give it life, and make new memories. 

It has been a little unnerving seeing people drive by and slow down, or drive into the driveway, get out and walk around the yard freely as if they were already at home, but that's what a FOR SALE sign in the yard does--it attracts.

I had been moving at a pretty consistent pace, once I began organizing my stuff. Suddenly, I felt sluggish. 

It occurred to me that this year marks 40 years since my parents announced we were leaving S.E., Washington, DC and moving to Fort Washington, Maryland. 

I thought they had lost their parental minds. 

I was soon to be a freshman at Howard University when they made the announcement. I had already mapped out my bus route. 

The A8 would take me from Martin Luther King, Jr. Ave. to 10th and Pennsylvania Avenue. I would walk to 7th Street and transfer to the 70. 

How in the world was I going to get all the way from Fort Washington to school? 

As a child, traveling south on Indian Head Highway, to visit family friends who lived on Bryans' Road in Indian Head, Maryland, had always seemed like a field trip. The only light on the way, was courtesy of a drive-in movie theater.
Forty years later, I was sitting in the kitchen on one of the hard, Link-Taylor chairs, just staring into space, looking around, and thinking, "I'll be leaving here soon." 

I'd moved before. Suddenly, the thought of moving again exhausted me.

Naturally, I thought about Moses and the Children of Israel. 

Forty years is long enough to be anywhere, I suppose, and lately I had been in a wandering state. 

I told myself, "Get excited! It's time to start over; begin again; try something new; get back to life!" But where? 

That was the source of my anxiety. 

I hadn't considered everything involved with relocating, in such a long time. 

Even with the caregiving, I'd pack a few things, leave DC, come to my Dad's, and when he'd recovered, I'd go back home. 

This time, I had to move; change my address, and reoccupy the room I'd chosen when I was 17. 

Once again, in 2015, Dad was ill, couldn't live alone, but adamantly wanted to remain in his house. 

For the last three years, this was home again. Things were very difficult sometimes, but I never felt unsafe.
My daughter advised, "Get out of your head. Go and take a ride if that's what you think you want to do, and look at some places. Use the websites. Narrow down a few places." 

A broker I met recently said,

"You take one day at a time. Sometimes, you become a part of somebody else's caring so much, that you completely forget about yourself. You're a person. Follow your instincts. When I just don't know which route to take, I leave it up to God. I say, I don't know. Just tell me. Tell me..."  

They were both reassuring, but I needed something else. Häagen-Dazs, a brand that was born the same year I was, brilliantly created Vanilla Swiss Almond, and a half-pint of it temporarily eased my stomach and mind.

Each day, I was pondering where I would settle, scouring Zillow, saving searches, and thinking about what lead up to the move from DC so many years ago. 

There had been a peeping Tom. 

Dad had been fed up with the noise on our corner in SE DC. 

Loitering increased. 

The public school system's standards were changing. 

Kids had begun using the stop sign as a target for their basketballs, and the banging and reverberating were unbearable. 

Dear neighbors had moved away, or passed away. 

One neighbor seemed to suffer a mental breakdown, that caused her to leave her home, stand in the middle of the street, and angrily rant and scream at passersby.

Another neighbor seemed to be turning his entire, once beautiful yard, into a poor tribute to "Sanford and Son". 

The last straw, was when a contractor who'd just finished doing some work at our house, was shot. 

He had been putting his equipment in his car. Bleeding and crying out, he managed to crawl across the sidewalk, through our gate, and onto our porch. My Dad helped him get into the house, then called 911 for an ambulance. 

We'd lived there since the mid 60's, but suddenly terror moved into the neighborhood. 

It wasn't safe anymore. 

I understood my parent's concern, and was sad for a while. 

Change was difficult, and I'd loved city living. 

I'd loved S.E. 
I'd walked, or rode my bike all over Congress Heights, Bellevue, and Washington Highlands. 

Our church was in Anacostia. 

The intersection of Upsal Street and Horner Place created perfect bases for kickball games. 

Everyone knew everyone else. 

We had beautiful, red rose bushes in the yard. 

I loved sitting on the back porch with my sketch pads and pencils, and drawing until the sun set. 

I loved our house-- that I never considered little, until I saw the new one. 

It was the year I started college. 

I had no driver's license. 

Who needed one, when the A8 bus stop was a block away? That DC transit A bus took you where you could connect to what seemed like everywhere. 

I thought everything was fine, but Mommy and Dad joined the flight to the quiet, safe, formerly off-limits-to-Black-people, suburbs.

 

Seriously. I thought they had lost their minds. Mommy was still somewhat close to work, but Dad often expressed how he hated his commute from SE to the State Department. Did adding miles to the trip make sense? 

Moving, meant getting up at the crack of the crack of dawn, so that he could drop me off at 7th Street to catch the 70 bus to Howard, so I wouldn't be late for my 8:00 A.M. class. 

I remember the day he declared he wasn't taking me anywhere else, except the Department of Motor Vehicles. You needed a car in Fort Washington, then. It was the boonies. It was no-man's land. You couldn't just wander in, and I think the residents liked it that way.

My parents decided to move to no-streetlight-nor-public-transportation-having Fort Washington because they'd simply had enough of the city. 

 
Dad had driven to Fort Washington, one Sunday afternoon, to serve communion to an ailing church member. He brought Mommy back to look at the "good looking" house he'd seen on a corner lot. 

It had more than one bathroom, and a big back yard. Mommy could garden, have more room for her French Provincial furniture they'd purchased at Curtis Brothers (famous for the big chair), and she would be neighbors with some of her teacher friends. People could visit without having to worry about their cars being vandalized, or stolen. 

The cookouts would be legendary. 

There was even a working fireplace, and wrought iron that reminded them of New Orleans. 

There was plenty room for the dog and the doghouse. Dad contemplated a swimming pool, and there was ample room to play a game of pool, without your stick hitting the walls. 

My parents were sold. 

The house was nicer and bigger, and I had a huge, walk-in closet in my bright orange-painted room, but it wasn't S.E. 

There was no High's Dairy Store, no Waxie Maxies; no corner stores like Fort Carroll, or Cassandra and Felicia Markets; no Atlantic nor Congress Theaters, Washington Highlands Library, nor Bob's Frozen Custard. 

I couldn't walk to the post office or dry cleaners. 

I couldn't ride or catch a bus to Eastover, to shop at Woodies, G.C. Murphy or J.C. Penney, Holly Farms, or go to the bowling alley. 

Fort Washington was giving quiet, safe vibes— that is, until someone shot poor Mr. Branch, who'd owned lots of land, in what used to be the first house you'd see after turning off of dark Oxon Hill Road. 

As heinous as the crime was, there was no urgency to pack up and move somewhere else after that happened, just an understanding that bad people, bent on doing bad things, were everywhere.

It's still been quiet here. 

There's more traffic than there used to be, but it's quiet (or maybe it's just considerably less noisy than it was in DC), and it has been for a very long time. 

The older I get, the more I adore peace, comfort, and safety. I still can't get over it though. It's been forty years since my parents decided to move, and the irony that presents itself today is that, in the same way that a shooting helped them decide, a shooting is also motivating me. 

 

On the evening of July 14th, on the street to which my parents fled, with its neatly manicured lawns and hedges, the police were everywhere. 

After scouring social media, to see if anyone was talking about the noise I'd heard, I read that four people had been shot. 

It hadn't been Independence Day revelers using up their surplus explosives, after all. Someone was armed with a gun. 
I was suddenly, keenly aware of how my parents felt. Things are different when they seem to be knocking at your door. 

I've lived and worked in what have been deemed among the worst, most dangerous areas in DC, so I've always been careful, but never afraid. 

I certainly never felt uneasy here before.

I'd been watching TV when I heard about 8 extremely loud bangs. They were so close--too close--and they echoed. I could almost feel the sound, but of course it's still July in the DMV, so I flinched, but never thought to rush to a window, or pick up my phone to call 911. 

I'd done that so many times before, when I lived in S.E. and S.W. DC, only to hear a nonchalant dispatcher ask, "Ma'am, are you sure they're not fireworks?" 
*Sigh*
"Gunshots or Fireworks" is the unofficial, annual game we play in the DC area. 

Even though fireworks are illegal in Prince George's County, and fireworks that explode are illegal in DC, quite a few people ignore the ordinances, and fire off round after round with impunity. 

This year was the first time in a long time, that it's been relatively peaceful. However, ten days after the 4th of July, only a WUSA-9 news crew, the police cruiser parked horizontally in the middle of the street to block traffic, yellow tape, vehicles making sudden u-turns as they neared the scene, and the red and blue lights that flashed from the roofs of numerous cruisers, testified that the noise last night wasn't fireworks. 

A death, and a last will and testament were the determining factors, and now, a shooting has contributed to the urgency for me to find a new home, but again, where? 

I've narrowed down a few places, and I know that there's no place that is completely crime free, but I just hate that it seems this street is going the way of so many others. 

I don't know. Maybe the incident was just random. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was simply irony. Maybe it was a reminder not to procrastinate, or be lulled into a nostalgic state. 

No matter where people flee to get away from trouble, it tends to find its way there, too. 

It's not the streets, avenues, boulevards, and communities. Brick, wood, mortar, grass, asphalt and trees never hurt anyone. It's the people who occupy or enter the neighborhoods. 

They have to care.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's systematic and deliberate; if there's some conspiracy afoot when people seem to be frightened out of, or forced to flee neighborhoods. Fear is a motivator, but I don't want it to be mine.

I'll keep looking...and praying for guidance-- and for the four people who were wounded. 

I hear they're all going to be okay.

It's time to move.

FRIDAY WISDOM

"You take one day at a time...Sometimes, you become a part of somebody else's caring that you completely forget about yourself. You're a person...Follow your instincts...When I just don't know which route to take, I leave it up to God. I say, I don't know. Just tell me. Tell me..."  
~Carola Trainor

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: POETRY PROMPT---REUNION

In a room full of people I used to know

I saw traces of youth I'd known long ago

I heard stories of woe, joy, and levity

And I wondered how they all remembered me

In a room full of people I used to know

I saw eyes dimmed by age

Yet, they seemed to glow

I heard laughter ringing, just like it once had

And I wondered if I couldn't be more glad

We were changed in some ways

Yet, we're still alive

We complained of our aches

Yet we've all thrived

We embraced warmly; friendship could still be found

Each one thankful the others were still around

The anxiety I'd felt before I came

Faded fast as soon as I heard my name

They confirmed for me I still had my smile

It helped me decide to just stay a while

I was suddenly back in a happy space

Where I'd felt safe and loved more than in any place 

Surrounded each day by the work of their hands

Not yet visited, then, by all that life demands

In a room full of people I used to know

I was grateful for grace; as I turned to go

I was glad I had not been stopped or delayed

From the lovely gift that was new memories made 

vrw© 2018

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: THE GOSPEL, ART, AND THE ARTIST

A Facebook friend, who has demonstrated more heart and concern for the Gospel Music Industry than anyone I've ever met, wrote in a recent post, "The Gospel music industry has a number of great conferences. Do we need a conference specifically to help Gospel artists better their spiritual lives?"

I shook my head, and thought, "Who doesn't need to better their spiritual lives-- no matter what their vocation is? 

Why single out artists? They're visible, but not the only people we see. 

Why not care about the spiritual lives of accountants, plumbers, gas station attendants and electricians, too? 

I knew what she was getting at, though. 

People connected to, employed by, or engaged in anything associated with the term "gospel", go around with an albatross around their necks, that targets and monitors them when they're on and off the clock. 

Wait. 

They're never off the clock, and when they snap, it's news.

What is this demand that one person, or group of people be more spiritually fit than everyone else? 

Is it because of what they profess to be, and do? 

Attach that word "gospel" onto a thing, and the game changes dramatically. 

Don't dare trip, fall, or make a mistake. 

Don't be weak, and definitely don't say anything that can be characterized as controversial. 

The public refuses to allow the art to be separated from the artist. When the artist falls, the art loses credibility and value.

 
Now...just how serious am I about the Gospel of Jesus Christ, if I allow the actions of a singer or musician (who, perhaps without their consent, has been drafted as a spokesperson, mentor, or representative) to make me doubt, or dismiss it?

Maybe those letter G's in my friend's post should be lower case. Not Gospel, but gospel. Not a noun, but an adjective. 

Maybe the anxiety and non-fictive kinship wouldn't be so great when favorite performers wile out, fall short, or quit. 

Maybe we'd still be able to listen to the music without feeling sorry for, or being disappointed by the people who make it.

Perhaps basics, home training, and the like, need a revival, so we can stop expecting spirituality from, and imposing rules upon industries that never claimed to be particularly, or primarily spiritual. 

The local church ought to be the example, and foundation. 

Instead, many are busy trying to replicate the spectacles, explosions, celebrations, fashion shows, and extravaganzas seen on TV. 

Good grief. 

If you don't listen to the radio, you might not be able to sing along at some churches these days.

Praise teams are all the rage. 

Choirs comprised of tone-deaf, non-singers--but who are faithful and have heart, seem to be acceptable in some places. 

Music is so abysmal, mediocre, laughable, dismissed, and devalued in some sanctuaries, you wonder if church-goers have been instructed to tear the entire book of Psalms from their Bibles and burn it. 

Churches need vibrant, strong music ministries led by competent people. 

One cannot calculate the value of a church-based music education. 

What is being taught today? 

That music doesn't matter? 

That no effort or passion is needed? 

That mastering an instrument is not a marketable skill, worthy of compensation? 

That singing is a hobby?

 

What is the local church instilling in future artists? 

That mastering a piano is a lesser skill than inserting a disc into a disc drive?

A budding young singer who hears excellent singing at every weekly, local convocation, won't be so eager to look elsewhere for instruction, inspiration, guidance, encouragement, and excellence. 

What they hear won't be an anomaly. 

While they are being exposed to the music, they are also in place to hear the Word of God that inspired the music, and will enrich their lives. That Word provides a foundation that covers, grounds and directs that person so that they are able to move into ANY arena and maintain their integrity, enthusiasm, and faith.

We want, and like conferences, but we don't need another one. 

Are we learning anything, or just helping some ministry pay their enormous electric bill, or burn their mortgage? 
We are all FAT; just bursting at the seams with information from conferences! What are we doing with the resources we already have?

Maybe we should just sit down and re-read all the books and notes, and listen to all the cassettes, CD's, and watch the DVD's currently cluttering our desks and bookshelves. Perhaps we should just have a big swap meet, or lock in! 

I wonder what would happen if conference planners made it a requirement that those who perform have to stick around for the whole thing--particularly the parts where prayer, teaching, or preaching are taking place? What if performers just dust off those Bibles? 

Its applications cover EVERYTHING! 

Conferences??? Uh uh. 

We should all have PhD's in Theology by now, based on what we've gleaned from conferences! They are money-generating ventures, no matter what the urgent topic. 

People flock to them and go home financially depleted, and with more paper to add to the paper they've already accumulated, but with how much more real insight? 

God, of course, can use anything to fulfill his purposes, so I won't throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Maybe all industries should have an employee development division. Everyone could use a mentor. 

Everyone needs someone to whom they can be accountable. 

Everyone needs wise counsel when pursuing ANY endeavor. 

One has to want that, though. 

Industries that truly care, know that without the people, there is no product. What you care about, you nurture and invest in.

Whether you're a Christian or not, if you want to be a participant in ANY industry, learn the business--the good and the bad of it. You can still lift up the name of Jesus, and be smart, savvy, and professionally successful. 

There are perfectly LEGAL activities going on, in every industry, that won't seem nice OR right, that leave people confused, misused, discouraged. and often penniless. 

It bears repeating: Forget the players, learn the BUSINESS before you jump in to ANY industry. 

We make the mistake of thinking the Gospel Music Industry is bound by our collective Bibles. It is not. 

I think it's the less than godly business practices people experience that disillusion, discourage, blindside, and leave them distressed. 

It's got "gospel" in the name, so the extremely naive assumption is that it's supposed to be lovely, fair, just, righteous, unblemished, compassionate, upstanding, and void of devious, shady, opportunistic, greedy, lying, cheating, competitive, envious, and otherwise ruthless individuals. 

People break their necks to get inside and hobnob, but get their feelings and sensibilities hurt when they've been shortchanged, snubbed, or deceived by people who never, EVER promised to be Christlike.

Those who continue to play in any industry, do so because they have mastered the game. They know it is not always sweetness and light, but they've learned how to navigate. They know who's who. They know there IS a risk in playing. They know that no one is indispensable no matter how great they think they are. 

LEARN THE GAME, but a good mantra to repeat when one senses one's guard is down, and is feeling particularly vulnerable, is THIS INDUSTRY IS NOT YOUR CHURCH HOME. 

It would be prudent to stop expecting what you thought a thing was "supposed" to be, and learn what it IS. 

If it is business, it is something that is done regularly and for profit. 

If it has been profitable, it is probably not suffering a deficit of willing participants. 

 

Some people just want to sing or play an instrument, and do it well, and earn a living at it. Period. They don't want to be confined. 

We construct, and force ourselves and others, into ridiculous boxes and categories, and then wonder why our unreasonable expectations are dashed! 

Who said if you are a church goer you can only participate or utilize your talent in the gospel music industry? 

Who made that rule? 

Is that why some people are so conflicted, and bound by some unwritten mandate? 

They think their salvation will be in question if they sing R&B or Jazz or Country? 

Is that the source of the strife and trouble? 

Content? Is it all about content?

Do people want to be stars and high rollers, but their childhood narrative says you can't play, sing, or make a living at anything else? 

If it involves revenue, it's business. 

The Gospel Music Industry is a business. 

Of course it could be under-girded and characterized by New Testament-based bylaws and practices if it wanted to be. 

If that was the aim, a lot of what we see would not exist, but it is under no obligation to adopt Christian principles as a business plan. 

It's about how to make money. 

How to fill seats. 

How to boost ratings. 

How to make a profit off of the talents of churched human beings, by directing a product to the churched masses, based on their churchy interests! 

It's about how to make a legitimate living doing what you like--something that many churches won't pay for, because sharing your skill set is supposed to be your reasonable service! 

Many believe singers and musicians ought to give it away! But how many churches need to send a check to the artists whose copyrighted music they've decided to play and broadcast during service every week? Why don’t they think the LIVING, BREATHING musicians they actually know, should be compensated fairly? 

Why then, should an industry that has NEVER boasted to be founded upon the Word of God, be any better at caring for its Levites than the local church is? 

There's nothing wrong with business or money, but we have GOT to stop looking to profit-driven businesses as spiritual examples, and flawed human beings as role models! 

We have to stop assuming that everything stamped with the word "gospel" represents THE gospel. 

It's called the Gospel Music Industry--the emphasis is THE MUSIC, not the people who make it, because when the people are dead and gone, the music still generates revenue. 

People are getting rich off of the efforts of others. 

The people are dispensable. 

The MUSIC matters. 

Even of some people are never seen or heard from again in a public forum, the work they have done has already insured the present and future financial security of someone else who probably can't play a lick, or carry a tune in a bucket.

 

You can always tell just how dispensable artists are by what is considered relevant, and who and what we honor, and what we determine as excellent and noteworthy. 

The biggest hellion or the most staunch Atheist can master music and perform it! 

Where would a Christian, who wants to be a singing superstar turn, where no one in their church will question their salvation or choice of vocation? THE GOSPEL MUSIC INDUSTRY, of course! That's where filthy rags and the unrighteous can be comfortable looking, moving and rubbing shoulders like their worldly counterparts, while boasting "I only sing sacred music". 

Why is the industry that would seem to be the best fit, NO different in its business practices than any other? 

Why is it not overseen by wise, scrupulous, spiritual leaders who will make sure to cover and protect the singing/playing sheep? 

Why is there no distinguishable trait, no glaring integrity, no attention to the tenets of the Gospel, and no obvious care? 

Why is it not distinct and separate?

 

Just because people SAY they sing or produce gospel music doesn't mean they live it! 

Should that even be a prerequisite? Or do we just want performance excellence, and not care what happens in the lives of people once they leave the stage? 

Just because an industry produces Christian-themed products and extracts its agents from church choir lofts, doesn't mean they have the promotion of the Gospel, or interests of the performers at heart. 

They may simply appreciate the artistic value of it all. 

WHEN has the gospel music industry itself EVER officially identified itself as a body of believers, or a Christian-based, Christ-centered, Bible-believing organization? Where is that written? 

The subject of the products it produces CLEARLY has no influence on it's practices. The name of Jesus is used to make men and women great and prosperous, but how many are truly giving that name all of the glory it is due?

We really have to stop elevating people to dizzying heights at which they cannot function, or sustain themselves. 

We praise people one day, and then go all pompous and sanctimonious on them when they stumble. 

To achieve the utopia of a body of performers who all lead sterling, God-centered lives, and serve as excellent representatives of contemporary Levitical work, someone would have to plan one mighty ol' conference---spearheaded by Jesus himself.

CAREGIVER DIARIES: FORWARD MARCH

I just got a bit of good, motivating, affirming news today. 

Forward march...

Yesterday, Facebook took me back to July 8, 2015. 

I had been back at my Dad's house to care for him just shy of a month. It was the fourth time in 10 years, and I did have some anxiety whether I'd be able to do it again. Once again, a caring medical professional uttered the words, "He shouldn't live alone". 
I remember my Dad looking at me and saying, "I want to go home! You can do it. You can go to the house. You did it before!" 

Yes, I had done it before. 

I thought about everything that "before" had thrown at me. Then I wondered what lesson or skill God wanted me to master, because he consistently presented me with the same test. 
I balled up my anxiety, honored my Dad's wishes, and went to "the house".

 
I became a Maryland resident again. It's been three years. 

Visiting a friend yesterday, made me keenly aware of how little I knew about recent occurrences and trends in popular culture and technology. 

I realized how much time has actually passed, and how much has changed. 

Caregiving is an isolating, even incubating experience. The tunnel vision, and exhaustion is real, but that’s your parent or loved one. They cared for you, so it seems only right, reasonable, and fair to care for them.

My friend was right. "It's time to get back to life". I have to admit, I’m not sure how.

It's been so fascinating learning about my parents as I've sorted through papers, photos, letters, notes, receipts, and handled their possessions. 

There's been cleaning, packing, packaging, saving, shredding, and purging since Dad passed away in February. 

I feel like I've been in custodian mode; the keeper of an inheritance. I’m also the recipient of a respite I sorely needed. 

The quiet around here has been wonderful. 

I'm grateful to have had the time to sort of commune with this place; to reminisce; to be grateful for having the opportunity to sacrifice, and give to someone who sacrificed and gave so much to me. 

It's been refreshing just being alone in my parent's space--a space they pooled their resources to acquire, and worked so hard to have and maintain; a space they graciously shared with countless others. Soon, another family will make a home here. 

I certainly hope and pray they will be happy, secure, and kind to one another.

It occurred to me that everything I've been through has been fuel for whatever the next chapter of my life will bring. 

I came across words I'd written three years ago, and smiled. 

I don't know how much I've laughed in the last three years. I'm sure I did from time to time, but peaceful and content is the only way I can describe how I feel today.

I'm hoping that other caregivers can find the laughter, too...sooner than later. 

I'm on the other side of caregiving now, but I think the experience will never go away; nor will the lessons. There's a freedom I cannot describe. 

I'll always have a heart for those who care for their loved ones. No one understands like they do, and no one needs support and encouragement like they do.

The message via Facebook read, "Vanessa, we care about you and the memories you share here. We thought you'd like to look back on this post from 3 years ago." 
I actually did like looking back at my own words:

"Being a caregiver is one of the most amazing tasks one will ever assume. Having the will and capacity to assist someone else, is a blessing. You see and hear what others don't. Routines are established--so is trust.

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone soberly said, "Please, take care of yourself", or "Don't take anything personally". 

At first, the advice seemed a little odd. "What do I need to take care of myself for? I'm not sick." 

What I have learned, however, is that the stress you don’t anticipate, can and will cause great damage. In the past, it came from the most unlikely sources. In the present, some of those sources seem to be gearing up again. 

Often, it's not the illness, nor the condition, and all of the not-so-pretty stuff that comes with it, that presents the greatest challenges. It's people. 

Someone actually phoned yesterday and asked my Dad if he regretting having help. Before the obvious insult could take hold (and make me want to snatch the phone and ask what kind of new, idiot spawn of Satan was on the line), I heard my Dad say, "I told her this morning I thanked God for her. I really appreciate what she's doing. I tell her every day."

Did I need to hear that? No. At my age, I have the liberty do what I choose to do. Besides, he's my Dad. Duh!…and what do I care about what busybodies think?

Was being appreciated nice to hear? Of course! Who doesn't want to be acknowledged, or have someone to come to their defense?

People who instigate, sow seeds of discord, mistrust, and suspicion; sabotage nutritional plans, interrupt sleep times, make and leave mess, lie, micromanage, make demands, undermine progress, or take nosiness to dizzying heights, used to annoy me to the point of distraction. 

I was on pins and needles all the time, and it took its toll every time. I realized, however, that it was my fault for not speaking up.

This time, the answer to my prayers concerning difficult people, has been, "Laugh about it". 

I thought that was odd, too. 

I've found that the enemy of your soul and peace of mind, really does run out of ways to annoy you, so he revisits the tests you've previously failed, or decided to leave incomplete. 

Laughing, as opposed to being annoyed, defensive, or frustrated, really is a stress reliever.

 

Have you ever seen a little kid playing Hide-and-Seek, who hides out in the open, but thinks you can't see him or her? Now, THAT'S funny. 

That's how the enemy is. He does really ridiculous, annoying stuff right out in the open, and acts perfectly innocent, but thinks you can't see (or hear) him.

Consider your situation. Whatever it is, take your power back, today. 

How you respond to what others do and say, is up to you. 

Be very slow to take offense. 

Don't let that angst live in your belly. 

Let some stuff just roll off of your back, and boldly confront other stuff when necessary. 

If you need a break, take one.

Know who you are, and remember why you are where you are. 

Pray for those who are trying to be their instigating, antagonistic best. 

Look closely. Consider what is, or is not happening in their own lives that causes them to be so preoccupied with yours. Often times, they know not what they do---or maybe they DO, but laugh at it all anyway. 

They'll learn. 

Sowing and reaping isn't just a financial principle.

 
Breathe.

Stay focused on the principal thing. 
You can do this.
Yes, you can."