A Stockton Reprieve

As I was walking Bobby today, I couldn't help but notice how beautiful it was outside. The sun was shining, there was a light breeze and the temperature was in the upper 60's. In February. Yes, I have to admit, I do love that there is no snow, no ice and no freezing rain here. It does get cold and it does get wet and sometimes it's wet and cold - but nothing like you experience in Illinois or Wisconsin. This has been a nice switch for winter - I think I like it. Now in Florida, it was similar during this time of year, but the humidity level canceled out any pleasantness I could find. The humidity there is like a furnace - hot or cold - it's always humid. That's great if you like taking several showers a day, or if you enjoy being in a constant sauna - I didn't. When I left, my lungs gave me a standing ovation with a huge sigh of relief, and I even welcomed the ridiculous Wisconsin winter in exchange.

I noticed on the walk that some of the trees were bare, several had some leaves and others were fully green. I thought that was interesting. The leaves did fall for a month or two, but I see that they're already budding and most of the trees, never lost their leaves. The birch trees in the courtyard (my favorite) are bare, but I would guess with this warmer weather, they'll be growing in no time. I attached a few photos of my walk and the trees below.

I finally met Pastor Haney this morning after service. He's a kind and soft spoken man, and an excellent preacher, so I feel very blessed to be sitting under him. We had a really nice, long talk and I learned some things I hadn't known before. We talked about Judaism and how Hebrew has different historical variations, and other topics regarding my own heritage. He has a great love for the Jewish people and has been to Israel several times. One day, I would love to make that trip myself.

I've also noticed that I must have reached the age of "maturity." Or maybe I should say, "Senior Citizen." I was in a little carry-out restaurant yesterday and I sat with three men - young men - who I would describe as "thuggish." You know what I mean. They were talking about their wives or girlfriends and how and what they should do about Valentine's Day, laughing and cutting up. One of the men started to swear, caught himself (I assume, because I was sitting there), and used a non-swear word to describe his frustration. I smiled to myself. When my food was ready, I got up to leave and I turned and looked at these three guys and said, "You know what? The things your girlfriends or wives really want, is your attention, your love and your respect." And I looked down at the one who was sitting next to me who was married but was flirting with a customer, and I said, "And, NO CHEATING." Their responses were so funny. They said, "Yeah, dude - she's right - I told you, blah, blah, blah..." and I chuckled to myself as I left. They were so respectful of me as I sat there, and I'm sure it's because of my age. I laughed when I thought about it. I could have been a mother to one of them.

Tonight, as I came home from church, it was dark and I was walking Bobby in front of my apartment, and a guy came driving up with his stereo blasting and I just stood there with my back to him watching for Bobby to do his business. When the guy turned his car off and got out, I asked him, "Do you...?" "WHAT???!! Oh man!! I didn't see you standing there! Man, if I knew you were there, I would have turned the music down! Man, I'm sorry!!" I told him that was not a problem and apologized for startling him and said I was just wondering if the Super Bowl was over yet. He told me it was and kept apologizing and then asked to be excused as he brought his food up to his apartment. I had to laugh again. The thing I find so funny about this, is that these guys are probably and usually up to no good, but obviously, I've gotten to the age where they see me as their mother or grandmother and just like they wouldn't be disrespectful toward them - they don't want to be disrespectful toward me. It's actually refreshing and I love it!

Stockton has won a reprieve with me.

Prayer Does Change Things

I've been meaning to sit still and write for some time now, but something always gets in the way. I'm positive I have ADD and I've had it all the while I was growing up. But of course in those days, they didn't label behavior like they do today - they just said you were a bad kid. Yeah, I guess I was that too. 

Last week, we had the Landmark Conference at church and it was incredible. In the 35 years I've been in church, I've never experienced what I felt at this conference. There were moments when it felt and sounded like what I imagine an earthquake would feel like and I just looked around with my mouth wide open in awe. One of the nights, I was sitting next to Sis. Mahaney and we both looked at each other in complete awe and unbelief. It was so powerful. It's something that's difficult to explain  - it just has to be experienced. I borrowed a clip from someone who put it on Facebook and I copied and pasted it here for those of you who would like to see it, to get a small idea of what it was like. I hope you can open this link - if you can't, let me know and I'll text it to you. If you can't open it as you click on it,  save and paste it into your browser window and try to open it that way. You really can't see it, but the church was packed, in excess of 5,000 people, all worshiping the Lord with our awesome choir. 

https://www.facebook.com/susana.miraflor/videos/10206667207852772/

A week before the conference, I sat in the main sanctuary on Sunday night and listened to Micah preach. He did a fantastic job, as usual, and I know I'm biased, but I've been told by others he's an anointed preacher, and that night was no exception. I'm so proud of him. You know, I believe God has a sense of humor - and He likes to orchestrate situations to complete His will, regardless of who we are and what we've done. Because of some really devastating mistakes I made, as well as some mistakes that were thrust upon me, I was shunned and just about dis-fellowshipped when I was pregnant with Micah. It was very humiliating and as I look back on the past, it most definitely was the darkest time of my entire life. When Micah was born, I wasn't allowed to dedicate him in a church ceremony, like I did with my first two. My pastor dedicated him in a small, private ceremony with just a handful of people there, but I was determined that my child would be dedicated to God. Even though I was a huge disappointment to God, myself and others, He showed His mercy and grace to me during that time, and He blessed me nonetheless. He held me up when I did't deserve it, and carried me when I couldn't put one foot in front of the other - however, I never stopped praying to Him. I felt that if I did, then I would lose the only grip I had on God and the life I so believed in, so I held onto Him for dear life. He's the One Who was my perfect Husband and Father to my children, and stood by me as I raised them all of those years. So when I look at Micah today and see him preaching over the pulpit, teaching or doing anything for God, I always remember those dark days. God turned my son's disadvantaged start to life, into an honorable husband and father, and one who loves Him with all of his heart. That always makes me smile. The adversary's design for my life and the lives of my children, was one of poverty, depression and defeat -- but God had other plans. He knew that He would be able to use my children and myself one day, for His Glory - and that's exactly what He's done.

I texted my kids the other day and said this, "In prayer this morning this scripture came to me and I want to share it with you, being that it is exactly how I feel...'I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth.' 3 John 1:4." I couldn't have said it any better. That is truly my greatest joy.

How in the world did I ever come to know the Lord Jesus Christ? That's a good question - especially since I was raised Jewish. I think I've told this before, but it always bears repeating. When I was about 6, an old, black man came to our house (we lived in an all-white suburb of Chicago) to paint it for my dad. I think one of my dad's friends  recommended him as a painter. I was outside playing and he happened to see that I was struggling with my breathing because I had asthma. He begged my father to let him pray for me, and my father politely said no, that they were Jewish and I didn't need prayer, but the old man was very persistent. My father finally agreed and the old man directed us to stand in a circle on the driveway, holding hands, with him and I in the middle. When we did this, he laid his hands on me and started praying really loud and in a strange language I never heard before, and my parents were embarrassed, rolling their eyes, while my brothers and I just giggled because we didn't understand any of it. I will remember that until the day I die, because I believe that man prayed for my soul - I was never healed from asthma - but it wasn't until a few decades later that I remembered him and realized it was that old man who had a hand in my salvation. That's a long time to wait for an answer to prayer, but the prayer was answered in God's time - and without the old man ever knowing. So, when I get to heaven, I want to look for him and thank him for not only what he did for me, but for my offspring as well. I believe, that prayer goes way further than what we could ever comprehend. Bro. Grant used to teach, "Don't say, 'all I can do is pray.' Say, ' I will pray because that is the most I can do.'" So if you should ever ask me to pray about something for you, please know that I take it very seriously. I know God hears and answers prayer. I know this because He has answered mine and has been right beside me for over 35 years...

Soapbox on Stockton

The worst traffic in Madison, Wisconsin is the Beltline at rush hour. It gets to be crawl and go and sometimes a dead stop if there's an accident. The interstate, I-90, which runs along the outskirts of Madison and some small cities surrounding it, sometimes gets to be equally as annoying. But in the large scheme of things, that turns out to be a minimal inconvenience compared to driving in other cities.

I'm thankful I learned to drive in Chicago when I was 16. It was scary learning to drive on the Dan Ryan Expressway back then, but it's nothing compared to the traffic here. Los Angeles is the worst traffic I have ever seen. Those people are insane, cutting you off between lanes, motorcycles flying down the perforated line between lanes (which just about gave me a heart attack when it happened to me) and motorists being just plain rude - even more rude than Chicago motorists, if you can believe that. But I'm talking about Stockton drivers - not Los Angeles ones today. It's as if every single person is late for an appointment, driving like a maniac and cutting you off for no reason. Not that I've never done that myself, mind you. I have - many times. But then, I am an ex-Chicago driver. I guess I just notice it more here than in Madison - maybe because Madison has limited highways and mostly city streets, where racing is not conducive. I don't know. But it does remind me of driving on the crazy roads in Chicago.

Speaking of highways, this thought just crossed my mind: when I was 17, I remember coming home from seeing my boyfriend on the south side of Chicago (which was and is mostly black), around 1:30 in the morning. A white girl driving on the Dan Ryan, coming off the ramp from an inner city neighborhood, in the middle of the night. It was raining and I wasn't speeding, but all of a sudden, the police were behind me with their lights flashing. They had me pull off an exit in a dark, secluded area and made me get out of my car to show them my license, which was in my wallet. They took my wallet and saw my boyfriend's picture in it and started to ridicule me because he was black: they were two white officers. They wanted to know why I was on the south side, and because I was very young and naive, I told them. I began to feel uneasy, standing out in the rain, waiting for them to give me my wallet back. I was a pretty tough kid back then and looked forward to a good fight, which felt like one here, but my good sense kept my mouth shut as I endured their smug racism. When they decided they were done, I was told to get home, where I belonged, which is what I did as fast as I could. I realized many years later, that God was protecting me that night. It would have been very easy for 2 men to overtake a young girl, especially in a dark, secluded place. He really did have His angels watching over me that night.

Stockton, in fact, reminds me a lot of Chicago. I live in a large apartment complex that is gated, which is a new experience for me. Almost every home in this city is protected by a fence around the perimeter of one's property. I've never seen anything like it. Fences back up to the neighbor's fence and it goes on like that around the block, so they're all self-contained. And to keep "undesirables" out, complexes like mine and even mobile home parks are gated and you have to know the code to enter through the gate. (Hmmm, there's a sermon in that...)  In some neighborhoods, there are even bars on the windows and doors, which would be a real drag to look out from - but I guess it keeps the bad guys away. People also keep big dogs outside to ward off anyone who would dare break in their homes. At night, the weather is cool and the sky is clear and I can hear sirens from miles away, up and down the main street near where I live. It doesn't look like Chicago, but it sounds like it from where I'm standing. Loud cars screeching, sirens going off and dogs barking in the distance, is what I hear on a nightly basis. There are moments when it's quiet and peaceful, but then I wonder what's wrong - something's not right somewhere.

I've also noticed, well, it's hard not to notice, the number of homeless people there are in this city. In Chicago you just assume there is a large number of homeless people because the city is so large and expensive to live in. Stockton is about the size of Madison - maybe a little bigger - but you see far more homeless here than in Madison. It could be that the weather is mild through the winter here -I don't know, but maybe that's why. The homeless population in Venice, Florida was large too. I think down there the reason would be the weather and the fact that it's also an expensive place to live.

But what I encounter here, bothers me a whole lot. It bothers me because in this day and age and with all the countless services our cities provide, there should be no or very few homeless people. They seem to have fallen through the cracks of a system that's obviously not working well enough. It frustrates and angers me that this situation exists and I long to take them all home with me, give them warm soup, wrap them up with love and give them a place to rest. Alas, I am one person, in a one bedroom apartment on a fixed income - realistically not even that far from the position they find themselves in. Actually, this could happen to any one of us. People are way too quick to judge those they don't understand or can't relate to, but my response to them would be to thank God you have a place to rest your head after a long day, warmth, food and love from other people - you're very fortunate. Others may not be so fortunate. For a myriad of reasons, they've found themselves on the street just trying to stay alive, eating out of dumpsters and smoking discarded butts in ashtrays or on the sidewalk. I'm sorry for them. I'm sorry that they need help with their addictions, mental health and personal issues that they're not getting help for. I'm sorry we as a nation aren't do more to help them. 

The homeless are old, young, women and men - it doesn't matter - there's no discrimination with that here. Usually, they are riding an old bike piled up high with bags, driving down the sidewalk. Or they have "borrowed" grocery carts and carry their belongings in those, pushing quickly down the street, and I wonder where all these people are going. I hope there are shelters around, although I have no idea if there are, because it can get very cold here at night. I imagine they find shelter in old, vacant buildings (I've seen a lot of those), under bridges or anywhere I guess, that provides some privacy and relief from the rain and cold. 

I can hear in my mind what some of you are saying at this point. "Get a job," "Get an apartment," "Do SOMETHING for yourself and stop expecting a hand-out from someone else!" The reality of the situation is that many of these folks are seriously addicted to drugs and/or alcohol, have mental health issues from veterans to young people who were viciously abused and so many other reasons that you or I would have no clue about. I personally don't believe people should just sit around and collect welfare or disability if they're able to work, even if it's a minimum-wage job; they should be made to work. However, there are scores of others who don't even have the wherewithal to apply for these services, much less sit around on a comfortable sofa watching television. That's the population which needs our help and not our sarcastic criticism. Until we find ourselves in a similar situation, we have no right to judge them. 

52 Years Ago Today

The mind is truly an amazing thing. I can't remember what I did yesterday afternoon, but I have vivid memories from 40 and 50 years ago with no problem at all. Think of all the billions of thoughts, memories and feelings our minds contain, and it is a wonder that we can retrieve anything at all.

Today is November 22, 2015 - 52 years after President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas. And yet, I remember it like it happened yesterday. I was 8 years old, in third grade at Thomas Edison School in Morton Grove, Illinois.  My teacher was Mrs. Stevens. She had blonde hair and wore it in a bob, which was popular back then. I liked her as a teacher, but she had some interesting ways to discipline us. If we talked to our "neighbors," she would put tape across our lips. If we were chewing gum, she would make us stick it on the tip of our nose. She would spray us with water and smack the tops of our hands with a ruler. There were others, but I only remember these - probably because I was at the receiving end for all of them.

Of course, there were no rules back then as to how the teachers could discipline us, and some of them really did take their liberty. I had one teacher in junior high school, whose name was Mr. Zavada. For some reason, we thought he was really weird and loved to terrorize him which caused him to lose his temper to the extreme. One day, we figured out that if you threw a coin up to the ceiling, it would stick - I don't know what kind of ceiling that was, but it would actually stick up there. So most of us (naughty) kids, threw any change we had up to the ceiling when Mr. Zavada's head was turned as he was teaching at the blackboard. It became so hilarious that we all started giggling louder and louder until he turned around and then up to see what all the laughing was about. He went into a rage and threw a couple of the boys across the room, along with their desks. I think all he could do was leave, because he was too flustered to know how to handle the situation. We all probably got into trouble, but I'm sure we all felt it was worth it, just to see all the coins sticking out of the ceiling.

We were all sitting at our little, blonde desks on November 22, 1963, when over the loudspeaker, the principal announced that President Kennedy had just been shot and died shortly after that. Mrs. Stevens started crying and we sat there silent, not knowing what to do or say. After the announcement, we were all sent home early that afternoon, to watch on our little black and white television sets, the news which kept repeating the same thing over and over. In fact, this whole scenario played out every day and every night on the television in our living room. Everyone was riveted to their televisions or radios, watching and listening to the news. Even as young as I was, I remember the heavy darkness that seemed to engulf the entire country. Everyone in the world, it seemed, was in mourning. The Dallas police quickly found the man responsible, Lee Harvey Oswald, and then, a day or so later, right in our front rooms on live TV, we all witnessed Jack Ruby shoot Oswald dead. I think everyone was just stunned - to watch an actual murder right as it happened. It was surrealistic and people could not believe what was happening. My parents, like everyone else, were very upset by all of this, but it wasn't until I saw the funeral that it really struck me in a personal way.

The president's funeral was a long march down Pennsylvania Avenue in a procession with servicemen on horses and his lone casket being pulled down the middle of the street. Mrs. Kennedy, her children and the president's family walked down the avenue following the casket. This took a very long time, as it seemed to go very slowly. I don't remember where they were standing, but Mrs. Kennedy and her two children were standing on a corner in front of a building and her son, John, stood there saluting as his dad's casket passed by. That brought tears to my eyes. He was probably too young to understand all that was being done that day, but I was old enough to know that he had just lost his father, which made me really sad for him.

The assassination, the capture of Oswald, the killing of Oswald by Ruby and the funeral, all played out on TV day after day like there was no end to it. In fact, there really wasn't, because every year, documentaries, and many conspiracy theories, are televised about this very place in time and you can still feel the exact way you felt 52 years ago, as well as remember where you were when you heard the news that day. That's how much of an impact it had on everyone back then - and still does today.

"Freedom From Bondage"

I joined a ministry in church called "Freedom From Bondage." It's a class/service/ministry for people who have issues with addictions of all sorts and problems in their lives that hinder them from being successful with God and life in general. I'm not an alcoholic, nor am I a drug addict (except for the menagerie of prescription meds I take on a daily basis), but I do have some pretty intense issues of my past that still affect me today, so I decided to try this class out. Micah kept telling me that he thought this would be good for me and I wasn't exactly sure why. So I started going, and the first time I went to the class, I thought, "This is nice. Good for these folks who have addictions or problems or are in "bondage" to whatever, but I really don't think this is for me." I left that night thinking I would give it one more chance just to be generous and after that, if I still felt it wasn't for me, then I would go back to the normal services on Wednesdays and Sunday nights. That was on a Wednesday night.

The following Sunday night, I went and listened to the different speakers and enjoyed it, but didn't really feel anything for or against it. Sis. Butler (who is pictured below) is the head of this ministry  and she is really cool - funny and to the point and an anointed woman of God when she's preaching or teaching. I've already come to really love her - she's been a blessing to me. Someone else preached that night and it was a really good message. At the end of the service, there is always prayer and the preacher asked people to come forward if they needed prayer and many people did. I sat back and prayed in my seat as I felt the need to pray, but didn't know for what. I sat there for awhile like that and then I felt someone's hand on mine. It was Sis. Butler and she was praying for me and then all of a sudden, I started crying uncontrollably and squeezing her hands so tight that my arm hurt the next day. She knelt next to me, and I held on to her for what felt like dear life. I couldn't let go and I couldn't stop crying. This went on for a long time, in fact, most people were leaving and she stayed right where she was, praying for me as I repented and cried and repented and cried over and over again. I've been in the church for 35 years and I have never felt like this before. The only thing I can compare it to is when I realized that abortion was wrong after seeing a filmstrip in the old, old church and I had dry heaves in the bathroom sink, thinking God would never forgive me for doing that not only once, but twice. This was even more intense than that. I can't even describe how this felt. All I knew was that I was holding on to her and I couldn't let go. Sis. Butler kept praying and humbly kneeling beside me. When I finally felt finished, I kept apologizing to her for squeezing her hands so tight and all she would do was smile and tell me that it was no problem at all. She taught me another role, and actually the most important role, that a leader in the church follows, if they are a good leader: humility. She didn't have to pray for me - she could have asked another person to do that; she didn't have to pray with me so long - again, she could have asked someone else to stay so she could leave; and she didn't have to kneel next to me - she could have stood over me in an unspoken body language of superiority - but she knelt next to me in true humility. I will never forget that night, because of what she taught me and because of what God did for me.

It's hard to describe what happens when you've fully repented in prayer and knowing that God has forgiven you. It's a cleansing - a refreshing - a clearing of your mind like nothing else you can ever experience. Absolutely nothing can take its place, and you'll know when it happens because you'll have a peace of mind you've never experienced before. Now I've repented many, many times, however, I have never felt like this before. I think we should repent every day, simply because we sin every day and it just seems safe to me to cover all the bases. But when you experience the level of repentance that I experienced that night, (and I didn't know repentance had levels), its totally in a different spectrum than every-day repentance. (For those of you who aren't sure what repentance is, the bible directs us to ask God to forgive us of all our sins, both known and unknown, and then to turn away from those sins. It's a turning around from one direction to another.) What I experienced was such a desperation of emotion that it left me speechless. I just kept shaking my head in unbelief at what just happened. To top it off, the following week, Sis. Butler came up to me in service and  said, "In prayer, I feel God is taking you to another level. He said He's not done with you yet. He has a new thing to do in your life." Again, I was totally blown away and began to cry, thanking Him for His mercy and grace. How would she have known that I've been in a rut - both spiritually and emotionally? The answer is, of course she wouldn't, unless God revealed it to her. Sometimes we fumble around trying to figure out what God's will is for our lives, and then there are times like these, where He speaks directly to our hearts and makes it plain. I finally realized why I left the security of Madison and came out to California. Yes, it is because I missed Micah so much and because I wanted to spend time with him and Jasmin and of course, get to know my newest grand baby. But now, right before me, God showed me the main purpose for my exodus. Here, He has me all alone with very few distractions, in a new church where no one knows me, my past or my mistakes. Here, He can change my heart and direction and create a new thing in me, as He said. I have purpose once again, when I felt I had none. And I have direction once again, as I was drifting alone in confusion.  

                                                   Sis. Michelle Butler, my friend and mentor.

                                           Our ministry as well as others in church had outreach
                                           in Victory Park in central Stockton.

                                         Outreach at Victory Park in Stockton.
                           

The California Department of Motor Vehicle

I would venture to say that most, if not all, DMV offices are horrible places to have to visit, but I thought going to one in a smaller town would be faster and more efficient.  Not so. Did you ever play "Shoots and Ladders" as a child? They probably don't even make it any longer, but if you did, the similarity of my experience to the game is startling. Those of you who have played that game, will understand what I mean.

To begin with, I made an "appointment" online because the website claims you will be helped quicker with an appointment. Not so. When I arrived, there were two lines - one said "Appointments Only" and the other said "Non-Appointments." I, of course, went into the "Appointments Only" line because I cleverly scheduled an "appointment" ahead of time, on their website. However, I stood there for a good, LONG time, listening to others complaining about having an "appointment" but still having to wait in line like the other folks who did not have an "appointment." Finally, I got to the front of the line and the very young man behind the counter who called me over, had no idea what to do with me. He asked his supervisor, came back and gave me an application, and told me to go "over there," to sit down and fill it out and then bring it back in line. The end of the line, which was now even longer than when I first started. Ok, I can do that.

After standing in the back of the line once again, for what seemed like hours, I finally got to the front and this time another person looked at my application and said I was missing this and that, and I would have to go and sit down again and fill in the information he highlighted, and get back to the end of the line! At this point, my patience was beginning to wear very thin. When I finally got to the head of the line, again, I saw the same person, who looked at the application and he gave me a receipt  and told me to go and sit down "over there" and wait for my number to be called. 

Finally, my number was called and I went up to the counter, and gave the lady who was actually nice to me, "Michelle" and who knew what she was doing, my paperwork. After calculating what I needed, she said it would cost me $1500 to register my car in California, that I bought in Wisconsin. I nearly passed out. In a very loud voice, I said, "WHAT???" You have GOT to be kidding me!?" She explained that it was a California user tax that I had to pay, because I bought the car in another state within 90 days. I looked at her as if she was a Martian talking in a Martian language, but she wouldn't budge. I asked her rhetorically where she thought I was going to get that kind of money, as I just moved here and I'm on a fixed income, blah, blah, blah, knowing full well she wouldn't have the answer. She did apologize and shrugged her shoulders which was a small consolation, I guess. 

She said that I could get the registration now and the plates later when I had the money, so I paid her $288 to get my registration and a temporary sticker that lasts 30 days until I can pay for the remaining $1300. Wow. This was unbelievable. I waited in line THREE times only to find out the cost was astronomical. I had put online what I needed to do at the DMV, which included getting my driver's license. She said I should have told that to the guy I first saw, and I told her that I already put that on the online application, but she said that information is "not passed along to them." Another WOW. Apparently the stuff they ask you online isn't transmitted to the offices where you actually have to GO. I guess they just put it on there for fun - including making an "appointment." She was kind enough to go and get an application for me and told me to go "over there" to fill it out and let her know when I was done, which I did. I was ready to do the eye test and picture thing for my license and she asked for my birth certificate. I said, "Of course I don't have that - how in the world would I have known you would ask me for that?! Now that would have been useful information to put online. I've had a driver's license since I was 16 years old!" She said I had to have an original birth certificate to get my driver's license, so now I have to scour my house to find that. They wouldn't take another state's word that I already have a driver's license. I have to prove I was born here. I left about one and a half hours later, frustrated and exhausted. It was worse than an aerobic workout. At least with that, there's a benefit to it.

Wait. There's more. After I typed this all out but didn't finish it yet, I received a notice in the mail from the California DMV, just yesterday, stating I owed them $3000, not $1500 which was originally told to me. I looked at the letter and heard in my head an explosion about to erupt. I think this is when God intervened, because I started saying out loud, "It's ok. This is gonna work itself out. This will be ok. This will be ok. This will be ok," chanting the last part over and over until I actually believed it. I think this is the first time in my life, that I ever talked myself out of a meltdown. I mean, I'm just being honest here. When I first read the letter, my initial instinct was to have a full-blown conniption fit and hunt down the director of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. I don't know how or why this happened, but I think this will all work out, one way or the other...  So she said, chanting to herself...

Walking on Two Legs Again

It's hard to believe I haven't written in my blog for over a year, but such is the case. SO much has happened this past year, but I won't bore you with all the details. What I'd like to write about is what stands out in my mind the most - that I can remember, anyway.

It's been a year and a half since my bariatric surgery and I've lost 132 pounds so far. I'd like to lose more but it's slowed way down so I'll lose more, but at a much slower rate, which is ok too. I'm just glad I feel better and can do things I haven't done in a long time. That isn't to say I'm not in any pain - I am. And just as much as before I lost the weight. I have arthritis throughout my body that is degenerative, which means, it gets worse, not better. There are some things I can do that help with it, which I'm already starting to do. I started with my knees because I want so very much to walk again. You really can't appreciate that until you're unable to do something like you once did. It's very discouraging and frustrating, but I'm coming up slowly on the backside of that so the goal is in sight.

I had complete knee replacement on my left knee in April of this year. Both of my knees are bad but the surgeon said my left one was worse than the right, so we started with that one first. It was more painful than I imagined. It took awhile for the doctors to get the right amount of pain meds working, as I already take pain meds for all the other things wrong in my body and so I have a higher threshold level in the first place, but they finally did. The doctor did warn me that because of my diagnosis of chronic pain, and the meds I already take, that it may be more difficult for them to control this new pain with my knee. He was right. But eventually they did find the right ones at the right doses. Physical therapy, which starts almost immediately after surgery, brought on the pain even more. Most days, that brought on the worst pain I experienced, but it was needful because I had to bend and straighten my knee as far as I could, so it didn't freeze up on me and I wasn't able to correct that later. It's been 6 months since that surgery, and I can honestly say, I can walk on that leg without the pain in my knee any longer, except for some twitches if I move a certain way, or stand up and sit down. The surgeon assured me that that would correct itself in time too. He said that most patients take about a year to heal to the point where you not only don't feel the pain, you forget it was ever there. That'll be awesome!

On the other hand, my right knee, which WAS my good knee, is very painful now, because of putting all my weight on that one while I was recuperating. So now I have to do surgery on that knee, which to be honest, I'm dragging my feet on (literally, too). I'm a baby when it comes to pain. I prefer a painless life, but of course, that isn't reality, so another knee surgery I must have. Maybe in a few months. In the meantime, I am actually able to walk around more now than I have in several years. It's easier when I'm pushing something, like a grocery cart - but still, it's a most liberating feeling after all this time. When I walk into a store and I see a mobile cart sitting in the corner, I flip my nose up at it and proclaim, "I don't need you any longer, you wretched thing!" I hated backing up in it because it beeped really loud like a garbage truck, so everyone within a mile knew you were riding it. Sometimes, I drove all the way around the aisle, just to avoid backing up. That, and passing little 90-year-old ladies pushing a cart, made me feel very embarrassed using the mobile one. And then there were the "soccer moms" with the spandex, displaying a perfect physique, carrying a tribe of children in her arms, looking like she never had one of those in her belly, and who seemed to scowl at me from on high. Yes, I guess my pride gets the best of me at times, but it also spurred me on to getting the help I needed and finally joining the rest of the mostly "normal" world.

Ah yes, and then there was my birthday, on which I turned 60. Talk about surrealistic. That's a weird feeling that now I'm as old as I remember my mom to be when I thought SHE was old. Of course, now I realize she wasn't old at all - just a little past her prime - whatever prime means in that context. Leah threw a great birthday/going away party for me a week before my birthday, which was really cool, but a bit awkward, as I'm always uncomfortable being the center of attention. It was fun though and I appreciated Leah doing this for me.

So today, as I sit here writing, I'm sitting in the living room of my new apartment in Stockton, California. On September 21st, Micah flew to Chicago to meet me and help me drive back to Stockton where I'm living now. It was a long, but nice road trip, being able to talk, laugh and sometimes yell at my youngest son. He has lived across the country from me for over 10 years, and I decided that it was time for me to move to where he is now, although that was a difficult decision because I have 2 other children and 6 1/2 grandchildren back in Madison. The perfect scenario would be to spend the summers in Madison and the winters in Stockton, but alas, that costs more than I could ever afford, so for now, this is the best solution. Micah and Jasmine have my 7th grandchild, Kennidee Rose, who I call Kenni, and she is a beautiful, spunky 1 year old, who I just adore. You tell her, "No, Kenni, don't touch the tv," and she turns around, looks at you and smiles and touches it anyway, and I have to cover my face while I laugh. Or she throws herself backwards when she wants to do something that she isn't able to do, and that also makes me laugh. Poor Micah. If there is a thing called "payback" for what you put your mother through, it could be with this child. She's a strong-willed and focused little girl, much like her daddy was. But then, look at how her daddy turned out - he's an Associate Pastor at a large church, with much respect from students at the college to older adults and his peers, and I am so proud of him. So you never know - Kenni may be a doctor, a scientist or a missionary - please, anything other than someone in politics.

Kenni hides nuts in her cheeks... ;)

I've attached a few pictures to this rather long blog today, and I apologize for that. I guess I'm just so happy to be writing again, that I got carried away.

When we arrived - first things first!!

She'd be a great captain if she could see over the wheel.

This was taken on a trip they recently went on.

Playing with her toys at her house.

Loves Mickey Mouse...

...but then a little scared when a certain character appears.

My apartment looking out into the courtyard which is lined with beautiful birch trees.

One half of my kitchen before my stuff was moved in.

The other half.

Looking out at my porch and courtyard from the living room.

A little too small yet to push the pedals, but she enjoys riding in it anyway.