Category: memoir

Not All Storms Are Destructive

Not All Storms Are Destructive

“The wise man in the storm prays God not for safety from danger but for deliverance from fear. It is the storm within which endangers him, not the storm without.” –  Ralph Waldo Emerson

It was black outside, dark as night.  The wind was blowing so hard that the tops of the trees were bowed, touching the ground. Our trailer shook from the wind’s fury.  Alvarado was rural in those days, with no audible tornado sirens.  It would not have mattered. We did not have a storm shelter and did not know where one was located.  I grabbed my son and we sat in the middle of the living room floor. I held him tight, rocking back and forth. “What time I am afraid I will trust in thee. When I am afraid, I will trust in thee. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.” I quoted repeatedly. Praying, “Please, God, protect us. Please do not let anything happen. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.”  I was shivering, not from cold but from fear. The wind whipped around the trailer.  I am sure there was thunder, but I only remember the wind and the feeling that I could be transported into the heavens at any moment. 

People have often asked me, “What is worse, a tornado or an earthquake?” I used to answer, “Earthquake, because you can predict a tornado.”  But living in the infamous “Tornado Alley” has caused me to change that answer.

I have heard Preachers say, “You’re either entering a storm, in a storm, or coming out of a storm.” Although this statement might be true, it is such a pessimistic philosophy.

Bear with me while I give you some statistics.  In 2022, 1,329 tornadoes were reported in the US. 160 of them were in Texas. Only one of them hit Houston, the biggest city in Texas. Harris County (Houston) has the most tornadoes reported in the state. From 1950 to 2022, 246 tornadoes were reported.  That averages to 3 a year. If Houston is only seeing three tornadoes a year, then what is Houston doing during the other 362 days of the year?  Are they stressing about the next approaching storm? Are they talking about how horrible they have it because they go through so many storms?

The only thing affected by the storm that day was my faith. There was no damage to any of the surrounding homes.

“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.” – Louisa May Alcott.

You cannot or should not live each day worrying about the next storm of life headed your way, nor should you fixate on the one that just passed.  Not all storms are destructive.  Most are just a sideshow, a distraction. Enjoy the days in between the storms. Don’t worry yourself sick about the things you cannot control.  It usually isn’t as bad as you imagined.

Question Everything

Question Everything

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.  The important thing is not to stop questioning.” – Albert Einstein

Have you ever asked God, “Why?”

Have you ever questioned His existence?

Have you ever screamed out in agony, wondering why YOU even exist?

Have you ever wondered how a “loving God” could allow such pain and suffering?

Have you ever sat in a puddle of your own tears and felt you couldn’t go on?

Have you ever felt the hatred burning in your bones?

Have you ever tried to wake up, hoping it was just a nightmare?

Have you ever sought answers but found none?

Have you ever wondered, “Why me?”

Have you ever put on a fake smile so that you didn’t have to talk about it?

Have you ever wanted to start all over?

Have you ever wanted to give up? Everyday?

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t get on the good side of life?

Have you ever felt cursed?

Have you ever felt depressed and regretted so much of your life?

I have.

“The power to question is the basis of all human progress.” – Indira Gandhi

How many times have you been told that you should never question God? I lost count of the times I was told that.  But guess what? He understands.  We were born questioning everything around us.  That is how we learn and grow.  The only ignorant question is the one that is never asked.  Asking questions clears confusion, gives us a better understanding of any given situation, and helps us find answers.  Questions help solve problems.  It is absolutely fine to question our life; it shows that we do not accept our current position or status and that we are willing to improve.

A Quiet Voice Echoes

A Quiet Voice Echoes

Dear Me,


I hear you.
I see what you endured.
I believe every word you wrote.

You were a victim—not because you were weak, but because others chose to harm you, control you, silence you.
It was not your fault. Not then, not ever.
You were not to blame for the loneliness, the violence, the brainwashing, the betrayal.
You were doing your best to survive inside a world that kept telling you to disappear.

And still, you are here.
You are speaking.
You are remembering.
You are healing.

I honor your pain. I honor your courage.
You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to feel angry, sad, and confused.
You are allowed to feel everything.

There is no right pace. No deadline.
Only this: you are not silent anymore.
And that is everything.

I love you.
I am with you.
You are not alone.

— Me

She Meow’s Like My Ex

She Meow’s Like My Ex

“She’s a diva,” I tell people.

She truly is demanding, entitled, and relentless. She will sit outside my door crying and bawling as if she has been wronged because I did not give her the beloved wet cat food this morning. She is so sure she is starving that she sits on the other side of the door, telling me so.

 I wasn’t trying to be mean or withhold food from her; she has a bowl of hard food available at all times, but she has become accustomed to a routine. A routine that doesn’t tell time unless, of course, I am late.

This particular day, I got up earlier than usual, around 3 a.m., and figured it might be a tad too early to feed the fat thing. I reasoned that if I fed her now, then she would be hungrier later. But she did not care. I was up, and she deserved her morning breakfast, which I ignored.

There are days I may linger in bed, especially on the weekend. And by linger, I mean 6 am or 7 am, but a lot later than the usual 4 or 5 am. If I dare allow myself a moment of pleasure in bed, longer than she’s used to, she will sit outside my bedroom door. Weeping and wailing about the hell she’s in, as if her stomach has shriveled and is actively atrophying. 

Is it wrong that I find myself resenting a cat?

She’s so needy. I can’t stand needy people, and this cat, in all her demanding glory, reminds me of my ex-husband. Always needing emotional propping. Constant ego strokes. He’d smell it if I didn’t convince him of my sincerity, and explode.

Oh, such a quandary living with a narcissist. You never know from one minute to the next if you’re going to set them off. No matter how hard you try to be perfect. And this needy, fluffy cat needed me to feed her.

I also find myself resenting her because she is so demanding. She stood outside my door, the door to my room – I don’t have a name for this room, but the room where I write, the room where I go to deconstruct. To get away. To lie in the red-light bed and forget. In this room, I sit, typing this. She paws under the door, meowing,

“Feed me bitch”.

Her demands take me back to my ex again, as everyone already knows a narcissist is demanding. They demand that you give them all the attention. If I showed my children more attention than him, he would start to act out in jealousy, so all the attention would be back on him. He insisted that I give him undivided attention 24/7. And if I had to take a break to use the bathroom or breathe, all hell would break loose, and I was disrespecting him.  He’d say,

“You aren’t listening to me! “.

This Tortie creature does the same thing. I can be sitting on the couch with a blanket watching TV, and she will be minding her own business, but as soon as I pull out a crochet project or the laptop. Then here she comes,

“Hey! Pay attention to ME!”

Staking claim to my lap, insisting I rub her head. I miss the days when she was less affectionate. She now needs pets and rubs more often than I care to give. Perhaps her deprived cries for attention cause me to want to withhold affection.

I used to be a cat person. Every cat I have ever owned was needy and demanding in its own way, but living with a narcissist for 24 years has helped me realize that maybe I shouldn’t be a pet owner because I didn’t even tell you about the codependent Goldendoodle.

That one needs a story of her own.

I’m better now, since you left….

I’m better now, since you left….

I used to cry for you everyday

but now I only cry in January

Knowing I start a New Year without you.

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in February when I

remember the love I have for you and how sweet you were

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in March

when the earth renews, and the grass starts

to grow of how you loved to take care of the yards

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in June

Especially on Father’s day, you would wish me happy father’s day.

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in July

You were born on the 4th; I will never view fireworks and BBQs the same.

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in August

But only on 31 of those days

And only 24 hours of the 28th day

the day you left us

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in September

We sifted your remains in your favorite place

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry in October

You were supposed to be here for you first nieces’ day of birth, you even bought her gifts

I used to cry for you everyday

But now I only cry in November

There is an empty seat at our Thanksgiving table

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry for you in December

One less player for dirty Santa

I used to cry for you everyday

Now I only cry on Fridays

it was a Friday that day you left us

I don’t cry for you everyday

Only on the days I when I’m thinking about you

And I think about you everyday

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I Should Have Said Was…

What I should have said was:
“Oh wow! That’s a unique name. Where did you come up with it?”

But instead, I said:

“P?? That’s a boy’s name.”

My oldest son and his wife were expecting their first child, my first granddaughter. I remember the night they called to share the fantastic news that they were having a girl.

“Do you have any names picked out?” I asked.

With pride and excitement, they told me the name they had chosen.
In my old-lady shock, I blurted out:

“P? Why do you want to name her that? That’s a boy’s name!”

I didn’t realize how in love they were with that name. To my embarrassment, I later learned the error of my disappointing words. What I should have said was:

“Oh wow, that’s really cute.”

Even though at the time I had never heard that name used for a girl, I’ve met a few girls with that name since then. I’ll tell you what, when I hear baby name announcements now, I say things like:

“Ohhh, that’s unique!” or

“Sweet!”

Or, I immediately look it up to see what the name means.

Irie means God’s grace looking down on us.

It was too late to look up the meaning of “P.” It didn’t matter how hard I tried to smooth it over; I said what I said, and what has been said cannot be unsaid.

Turns out “P” means keeper of the parks and nature, the perfect name for a little girl who loves the outdoors. Like a wildflower growing in an unexpected place, her name bloomed in my heart, slowly, then all at once.

These days, I keep my Grandma mouth in check. I’ve learned the art of the polite pause, long enough to Google and nod appreciatively.

I’ve also learned that names, like people, grow on you. And sometimes, the name you couldn’t understand becomes the name you can’t imagine living without.
Now, when I call out to little “P” and she turns around with that curious sparkle in her eyes, I think…

“What a perfect name for such a wild and wonderful little girl.”

If Only…

If Only…

October 18, 2025

If only I weren’t sick with COVID right now, maybe I would feel more inspired or have the energy to put my thoughts on paper. But as fate would have it, I have little thoughts other than those directed towards health and healing.

I was reminded yesterday about a saying I heard or read. It said, “The problem with pain is that it demands to be felt.” The same goes for us. Pain, whether emotional or physical, has an insistent need to be felt.

Am I currently in pain? No, but something definitely feels “off” in my body, and thankfully, I know why. But what about the times when we don’t know why? When I’ve gone to the doctor and they’ve run test after test, only to come up with the same answer: nothing.

What about that feeling that still asks to be felt? I don’t know if I would call it a feeling exactly, but our body is definitely trying to get our attention. It says, Hey, look at me. Something is wrong. Keep looking. Keep searching. So we do, hoping to find a solution.

Often, the pain or problem felt within the body can be linked to something emotional. Something we haven’t fully processed. I know that’s the case with me. I have things, and traumas, and past experiences that I haven’t completely processed, and my body has demanded that I slow down and do that.

If only I listened to it more often. If only I listened to my body, would I then be more in tune with it? In tune with why it’s feeling the things it is feeling?

If only I could type without looking at the keyboard and stop overthinking it. Just as my body asks me to listen, maybe my creativity does too. If only I could just let the fingers move as the spirit led me to type the letters and form the phrases of the story I am writing. What would happen if I let the spirit move my fingers?

I think it’s called muscle memory when your brain remembers specific paths to take or keys to touch. After you’ve done something enough times, your brain knows how to do it. That’s why they say it’s like riding a bike. Apparently, we never forget. It may feel like a rut, but maybe it’s actually the rhythm of remembering, our brain and its muscle memory keeping us on track.

If only I could let go and listen long enough to hear the answers my life has been trying to tell me.

My First Memory Is…

My First Memory Is…

My first memory is of corn.
Chunks, golden and whole, floating in a sour puddle.
My first memory is three concrete steps and a landing, slick with dew.
A door that opened. A mother’s voice, sharp.
Not my mother—someone else’s.
Disappointment.
I wanted to play. I wanted to laugh.
Instead:
A swing, alone.
Then my mother’s face, storming through the park.
Hands pulling.
The walk home.
Do I remember the spanking?
No.
Do I remember the corn?
Always.

One Secret I Still Keep Is…

What You’d Never Guess Just by Looking

Does it have to be just one? There are a few secrets I keep.

The first thing that comes to mind is that I gave birth to 11 children. One at a time. However, that’s no longer really a secret. It is information I usually do not tell people. Not because it is such a big secret, but because their brains cannot seem to comprehend how one woman gave birth to that many children. Or why. Now that is the true secret.

Why? Why did I have that many kids?

Well, first and foremost, because we were in a religious mindset that allowed God to choose how many children we have. But I will tell you that when I was 40 and pregnant, I chose for myself to get that fertile tube tied up, or cut off, or whatever they do, so I cannot get pregnant again. (I only had one tube and ovary by the time 11 came around.) Another reason I had 11 children was that, with the birth of each new baby, came another person/soul who would love me unconditionally and make my fractured life feel whole, even if only temporarily. I desperately longed for someone to love me. And when a baby looks up at you and smiles because you are their entire world, you get the feeling.

Love. The missing piece of me.

Maybe it sounds selfish, but I wanted someone to need me the way I had needed others who didn’t show up.

Another secret I  keep is about my oldest son being in prison. He was a highly respected individual. Everyone loved him. So, for the longest time, whenever anyone asked me where he was or how he was doing, I would answer, “I don’t want to talk about it.” But the bigger secret in that is why he is in prison.

Why?

Because he was so traumatized as a child that he sexually traumatized a child, that’s why. It’s not an excuse, just a truth I’ve had to live with. Pain that isn’t healed will try to find something — or someone — to break.

A third secret I don’t tell anyone: I was a pastor’s wife for 20 years. I never really asked myself why I was, so the “why” in this situation is: why do I keep it a secret? Good question, good soul search here.

Why?

Because I do not want anyone to ask me what I believe now, I am still trying to figure all that out. Like, do I still want to use the term “God,” or is it the Universe, or is it just Spirit? None of those feels right. The closest to feeling like my truth is Universal God or Universal Spirit. But like I said, I am still working that out. I keep it a secret because I do not want people trying to persuade me back into church, back into conformity. I do not want to go to church every Sunday and Wednesday. I don’t want to go door-knocking, soul-witnessing, or whatever they call it. I cannot sit in a service without being overcome with anxiety. My nervous system shuts down, and I usually fall asleep. But I sit there and feel like a ghost of myself, singing words that no longer have a place to land inside me. I know this because I have tried. I tried to find a church so my youngest son could get a taste of religion and decide for himself whether it is something he wants. It’s a secret because I probably disagree with 90% of what they might be talking about if you tried to strike a spiritual conversation. I have read the Bible cover to cover multiple times. There is nothing they can say that will get me to see things differently. It’s a secret because I have not yet dared to share my beliefs with the world.

But here’s a start.

I believe God was female in nature. I believe the Bible is a history book. I think every religion has its great “man of the hour.” The Christians had Jesus. The Muslims have Mohammad. The Jews have the Messiah, and so on. I believe it’s the same thing, just described in a different style. Reaping what you sow is the same thing as karma. The Ten Commandments do not differ much from the Delphic maxims. Maybe the real secret isn’t what I’ve kept — it’s how long I’ve waited to say it out loud.

And the last secret I keep is my age.

They say you’re only as old as you feel. Some days I think I’m 37. Other days I feel 57. It changes with the weather, the weight of the day, or the way my knees sound when I stand up too fast. People often tell me I look so young — thankfully. And I want to keep it that way. Because age isn’t just a number, it’s a perception. It’s the difference between someone listening to your story and brushing it off. So I let them guess. And I let myself believe it too, some days.

The Book That Changed Everything

How grace broke the chains of control in my home and heart

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”
— Jeff VanVonderen, Families Where Grace Is in Place

I don’t remember the exact year or even where we were living at the time. But I know it was somewhere between 2007 and 2009 when I picked up a book that would change everything: Families Where Grace Is in Place by Jeff VanVonderen.

I didn’t know it then, but those pages were about to unravel everything I thought I believed about parenting, marriage, and faith.

Before Grace

At the time, I was a stay-at-home wife and a homeschooling mom of ten. Number eleven would arrive later. I was also a preacher’s wife. My husband and I were fully immersed in Independent Fundamental Baptist ministry. We pastored churches, traveled as evangelists, and held revival meetings across the country.

We were loyal. Passionate. Zealous. And convinced we were right.

We preached that having a television was sinful. That women wearing pants was sinful. That too much makeup was sinful—though a little was allowed, so long as it didn’t “draw attention.” I sewed all my own dresses and wore my hair long—though thanks to my hormones, it rarely got far past my shoulders.

We were strict with our children. They had no phones, no TV (because we didn’t own one), no outside friends, no sports. We believed all of those things would lead to sin. We even pulled our oldest son out of college once, convinced he was living “outside the umbrella” of parental authority.

We spanked often. Sometimes for small things. Sometimes for nothing more than an attitude. Every day, we sat our kids down and taught them right from wrong. We drilled obedience into them—not from a place of love, but fear. Fear that if they messed up, it would reflect badly on us. That we’d look like failures. That God would be disappointed.

When we lived in Iowa, I made my girls wear skirts over their snowsuits just to play outside. When we went swimming, it was always in remote places. The girls swam in culottes. The boys wore jeans. My children weren’t allowed to have their own opinions or make their own decisions.

They were born walking on eggshells—and we made sure those eggshells never cracked.

The Book

I don’t recall how I ended up with Families Where Grace Is in Place. Maybe someone passed it to me. Perhaps I picked it up on a whim. But as I began reading, the words leaped off the page. Sentence after sentence felt like someone had opened a window I didn’t even know was there.

The book talked about how families fall into cycles of control, pressure, and manipulation—often in the name of love or righteousness. It spoke of the deep weariness that comes from trying to meet impossible standards. The perfectionism. The fear of failure.

That was us. Especially with so many children, we constantly felt watched, judged, and evaluated. Our theology was built on performance. And we were exhausted.

Then came a line that hit me in the chest:

“We are responsible to each other, not for each other.”

It undid me. All at once, I saw the truth. I wasn’t parenting out of love—I was parenting out of fear. I wasn’t guiding my husband—I was trying to control him. And he was trying to control me. Together, we had built a family that looked good on the outside but was suffocating on the inside.

The book painted a different vision: one where grace replaced fear. Where children were free to make decisions and mistakes. Where love didn’t mean control. Where acceptance was not conditional on perfection.

And something inside me shifted.

The Bridge

As I read, I had one aha moment after another.

I realized we were trying so hard to protect our children from the world that we were crushing their spirits. We didn’t want them to sin, so we removed their freedom. We didn’t want them to mess up—so we made every decision for them. We called it holiness. But really, it was fear.

Even our decision to homeschool wasn’t about education. It was about control. About keeping their behavior within a bubbl,e we could manage.

After trying to “homeschool with grace” for a while, I finally admitted the truth: we weren’t equipped. So we enrolled our children in public school.

It wasn’t a seamless transition. One of my daughters started school in her junior year and had to double up on math to catch up. Thankfully, Arkansas accepted her science, history, and English credits. One of my younger girls had to repeat kindergarten because I hadn’t finished the year—we had opened a daycare in our home, and it consumed my time and attention.

My third daughter and fifth son—only a year and a half apart—both entered fourth grade the same year. He had fallen behind under my teaching. I warned the principal to separate them; I knew she’d do all his work if they stayed together. They listened, and the school helped bring him up to speed within that year.

During this season of change, I was also starting to rediscover my own worth. I filed for a restraining order against my abusive husband. For a time, I let him come back—still caught in that old belief that if I just tried harder, he would change. That if I prayed more, obeyed more, submitted more, he would become the man I needed.

But I was beginning to see: you can’t change someone by controlling them. You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed.

After Grace

It’s been over 16 years since I read that book. My baby is now a junior in high school. The way I parent him is entirely different than how I raised the others—especially the oldest ones.

I’ve apologized to some of my children. I’ve told them I wish I could go back and do it all differently. And I mean it. I see some of them now, parenting the way I once did—out of fear, trying to control everything. But I don’t lecture. I offer gentle reminders. I try to model something different.

Our family structure isn’t perfect. Our children aren’t perfect. I’m not perfect. One of my sons is in prison. That hurts to say. But even in that, grace remains. We no longer try to control each other. We don’t panic when we see a child or sibling making choices we wouldn’t make. We offer love. We offer space.

And we let go.

Letting go is hard. Watching someone you love repeat mistakes you’ve already made is hard. Trusting grace instead of fear is hard.

But control?

Control is harder.

💬 Want to share your story of breaking free from control-based parenting or faith structures? Comment below or message me privately — you’re not alone.