Hello, it’s me.

Everyone needs one thing in life about which they become impassioned.  Is it Love? Is it children? Is it marriage? It may include any or all of those things, but those are the “symptoms” to IT. The IT is the fire that burns within each person’s soul and keeps us wanting to wake up each day

IT is layered and frosted, permeated and infused in every activity, every person or event of which you can taste the flavor of IT, and in what direction you  may endeavor to pursue. But IT is the one thing that drives us all.

IT will never be subjugated, will never be ill met. IT will make you get up every morning and sigh joyously when you die. But! If in any way that IT is taken from you, if it leaves you, if for some reason, it was made to seem valueless to you, without it you may descend into depression, even death. What is it? IT is different for every person. 

Weight Watchers tells you that you must remember the “Why.” THAT is the IT I’m talking about.


Everyone has a purpose for living. For some women it may be their husbands, or their children. For some men it may be their wives, their children too. For some people it may just be the recognition they never had as a child, or it may be the need to resolve what they never could resolve for someone long gone. Whatever that IT is, IT is the most strong driver in anyone’s life. 

You MUST find your purpose in life. Maybe you just want to help people be  happy; find that position where you can do that. Maybe you just want to be loved; make yourself authentically lovable. Maybe you just want to participate in a project that will bring many to a higher level: join a team that feels the same way you do. But look for your IT, your PURPOSE and when you find it, do NOT let it go–EVER. It is your true spirit. It is what God intended in you.


Suicide Prevention Month is EVERY Month. Hell, it’s EVERY HOUR.

I’ve known too many people who have chosen the road of “suicide.”

We say they were selfish or self-indulgent, and there is perhaps some truth to that. But we might also recognize that being most likely highly sensitive at the start, they were never equipped to have handled what others determined they should handle. Hence, “the weaker brother,” alluded to in the Bible and thereafter in songs, poems, discussions, in any section of communication that talks about emotional stamina, or emotional characteristics, or emotional growth.

So in my sad perusal over some people that decided to end it all, I analyzed a bit, then wrote  a poem. This was not today, this was a long time ago. If you read my poetry page, it’s on there. I just wanted to write a little about the many people who have thought about it, or are still thinking about it…please do not end your life. Find someone who is stronger and don’t mind carrying you emotionally awhile.

I have never called a suicide hotline when I got that far, nor have I ever taken medication for my depression, and I might add, I’ve been quite depressed at times. Sometimes, it may even be better to talk to a stranger at a bar, or an elderly person on a park bench, or someone distant in the family. Suicide prevention people can get burned out sometimes, too. But there is usually a reason why they have decided to work the hotlines; perhaps they may have lost someone very dear to them, someone they loved and did not recognize as a potential suicide victim. I’m there many times, along with you on that depression cycle. Many people struggle with depression or desperation, feeling they have no options, but there are always options—they are just a little scary when thinking about making a stand or a change. Nonetheless, you are NEVER alone, in ANYTHING! Seek out someone, anyone, just do not go into that dark night alone.

Brighter days do come and It’s all worth it as time goes on, you just have to ride the waves and get to the calm and the beauty of it.

Another thing: who cares what people think about your hardships or your depression. Better to let people think you’re insane, and blurt out what you need to know on the communication line, to help you get through what it is you do not know how to get through, than to suffer in silence and feel unable to make it alone.

Sometimes we hang up on one servicer because they simply do not really know how to serve; or they did not seem to know how to recognize your problem, so we hang up and never call back, but call back; to get someone better to talk to. That is the same thing we have to do in life. Let me use as a metaphor the suicide hotline, but it’s useful for any aspect of life.

If our parents aren’t that communicative, find someone who is (that’s a “call” for help). But if that person expects any kind of emotional or physical remuneration when you are yet unable to return the emotional support, hang up! Call back and find someone else who is much stronger and does not need help emotionally (a different servicer or person to talk to).

My remedy here may seem simple but life was never meant to be so hard. There are a million and one people out there who really do care. Keep in mind we have over seven billion people on earth—you think having hit and missed 10 is a lot? You just have to keep looking until you find one. Sometimes, it takes a whole lifetime of hanging up and calling back, and sometimes we have to keep getting more and more information, so don’t stop with just one call. And remember, while you are in the activity of calling, you will have moments of clarity or epiphanies, or  what some people call “a-ha” moments. Life grows, and if you pay attention, so will you, but don’t give in too early.

People are all on different wave lengths, meaning they all have different intelligences, or levels of understanding, and you also are in that array of intelligence and understand, so you have to consider your source, and consider the source that you are too. Find the right one for the right need.

Please: go out and live, and make that call when you have to!!



emotional intelligence

The Anniversary of Edison’s Death

People say, “are you still thinking about your dog? Didn’t he die a year ago?” How insensitive. But I understand. There are those who haven’t a sensitive bone in their body when it comes to any living creature other than human, and sometimes even the death of humans don’t seem to phase them. Let’s leave those kinds of people out, shall we?

 Some people have never lost a loved creature, much less a child. There are many ways in which one can define death, not always physical, but there are other deaths–like bipolar, schizophrenia, dementia, dissociative psychosis, brain damage, comatose, and so forth. These are all valid “deaths,” shall we call them?

And then, there are the deaths of animals that became pets first, then family. And when we lose them we feel the same as when we lose a person we love.

First,  I lost a daughter to bipolar/schitzophrenia. It is as if she died physically, for in her delusions I am at fault for her entire life’s negative episodes, though she has been married to a seemingly cruel and apathetic man for over 25 years. Yet, whatever may have happened to her as a child, it’s my fault, and everything thereafter. So she has purposely died from me.

In my sorrow I replaced her emotionally with a little 3 mo. old toy Yorkshire Terrier, in 2005. He fit into my hand and I immediately purchased him from his owner. He was sickly yet spunky, and very, very tiny. His presence alleviated the sorrow I had been carrying for my daughter. So Edison became the replacement family member I lost. He went everywhere with me; to the office, restaurants, department stores, and even on flights. He was my everything. 

It’s a different kind of emotional tie, I thought. But more and more I began to treat him like a family member. He got special treats, walks, carried everywhere, slept in my bed on my pillow. He became so much to me, I would rather not go out if I could not take him. I even stopped frequenting some stores because they would not let him come in. Even after he died, I still do not go to those stores.

He was my little angel, my little child I lost when I lost my daughter, but not only her. I had two sons, all of them grown up, and Edison became the surrogate child alleviating the “empty nest” syndrome. You can see why he got so much emphasis in my life.

 Edison died in 2017, last year. He  lived for 12 years, he was 6 lbs when I was told he would never go beyond 4 lbs.  

He began to show signs of what I was told might happen: he had a prolapsed trachea, common in those types of breeds. In other words, he was suffocating to death. Just before I had him laid to rest he did not sleep for three days. He stood without rest, because he could not lay down for being unable to breathe.

After his death I cried for days, and sometimes I still do. I had him specially cremated by himself for a higher fee, then given to me with his bones uncrushed in a box, where they await my death: he will be buried with me when I die. That is how much I love him, as my own child.

I suppose psychologists would call it love displacement, but I really don’t care what anyone calls it, I simply call it love.

I know he didn’t want to leave me. I could tell it in  his eyes while he was trying to breathe. I could no longer stand seeing him suffer, thus, I did the unthinkable: I had him put to sleep. In life, I carried him as much as possible, and so I held him in my arms for a very long time thereafter. 

My daughter remains alienated from me for over 15 years now. 

In my sorrow, I decided to write a children’s book about Edison, and afterward about his companion I purchased from another person who did not care for this little female, her name being Chloe, who is portrayed in the pictures with him and in his book. 

I like to say she was his wife. I have her now, and she is truly growing on me. She also is getting older; she is 10 years now and slowing down. I know what’s coming, so this book will tell all about the wonderful things I shared with my two sweet babes, my children.

I have cats, too, and now another rescued little Chihuahua. They all will have their stories told someday as well.

I am still grieving my original anchor, my little hero, and the child I hope to see again, my Edison. I did not know it then, and I did not know it even when he died… But I know it now. He was the only connection I had for the healing of that time… And now, the wound of his departure does not seem to heal, and I cannot–nor want to, forget him…

I still have his partner, I call, his “wife,” and I know, it’s kind of hard to explain. I love her, and I love my cats, all of my pets: I love them very much.

But Edison was the first pet I had after I lost my daughter. I gave him the love and care I wished I could give her, and later I gave him that love just because of who he became in his own right. I was rewarded by his very loving loyalty for those 12 years.

I will NEVER forget you, my little man, Edison… It is coming on two years in February 10th, 2019. I will never forget you, and I pray almost every single day, that God would allow our being once again together in heaven, because I am looking forward to holding you and seeing you again.



Awake, New Year!


I wrote this poem in 2015, when we closed the year before (2014). But it stands on its own, for every year, so hope you enjoy it.

Awake, New Year!

By Lydia Nolan

© December 25, 2014


When I encounter dreams, I wished that I had caused come true,

I realize they had first begun within a universal heart.

And old Hope brings at New Year: Joy, that does abound.

And then, our Dreams don’t sleep away or ever do depart.


Forgive the hurts, repair our souls, and never give way to sorrow,

I hold the good, and learn from it, then I will surely bend.

Give free my love and never hate, and always think tomorrow

The best of all, the truth in all, then we too, won’t offend.


So, Come New Year! Give us good cheer to everyone at yonder,

I look upon the end of last year’s chapter as I ponder.

No dream does die, no wondering why, just

Rest our heads in pillows, and the Dreams we had

Return again, each year how we do borrow. 


Heaven brings a cloud of Hope’s fresh brew for us to lavish in …

While visiting old dreams, the dreams that groan deep from within …

which bring New hope at night, as the New Year starts fresh growing …

And don’t forget the love, the touch of everlasting glowing.




Welcome 2018, I think…

Welcome 2018

© by Lydia Nolan

January 2, 2018


Well now, the new year has begun, and if what’s happened so far is any indication of what’s coming, I had better take cover and plan a strategy for survival.

First of all, I was fine all year until the day before New Year’s Eve. I caught that awful flu the news was warning everyone about, as it was becoming an epidemic. It also was told to us by the media that it turns into bronchitis, and if one is not careful, it can turn into pneumonia. Many had already died, young and old alike.

That was the beginning. So I caught this horrible flu and was sick worse than any dog right before the new year celebrations.

Then as I lay dying and coughing painfully, I tried to allay my hideous hacking and desperate need to kill myself, by reading. Of course, it had to be THAT article I found.

I read Vanity Fair, an article about all these TECHIE people, whose view of the world is shallow and stiffening, for they seem to think the world really is their oyster because they are making so much money hand over fist, they can party and do whatever they want regardless of what is going on in the world. You would have to read the article yourself, to get equally as disgusted; I was, in my agony, just trying to stay alive through horrendous pain throughout my body.



These young people have absolutely no shame for their narcissistic, solipsistic lifestyle, but then … what kind of parenting did they ever get?

Earlier, before the flu, my dutiful iphone 6Plus died.

I had to get another one. I did not even get the top of the line, and it cost me over $500! I’m not swimming with cash like those young techies are. But what are we going to do, we’ve got to have a phone, right? I mean, there is virtually NO MORE telephone company for regular phone service and we need so much on our phone, just to amuse ourselves, correct?


I have been feeling sluggish for a long time now, and I’m not talking about my love life. I am talking about in general as one within the masses. All of us struggling with the flu, our jobs, our need to give our families what television dictates, I mean… where does it all end!

Remember the movie, “The Fisher King?” One of my favorites. There is one line I took to heart. It was when Jeff Bridges had realized his irresponsibility on his radio show, after he had unknowingly convinced a madman to murder many people in a restaurant. And three years later, after giving up the show, becoming a drunk and appearing to have PTSD, he in a drunken stupor discusses his sorrow with a wooden doll.

A child gives him a little Pinnochio doll, and he begins to talk to it. He says, [drunk and talking to the Pinocchio doll] “You ever read any Nietzsche? Nietzsche says there’s two kinds of people in the world: people who are destined for greatness like Walt Disney… and Hitler. Then there’s the rest of us, he called us “the bungled and the botched.” We get teased. We sometimes get close to greatness, but we never get there. We’re the expendable masses. We get pushed in front of trains, take poison aspirin… get gunned down in Dairy Queens.”

That movie is one of my favorites because of the writer’s attitude on life in general and the writer’s attitude  through this event in particular!

The observation he poses about Nietzsche struck me when I read the Vanity Fair article, and suddenly I began to feel duped about how the world is playing out. Especially when I know how difficult it has been for me to attain my goals because I was so stupid having acquired so many student loans, but even after all the promises on media and in the schools themselves, I still had no job. Further paying my respects to Verizon, iPhone’s thief mob, MAC, and all the other techies that are creating great wealth on our backs, as we toil further and further into the ground trying to obey the rules and using their products supposedly to help us get further ahead.

I don’t know what to do about it. But for starters I want to get rid of all my websites, social media connection, apps, and whatever follows. Of course, I’m sick right now, so I probably am speaking out of my misery, and will change my tune the minute I am well… But at least it makes me feel better right now.

I don’t mind being called “backward,” because backing out of this joke of a technically advanced life is not, and never has been meant for my wealth or health, but for the few who know how to manipulate “the masses.” We—the masses—are called backward, clueless, fools, whatever, because we still obey the rules of the game and live with a humongous amount of hope and faith. They live with a party after a party of drugs, sex, and ingenious schemes to panhandle us some more.

So welcome 2018! But maybe it’s time for Silicon valley and all those techie sleaze bags to get foreclosures on theirhomes and become homeless, as we nearly did, and many other people I know.  Let them experience the whole bag of adulthood, not just to good part, but the bad as well.  Let them know what other people go through while they are having their sleazy parties and lives. This is my rant for the month. Enjoy it—or not, I really don’t care; I’m sick, let me grieve. Vanity Fair is not going to be on my list of favorites, that’s for sure.


Observations of Character



When I first encountered this little spoof about a dog taking on human characteristics, I laughed. Sure, it was funny, and it was endearing.


Could it be true that animals think exactly the way we think simply by reading the universal brain waves? Because after all, thoughts are invisible but actions show much of what thoughts are about.

Although we KNOW one is alive mentally by brainwaves moving about on the scientific screen, science has yet to evolve to spirituality–and we don’t know if it ever will, since science only calibrates what it can see, not feel.

Science reads brainwaves only in the physical world; it has no connection to the spiritual world, hence, there is not a spiritual universe for those who follow science only. Thus, we cannot say whether or not animals can read the universal brainwaves just as we do. Scientifically, we do know—so far—that animals do not have the same kind of larynx and paraphernalia that would give them the ability to speak as we do. However, maybe science hasn’t figured out yet where it is, or how it works in animals.

Who is to say that animals can’t read universal brainwaves in some animal form; that they too, are capable of using and defining meaning in their own spiritual realm. Maybe they are assessing what we are thinking…just as this little dog is doing at the moment.

When we look at an animal, not all of us see anything other than some kind of living entity who lives instinctively, and on occasion seems to reveal joy by a jaunt around the outdoors with others of its kind. Some of us see much more in animals than even what we see in ourselves.

Writers—to which group I belong—take things a step further than the average person, because it is in the writer’s nature to ponder everything, andnot only ponder, but make meaning of everything.

Writers think way beyond what others might be thinking, so that they may be able to interpret to themselves and others what they believe to be universal truths; others simply don’t exercise that portion of their brains.

Perhaps science does not see the value, most likely because science does not seek a spiritual level of existence. Science is a doubting Thomas of the highest level.Science only believes what it sees, touches, hears and smells, but does not make meaning of such physical aspects of life other than that.

Whereas, most Writers do value the unseen. Those of us who value the spiritual realm and emotional apparatus—thoseuntouchablethings—are yet to be proven matter and could be likened to what is in the black hole in space: we do not know.

Writers see to find the TRUTHin existence, hence, they are constantly seeking… And seeking, makes for very astute observers.

Thus, who is to say or not to say whether or not the dog, displayed above, isn’t really thinking about his “master” cleaning up his poop, and then wondering if his master is going to serve his food not having washed his hands? Can we at least agree it is possible?

On the other hand, another dog might be looking at his master, not even considering his hands when picking up his dog’s poop. That dog may be thinking, “I’m hungry, I wish he’d hurry up!” Therefore, animals in their own universal thought process, can be just as different as humans in their thought processes.

So let me share with you a thought or two about this quality of observation from the standpoint of a Writer. Because all of the above rhetoric was only a segue into the conversation in which I am about to enter.

Every living, breathing critter (including humans), have a certain character, or certain characteristics that identify them distinctly. Much like a fingerprint, or the sphere of one’s eye, that is true of animals, too. Have you not ever noticed the difference in one pet from another? One may bite easily, another may be the kindest, docile pet you could ever have. Then, another pet could be totally observant, and another could follow anyone without knowing them, while another would run until its heart stopped, from anyone they do not know. THAT, my friends, reveals character and characteristics. Let us now turn our attention to the human.

Humans definitely have characters and characteristics that identify them as a certain person as well.

Great novelists and authors use their observation powers to assess character, in everyone, in everything! This includes people, animals, birds, bovine, equine, feline, and kind—even the weather, the ocean and all its movements at different times of the day or night. 

Writers are infinite thinkers they and their poet or novelist friends even enlist themselves into arguing with one another over how to define such observations and the events in which they exist.

I am talking about changes in scenery, depending upon whose viewpoint is being showcased. If a doctor sees someone having a heart attack, you might have a report that looks like this: the patient went into full cardiac arrest, with assorted arrhythmia at start, then complete flatline within 45 seconds… Whereas a truck driver might see it like this: the guy wacked out, I think he was seizing or somethin’ and foaming at the mouth like some dog bit e’m or somthin…Two completely different viewpoints that create different imagery.

From the truck driver’s view, the hospital may seek for dog bites, or wounds, while attending to the arrhythmia slower than should have been. But the doctor’s view will have the hospital team go directly to working on the heart.

Because of these two different reports, those who hear these reports may react to taking action differently. In one case, the report indicates a matter of life or death. In the other report, hospital staff will seek for wounds.

But what is the true point here?

It is about Writing. We are talking about the actual minutia in a Writer’s tendencies: of observation, analysis, definitions and elements of characterization. And then, comes the reporting(the writing of a story, a poem, or a novel).

I remember in college a professor stating that without the plot, there is no significance in character, hence the plot comes first.

He was dead wrong. But HE was the teacher, and I the student. I’m glad I’m not so gullible as to think simply because someone is employed with credentials that they might be more intelligent than I am.

Characterization is everything, otherwise, the world could be turning, plants could be growing, but plots could not be happening because there are no entities that move such matter by their thoughts, actions, and behaviors. Yes, through tornadoes, and so forth, we might recognize some type of a plot. But it still takes someone to interpret it, and with that someone comes a certain character.

One must admit that without conscious effort to recognize an event or “plot” of sorts, there is nothing. There is only oblivion. There is no recognition and definition of the event occurring at all. In a nutshell: if a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to see/hear it, did it really fall?

So characterization in a story is of utmost importance. To take it a step further, characterization in a story of any kind, is the key to learning how to evolve into the spiritual realm of existence.

Assuming my readers here agree with me, I will begin a teaching series of characterization, come January, 2019.

Remember: the perspective of the Character is created by the Writer, who dictates the Character’s behavior and thought process, and the careful plotting of this aspect in the story (characterization) will affect the Reader as the Author desires, and as the Character presents. Do not misinterpret what is being said. The character of the story is not the character of the author, but the character of the story is a conglomerate of observations the author has made that the author has determined by the behavior of those observed is to be defined as that character.

Again, Writers make their entire life’s purpose defining actions and thoughts, and all that those two elements enclose, giving the meaning to the character’s “perspective,” and the Reader’s potential for growth toward a spiritual universe. Why would it have to entail a spiritual theme? It doesn’t. But after actions  of character, one is apt to define what it  means that the character is physically revealing, in a deeper way. This is what the reader desires to know: so what does that mean, author, why does it matter?

Writers create the world Readers read in, so that humans may evolve into larger intellects…which I believe will lead to a spiritual awakening. Well, at least Many Writers do, I cannot speak for them all. I see myself in that group.

And just to tie in the entrance regarding animals: if we are evolving, don’t you think they are evolving too? Don’t be surprised when your animals begin to talk.

May your 2017 end with joy, Merry Christmas, and on to the new coming year.

May your 2017 end with joy, Merry Christmas, and on to the new coming year.

Lydia Nolan, M.Ed., English


A Day in the Life…of our Generation… the Baby Boomers.


“I am at that jumping off point”  ~Fried Green Tomatoes, (Jessica Tandy’s character)

I begin with this little statement as a case in point. It means I’m at the end of my life, or pretty near anyway.

I managed not to listen to my parents and chose to learn whatever I wanted to learn, however I wanted, because I had absolutely no respect for my parents. You have to remember though, I was between twelve and twenty years old. 

You see, I was the last of six kids, my parents did not get along (I didn’t know why then), and both of them left most of the time, to escape the poverty and disarray of the home life, leaving us 6 kids alone most of the time. The oldest children took care of the little ones–myself included there.

My eldest brother was twelve years older than I, my eldest sister ten years. But as each sibling grew and flew the nest, it was me alone that saw the last stand of my parents before the worst suffering would come about. I am talking about what became of my parents by that time.

When things got sticky and messy, and I had to pay for my consequences. By this time, both of my parents had died and I began to remember what it was my parents tried to teach me. Gradually, I worshipped their instructive advice and longed to see them again. Of course, this was long after they were gone, and I sorrowed tremendously over losing them.

I have in my old age, accepted the consequences of my obstinance, and endured the pain for which I was blamed in the lives of others who were in my care, because in my heart I felt I deserved it, even though I was never malicious, only ignorant. But ignorance is the consequence one receives when one is rebellious, and because I did not want to learn from those who knew better than I, there was much suffering awaiting me.

In reality, I did the best I knew how. Considering we all say that, we all never admit that had we listened to those who had already gone down those roads, we could have faired better. That bit of wisdom does not always work, especially if, of course, those in charge themselves didn’t know what they were doing because they didn’t listen to their own parents. But that was not the case for my mother, or father.

So what it is I am trying to tell you is that I learned a very valuable lesson in life, at this jumping off point.

There is a good many things about our parents that we could call “teaching” moments. Sometimes the lesson is what NOT to do. Other times, they may have some hidden wisdom in an area and not even realize they are bestowing it upon their young. You don’t need to question how they go about finding these things out. You just need to trust them sometimes.

Simply because you can see they do not know what they are doing at times, does not give us the right to disrespect them, or deny them any honor at all. Even when they stumble over their own lives, they try to do their best. Sometimes, if nothing else, we could choose to look at those things they may be good at handling, as pearls in the midst of a soggy, mud-filled swamp.

For example, my father was very good at maintaining his calm while trying to explain something very important. It may be that the content seemed minuscule in the area of importance, like “keep the handles on the pan inward from the outside of the stove, so you don’t bump into it and get burned.”

The point is: it was HOW he explained it, that was the lesson.

We would shrug, whine, and hassle him for telling us over and over again and yet, he told us over and over again and never got angry at having to say it over and over again. He never got angry for telling us, and he always spoke kindly, with warm eyes, a slight smile, and at the level of understanding of our age (about 10 or 11 years). THAT was the lesson. How to speak to a child of that age, whose disposition is that of rebellion. He never saw it, but to this day, I keep the handles inward, and have never been burned.

My mother, I am sure, was bipolar in the words of today’s hack doctors. She was emotional and very sensitive, as well as very creative, and having been caught in a cultural gap between her first generation immigrant parents and her third generation arrogant kids, it was not easy for such a person to adapt to a new way of the world.

In fact, many of us from generation to generation will experience a gap that we have to bridge inside of us. However, for those who held tightly the beliefs, the strengths of their generation, it is very difficult to let go if they are expected to do so. Add to that a hypersensitive person’s emotional apparatus, and you have yourself what the newly installed generation calls “bipolar.”

But one thing I always saw in her, as well as my father. She always prayed when she was alone. I might have peeked at her, and maybe that was a bit menacing. But she was so engrossed in her prayer that she never noticed or heard me or paid any attention. The lesson I learned from both of them in this area, is when you are doing something of value to you, nothing should get in the way of it.

How quick we are to complain, to blame others, to see only the negative of things. I wish I could have thanked them for such lessons as these, and a multitude of others.

Yes, there arenegative things that need to be skewed, but there are also things that need to be remembered and  honored as well…. like the hard job of parenting, and our parents who never got a manual to know HOW to raise us. 

When a family has money enough to care for their young, and when a family has education enough to see the teaching moments for their children…. and when  family has managed to do well in life in many areas, it will obviously be a little easier. This was not our home.

But try not to think too much about what you did not have, and think about the tiny little things that helped you get a little better than your parents; that’s how civilization evolves…and we are part of that… I am more thankful than ever, now… since I am almost there with my ancestors in the afterlife.


Forgive because we are forgiven. God is Love, and Love was born in the earth, bringing us the Christmas season to remember the meaning.



The Woman Warrior

It’s not easy being a Christian in a modern world. I have always been a warring child, and thus a warring woman. Yes, it’s true, I’ve always had a warring spirit within me. You might say I was very much like Isaiah, Rahab, or Peter. I am afraid of what that may mean, because their lives were definitely saved, but they went through horrendous suffering in life. Nonetheless, that is my DNA. I think God had planned on my being a warrior in prayer, because that is how I approach prayer, like a warrior who wants to eradicate evil, and save those who are weak and in need.

People like to make people like me out to be corny, nerdy, or worse, rebellious. But it serves a purpose when you’re a Christian, or I like to call myself better, a “Christ believer,” because the title “Christian” has become filled with yeast, or dilluted by so many who call themselves as such, but like me, they have trouble abiding.

As a little girl, I always had trouble listening to my parents because I was quite observing and critical. If they told me to obey Jesus, but they had trouble, I’d say: “Why should I, you don’t. I’ll figure it out myself.”

Looking back, there is no way I can say any longer, that my parents were poor parents; on the contrary, they were wonderful saints of Christ, why? Because they failed miserably as human beings, but they remained steadfast in their belief in Christ. That is the “ticket to ride,” when it comes to following the Lord.

When I think of the little rebel I was ALL MY LIFE, it stands to reason I have a lot of consequences that won’t go away now, much like Corrie Ten Boom. For you younger people, it would do you good to look her up.





Yes, I am a wild horse when it comes to ADHERING to the instruction of others, but then again, I also am stubbornly sticking to the Lord, regardless of my human failings, which means: yes, I’m human, but I am saved by the grace of God through Jesus the God-Man, the Christ.

Like the criminal on the cross next to Jesus who asked to be remembered, I am rebellious in many ways in society. I’m not a follower of people or trends, it’s true, though I’ve let them influence my decision making at times, and usually mixed with my interpretation of what I think is best, admittedly I haven’t made very good choices. But one thing I know: “forgetting what is behind me, and looking toward the prize of the  high calling of Christ Jesus, I press forward…” So it’s all good. Life is tough, but God is tougher, and God is training his children to be more like him–tougher than steel.

I think I’ll just ride the storm with God. Here is a bunch of research articles, websites, and topical subjects on my beliefs. Blessings upon this earth and mercy big time to all who read this.

The Gospel in Isaiah – (Online Bible Study)

Rahab : The Prostitute God Uses


1 Thessalonians 5:16-18English Standard Version (ESV)

16 Rejoice always, 17 pray without ceasing, 18 give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

Lately, memories of family…coming back to me…

I was listening to this beautiful song, orchestrated with lead singer, Allison Cross, and it crept up on me; I saw past scenes, of which I remembered so many wonderful memories as a child.

I am not of European ancestry at all. In fact, my Daddy was from Maztzaclan, Mexico. My Mama was from Texas. She used to tell me that he was an orphan of Apache descent, but raised by a Mexican woman. When he was about 17-18 yrs. old he joined the Mexican army, but he had his own intention. He crossed the border, threw off his uniform in the wilderness, and went into California, started his career as a radio singer. Later, he played the part of an Indian in the western pictures, getting shot and falling off his horse.

Being older, he never mastered the English language, while my mother, from Texas, never allowed us to speak Spanish. Her history goes like this: in school, she was slapped or hit by teachers if they heard her speaking Spanish. So, she wanted us to be as American as any other immigrant, European or Latin, French, whatever.

As the years went on, my father became a Southern Baptist Minister, and he preached and ministered to the Mexican farm workers, since he also worked them. I will never forget his beautiful voice and his way of teaching. Although I would not speak it I understood everything he said.

When I was 17, and pregnant, my father while traveling to Mexico for his convention, was killed in a car accident. That fact has continued to illuminate so many of my senses of loss, and fears. To lose someone so far away, when you need them most was the beginning of my devastating life.

Years later when my mother died, it opened that old wound, and I understood the words I heard before: I am an orphan now.

This song reminds me of when I was a very small child. My family sung like this, in church. To boot, my grandfather was a minister as well. So my whole upbringing was “about that good ol’ way.”

I am old now, and remembering those days as a child has brought me comfort in this old body, longing to see all my family again, for nearly all of them have passed.

I still believe, and I plan to see them again, i pray to see them again. … Daddy, I miss you… Mama, too, but I had you with me in so little of the time… I will rejoice when I see you again…