A little faith will bring your soul to heaven, but a lot of faith will bring heaven to your soul. ~ Author Unknown

Oh, it has been an interesting day. I wrote this blog entry this morning asking for advice and two people have responded so far, both with very wise words of caution and support. I am very appreciative for what both had to say and I am going to follow it. Betty had a great suggestion of printing it up and giving copies to both grandboys. There are so many internet publishing companies out there now I think I'll do just that, make each grandboy a special book copy of it.

Back to the day being interesting. Around 3 pm the phone rang. Both grandboys were still napping and Dear Hubby was already home so I answered the phone even tho I didn't recognize the Caller ID, something I rarely ever do. But the other afternoon the phone rang with the same Caller ID and when I didn't recognize the name I let the answering machine pick it up and whoever was calling hung up. I figured it was a wrong number and never gave it another thought. Today when I saw the same name, same number, I answered it thinking I'd let whoever it was know that this was a wrong number. Except that it wasn't. A person very hesitantly asked me if I was the lady who'd written the article about being delivered from the occult. They told me they'd picked up a copy of the magazine and they wanted to let me know how much it had impacted their life, knowing someone else 'out there' had experienced a lot of what they had. As we spoke at length we found out we're both the same age, had similar childhoods and life experiences, were both introduced to the occult by receiving Ouija boards as gifts at the same age. They asked me at the beginning of the conversation to promise I would never, ever share any of what they were going to tell me with anyone and I gave them my word. Then they went on to tell me their life story. The similarities were eerie. I could say, "Yes, I know exactly what you're saying. Yes, yes, yes....." At the end of the conversation, when Coopy came out to the kitchen to see me after waking up, this person began to cry. They told me they couldn't even begin to tell me what it meant to them to be able to talk to someone for the first time in their life about what had happened to them. To know they could talk to me about it and know that I knew exactly what they were talking about. To know they truly aren't crazy. This person has gone on to become an established professional, a person who's won all kinds of awards for community service and contributions, who's visited many different countries around the world. But yet, for all they've accomplished, they've had this deep dark secret, this horrible burden, clouding all their happiness. They asked how I coped, if I'm still plagued by visits from the 'dark world' and I was able to pass on some advice to help them cope. It was an absolutely amazing conversation. I never dreamt when I wrote it that it would impact even one person's life, let alone to such depths in another human being. As we got ready to hang up they told me they couldn't thank me enough for being 'brave enough' to share it with the world. My only intention when I wrote it was to show God's love and tender mercy in reaching out to someone as lost as I was, and how He has the ability to turn a life completely around. If I never hear any other feedback, just knowing how much it helped this person is something I will treasure all the days of my life.

Before I Was A Woman...

I was once a feisty little girl who hit boys so hard I could make them cry.

I loved paper dolls.

I was a tomboy.

I threw footballs as hard and as accurately as boys could.

One of my brothers nicknamed me "Ramona Gabriel" after the quarterback

Roman Gabriel.

I loved waking up to the sound of chainsaws far off in the forests on

warm summer mornings.

I wore lots of hand-me-down clothes.

School was very easy for me and I was often very bored.

I was deeply afraid of bats.

I could eat a whole watermelon if I could get away with it.

I loved bubble gum.

I loved drive-in movies.

Being the only girl in the family I never had to share a bedroom.

I was very secretive.

I loved playing Hide 'n' Seek past sunset on summer evenings with all the neighborhood kids.

I was very jealous of my youngest brother when he was born over 6 years after me.

But I grew to love him.

Deeply.

I was my Dad's "Missy McGoo".

I loved riding high on his shoulders and dancing on top of his feet.

My mother would tell me, "I hope if you ever have a daughter she's twice as stubborn as you are so you'll know what it's like trying to raise you".

(I know now.)

I was always "Sis".

I was always on the outside looking in.

My Swedish grandfather didn't like me very well.

But I didn't like him either.

I once received a beautiful fancy Valentine in 3rd grade and never did know who gave it to me.

I loved going to the docks at Westport and watching the fishing fleet coming in with their catch at the end of the day.

I loved picnics at the lake.

Bonfires on the beach.

Butter clams cooked on the fire at Hood Canal.

Rowing across the waters with my Dad towards the Navy ships and never seeming to get any closer, they were so far away, singing "I've Got Six Pence" and "Row Row Row Your Boat" at the top of our lungs.

I loved hamburgers from "Mr. Gene's"

and milk shakes at "The Beehive".

And chocolate ice cream cones.

Little League baseball games were the highlights of our summers.

I loved the first day of school.

I loved the last day even more.

I loved the penny candy table at Bullard's.

I loved Dairy Day parades.

I loved Grape Nehi soda.

I loved swinging bridges and lazy river bends that were perfect swimming holes.

I loved riding my bike.

I loved summer evening walks with my mom after the dishes were done.

I loved it whenever Uncle Winky would come to visit.

I loved my calico cat Knucklehead.

I loved sour green apples and sour green cherries, picked from the tree before they were ripe.

I loved my childhood best friends Laura Ruth and Angela.

I loved my small town childhood.

Knock on the sky and listen to the sound. ~ Zen Saying

.

I told Dear Hubby this afternoon as we drove home from one of the archery ranges he enjoys going to that I need to write down a word Cooper says before I forget it and it gets lost in the little cracks and crevices that seem to eat up memories as time goes on. This is the word he says for 'helicopter':

"Hote-a-totta"

I don't know about you, but I think it's darling.

Even at age 4 Dylan still calls them by the name he gave them when he was not much past the infant stage: "Caw-caw". He simply doesn't care to call them by any other name. That is fine with me.

It is sweet to let the mind unbend on occasion. ~ Horace

I harvested lettuce from our garden patch last nite. We had it on our bear burgers for dinner. Why is it food you've planted and grown yourself gives so much satisfaction? Even with 20+ straight days of rain the seeds I planted a month or so ago have managed to break the surface and are showing healthy growth and color. Nature triumphs.

The grandboys and I walked over to the library yesterday morning. Without the double stroller and pushing the single one along in case anyone gets too tired of walking, a walk that once took us maybe an hour and a half round-trip has stretched into one that can lasts upwards of three. Cooper is not a fast walker. He meanders. He loves to go up to trees and feel the different textures of bark. Hardly a dandelion he comes across manages to dodge his keen eyes. Each one is presented to 'Ahma' as if it was gold. (It is.) We all squatted down on the sidewalk to watch a new ant colony breaking thru a crack in the sidewalk, pushing bits of dirt and rock out of the hole. We saw two insects mating and Dylan got a rudimentary explanation of the Facts of Life. My two were also around the age of four when questions about "What are they doing?" began to surface. We have been seeing the chickadees mate, the 'couples' picking up twigs and bits of grass to make their nests. I think one pair might be nesting in the huge clematis on our front porch. I'll have to investigate later...we will find the nest and carefully take it apart so the boys can see the care and artistry involved in the weaving of a baby bird's first home.

There is a Russian meat market along one of our routes. We've passed it countless times in the four years we've been out walking. When the air vents are open whenever the owners are smoking their meats and sausages the aroma, the smoky warmth, blows softly down on us and wraps us in its tendrils. Yesterday Dylan spoke up as we passed under it yet once again, all of us breathing deeply and going "Mmmmmmmmm!", and said, "Grandma, we need to go in there and buy some!" So we did. A small rope of chicken sausage and strips of teriyaki jerky. The smell of the shop was enough to make our mouths water. And my fussy Dylan, who survives on chicken sandwiches, chicken nuggets, and pizza, devoured his sausage in seconds. Go figure. I guess he decided if something smells that delicious it has to taste delicious, too.

As we walked yesterday -- and we did a lot of walking, 3 other short walks after our early morning venture; the sun was shining, don'tcha know -- Dylan said, "Grandma, you need to bring up all those books from the basement and read to us." You could've knocked me over with a feather. When our children were little, we didn't have television by choice. We spent our days listening to music, playing, walking...and reading and reading and reading. We had hundreds of books. And some of the sweetest moments of their childhood were the ones when we three cuddled together on the couch and I'd read to them for hours. I tried with the grandboys. In fact, I'd tried several times. But they were so busy. Flit here, wiggle there, up, down. Never sitting still. I gave up. I boxed up the books I'd bought at thrift stores and put them in the basement. But lately one of their favorite pasttimes is watching "Thomas the Train" DVDs, which are told in storybook fashion. And they are fascinated by them. Enthralled. Glued to their seats. And a few days ago in passing I told Dylan, "You know, these are just like stories in books, Dylan." His deep little mind must've finally put it all together. So this morning, after I post this, I am going down in to the basement before they arrive. I am going to bring that big box upstairs and find a big basket and put those books in it. And I will read. And read. And read. Again. Life is a cycle of circles.

Angels deliver Fate to our doorstep - and anywhere else it is needed. ~ Jessi Lane Adams

I am the earth,

rich, dark, and loamy.

I steam in the sun after a spring rain

with my face raised

to the heavens.

Eyes closed.

Senses singing.

My hands dig deep,

reaching for roots

buried within.

Vines twist above me.

Choked but winding

always upward.

I do not let go.

I am the earth

and I

survive.

You are water,

the essence of Life.

You ripple and dash.

You spill and refresh.

You are the Pool of Siloam.

You are winding rivers

always leading home.

Your face breaks the surface

and glistens in

the sun.

You are water,

the essence of Life.

In your hands

the surf breaks

eternal.