Category — Spiritual Journey

Several significant events transpired over the past week:

1.)  I learned that my spiritual ministry is off balance as I withhold it from myself.

2.)  I realized that I must, must, must give The Boy more autonomy and take him less personally.

3.)  My Father held me on His lap.  He wore an old shirt, just like The Husband does at church, so that the mascara on his shoulder didn’t matter.

4.)  Broken Hallelujah achieved 30 days, and then, 30 posts.  (Small in the comparative litmus of the Internet, huge in terms of an investment from me to me.)

5.)  I enjoyed reunion with my Foster Daughter.  FD may be one of the most physically,  beautiful people I have ever met.  A natural strawberry blonde, and eyebrows of a magazine cover, she’s simply shiny with potential, and she belongs on the stage.  She lives in NYC now.  She’s courageous enough to risk and leverage her gifts.  She’s all done with what was done to her:  she’s rescued herself.   When I first met her, there was much triage, and my constant point of focus was… “What does she need?’  Last night, we sat across each other at The Cheesecake Factory, of all places.  The dinner was replete with wonder, and we both ate cheesecake… joint recovery miracles unto themselves.  Tummy tight with delight, I looked across the table at this now-sophisticated-young-woman, and realized how much growth and hope she’s spun into the fabric of our family life.  A sacred chord.   FD is as unexpected a gift from God as I have ever received.

6.)  I gave The Middle Girl an experience today that so reverberated with joy and friends, she may well remember it when she’s 30.

I remain uncertain of many things.  In this past month with you, however, I have confronted demons, sent my baby to kindergarten, identified lids, not run away from home, and mined gifts.

Tonight, I celebrate some things I got right.

Gettin’ it right lifts Hallelujah!

Realizing that  I get it right more often than I get it wrong isn’t vanity, it’s sanity!

Maybe I’ve been here before
I know this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah!

There’s a Pandora’s Box full of questions that escape once the colloquialism lipstick is appropriated as an adjective that may be applied to other groups. (Please see Lipstick for list of possible associations.)

One of the most obvious questions we already considered, i.e. Why do we presume group affiliation by an individual’s appearance?

Perhaps a more compelling question is why are we suspect of each other’s affiliations? In John Irving’s The World According to Garp, the infamous nurse, Jenny Fields, asserts that she is a sexual suspect because as a woman she rejects conventional marriage, and also chooses to raise a child on her own. Fields goes on to write her memoirs in an autobiography and becomes a celebrated, feminist icon. This social compulsion we have to suspect each other seems to have a lipstick link as clear as a blood stain on white linens.

First, consider that an unsavory connotation lurks beneath the adjective lipstick: “Being able to pass.”

Secondly, ponder that the majority economic and political stakeholder is still (and for 200+ American years running) a white, heterosexual male.

I surly don’t want to pass for any color of man, regardless of his orientation. I also reject all those gestalt, default boxes society uses to categorize un/married woman (of a certain look or age) that often include whore, dyke and bitch. Please note, in all derogatory cases the sexual suspicion.

I fear I sound silly, but reconsider the list below:

lipstick Pro Choice
lipstick Democrat
lipstick Pro Life
lipstick Republican
lipstick racist
lipstick homophobe
lipstick misogynist
lipstick liberal
lipstick conservative
lipstick Soccer Mom
lipstick alcoholic
lipstick philanthropist
lipstick rapist
lipstick friend
lipstick Christian

Under the litmus of suspicion, I also wouldn’t want to pass as a racist, homophobe, misogynist, alcoholic, or racist even if I look like one.

And that’s just a response to the loathsome idea of being judged as a group member clearly abhorrent… How awful would it be for Christians or philanthropists were a brutish pig to pass as one of their own?

Contradictions aside, I never outgrew my academic inclinations… I don’t want to pass, I want to excel. I wanna be Valedictorian, baby.

What blisters is the social, hierarchal judgment: It’s deemed better to be male than female. It’s deemed better to be white than a person of color. It’s deemed better to be straight than gay.

If simply being who we are was good enough, we wouldn’t have the linguistic ability to express the idea of lipstick or being able to pass.

People looking at other people like they know what God they love, party they vote for, or folks they invite into their beds are absolute Hallelujah breakers.

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

A Lipstick lesbian is commonly defined as a lesbian who doesn’t look like a lesbian. In its leanest form, the term means that one is a part of a category without being easily or visually indentified as part of that group. In other words, you can’t tell by looking at the outside of a person who she is or in what she believes in her heart.

Back to lesbians, for a minute, if I may, a lipstick lesbian may exhibit feminine gender attributes like wearing dresses or make-up (lipstick) that contradict popular stereotypes held of lesbians. This more broad view of the adjective “lipstick” makes me wonder to what other groups the term might apply and the implications of such designations.

(I imagine this word study could present a crazy-making proposition to many great individuals of groups I am about to name, and the lesbian community at large that I’ve already identified as the contemporary source of the adjective lipstick. My only defense is to admit that I realized tonight that the term may also apply to me.)

So, if you choose to hang with me, my question asks to what other social subgroups the adjective lipstick might be used when operationally defined as: “one who cannot be easily or visually identified as a part of a group?”

Consider the following, and remember to contemplate the expected characteristics of each group identified negated by attributes or behaviors that would contradict the popular stereotypes of each listed party. In fact, ask yourself what would a non-card-member-carrying __________________ look and act like? In other words, lipstick it!:

lipstick Christian
lipstick Pro Choice
lipstick Democrat
lipstick Pro Life
lipstick Republican
lipstick racist
lipstick homophobe
lipstick misogynist
lipstick liberal
lipstick conservative
lipstick Soccer Mom
lipstick alcoholic
lipstick philanthropist
lipstick rapist
lipstick friend

Clearly, the catalogue could go on and on, and I am certain you get my point.
One cannot tell from outward appearance what in dwells in another’s heart.
One cannot represent ones heart through outward allegiance or appearance.

“…The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”
<< 1 Samuel 16:7 >>

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

I’d always wanted a pair of Frye boots.

I’ve been through a lot of beauty accident in my days.  I’ve donned pearls, an unfortunate tattoo, and Salvation Army fat pants.  My young married life included lots of gestation and lactation.  Not all of my choices made great sense or good hair, but given all of the hormones, very few held it against me or said that I looked trashy, post partum or ridiculous.

(The jury was lenient.)

Four rotations through maternity clothes and so much suction on remarkably modest breasts left me with nipples that could only point South, but I’d always wanted me a pair of Frye boots!

For my birthday last Summer, The Husband shocked me with my very first and only every pair of Frye boots.  That he did so during a recession that still siphons our reserves and blisters our future made them all the more glamorous to me.

As it happened, the boots arrived just before a family celebration of a beloved patriarch’s 80^th birthday.  I rocked those boots in a little, red, peasant dress, and never once during the entire party choked on the reality that my husband could lose his job at any moment.

Those Frye boots made me feel tall and proud.  They were boots meant for walking.

I loved them.  As much as I loved them, however, they were a constant struggle to get on and off.  Getting the right boot on was hard, but getting it off involved a process much like the inverse of trying to zip out-grown skinny jeans.  I would have to lie down while The Husband yanked and yanked and yanked.  I was grateful not to have ever sprained an ankle.  By the time we decided they were defective, it was way past the time we thought it was reasonable to return them.

However, my geeky husband had ordered them from Zappos because he learned through research that they were renowned for their Customer Service.

Over a year after he had ordered them, The Husband called Zappos and explained that the boots were difficult to get on and off.  Their only concern was why we had not called sooner.  He explained that we thought that they would loosen up… and we did.  Part of the Frye boot legacy is that they are the most comfortable footwear you can own.

Zappos not only 24 hour shipped me a pair of new boots, but a week later, they sent a HANDMADE card with good wishes and their hopes that I was enjoying them.

Exceptional Customer Service doesn’t even begin to cover it…

Businesses that lift the bar of Mitzphah (See Mitzphah if you aren’t sure what I mean) lift Hallelujah!

Thank you, Zappos!

I rejoice in unexpected and undeserved acts of human kindness!

Zappos rocks, and gave me boots that not only were meant for walking, but DANCING ahead, ’cause somebody’s got my back.

Let me serve those with whom I intersect today as well as Zappos!

And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song in my new Frye boots
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

For those of you who don’t know, Mamma Grok (see Word Study, A Shout Out to Teachers for back story on her awesomeness) is a huge vessel of light, love, wisdom and a swift kick in the attitude when I most need it.  A friend this week described her as, “Doing a constant ministry all around her.”  She knows when to till and when to harvest, when to carry a meal and when to offer a hug, when to console and when to boot you in the butt.  She will always know more than me, but never preaches.

Last week we sat at a well together among a forest of mighty oaks, and talked about the word law.  Mamma Grok is a Word Study guru and loves her some etymologies.  Under the shade of sweet sister trees, Mamma Grok pulled up the Hebrew roots of law.  As fellowship wind caressed our faces like sprite spirits of light, Mamma explained that the term mitzvah comes from the teachings of Judaism.  To mitzvah, she explained, expresses obedience to God’s law through acts of human kindness. According to Jewish Teachings, all moral laws are derived from divine commandments.  An oft quoted abridgement of the Torah is this, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary. Go and study it,” (Shabbat, 31a).  As such, Mamma Grok naturally advises me to seek opportunities to mitzvah, to provide service for others.

Being Mamma Grok, she leads by example.  The Boy, three days down in the potty with an expressive GI bug decides it’s fun karma to infect The Mamma when The Papa is out of town for a week.  The girls, however, still needed to eat, get to soccer, complete their homework assignment and go to church.  In fact, and of course, this week hosted Promotion Night, and the girls were to be recognized with shiny badges and pressed sashes for all their hard work.  Quite simply, I was too sick to get them there, and too heart sick to tell them they couldn’t go.  I called Mamma Grok and she thanked me for asking and giving to her the joy of taking them with her.    (MITZVAH!)  That’s Mamma Grok in a nutshell; she reveals the character of God through her relationships, and chooses to live according to the Law of Love.  Surly Psalm 2 was sung over her cradle at her birth; dance joyful mitzvah, dance!

So, once I was able to lift my own face from the porcelain, I emailed her with my thanks.  My girls still smile over the joyful dance of their time together.

Mamma Grok, being who she is, replies:

“The name Jael – broken down in to Ja – el …

“Ja” in my tongue [South African] means “yes”

“El” is the Hebrew for God

So, Ja-el = Yes God!

Whatever You give me, yes God!

Whatever You bring on my road, yes God!

Whatever You tell me, yes God!

Whatever You tell me to do, Yes God!!

Wherever You send me, yes God!

Yes, God! Yes, God! Yes God!

Let there be light…..”

Let there be Hallelujah!

Yes, God!  Yes!

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

I’m screaming in my head now.  Can’t they hear me?

God I’m cold!  Are they deaf?  (See Maternal Coat to hear why I’m chilly.)

You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah!

I thought that this meant only the best attendings would be doing those jobs.  Our experience in the heart cath lab the next morning made me aware that despite my best attempts to make our wishes for The Oldest Girl’s care clear, a miscommunication had occurred.  When The Oldest Girl’s cardiologist explained the heart catherization procedure, he noted that parents usually were asked to say goodbye to their children in their rooms because parents were not allowed in the cath lab.  This seemed more a rule of convenience rather than a necessary regulation.  I worked with the anesthesiologist who came to obtain our consent for the procedure for special permission for my husband and I to walk down with The Oldest Girl to the cath lab, and to remain present while she fell asleep.  We wanted to be with her to help her to stay calm, and to enjoy every moment we could have with her.  We did not know how she would respond to intubation or how long she would remain intubated, and knew that while intubated, we would not be able to hold her.

It turned out to be very fortuitous that I advocated for this exception to the rules.  Had I not, my expressed wishes for her care would have been denied.  The Oldest Girl’s heart cath was scheduled for 10:00 a.m.  At 11:30 a.m., after anxiety had bitten my throat with hungry tin fear the entire morning, we were informed that the delay was because the lab was waiting for the pediatric anesthesiologist who specialized in infant airways to arrive from another hospital.  Although I was frustrated by the wait, I was comforted that the best person available was going to perform The Oldest Girl’s intubation.  Shortly before noon, we were called to bring The Oldest Girl to the lab for her angiogram.  Initially, everything was cordial and dovetailed my expectations.  The heart cath nurse personified compassion as she introduced us to everyone and briefly oriented us to the room.  The attending anesthesiologist for whom we had waited reiterated the intubation procedure, and reminded us that we would not be allowed to remain after she fell asleep.  He then directed us to the procedure table and asked us to lay The Oldest Girl down.  When I did so, I noticed a young doctor, already in gloves at the head of the table.  The anesthesiologist introduced him as a senior resident.  Confusion heated my discomfort as I asked the attending who was going to perform The Oldest Girl’s intubation.  He did not answer me directly; instead he employed circumlocution to assure me that his expertise would be brought to bear.  In the beat that followed, he walked around the table to the medication tray to retrieve the syringe that would facilitate The Oldest Girl’s sleep.  My mind was a thunderstorm in the thirty odd seconds it took him to do so.  Competing thoughts struck across its sky and forebode danger.

Each thought flashed behind my eyes like lightning.  I knew I had to decide whether or not to challenge him, and I realized how little time I had.  I wanted to speak, yet felt that familiar good-girl pull to be quiet and respectful.  I felt betrayed by a system that had only given lip service to my requests about The Oldest Girl’s care.  I was worried if I spoke out that I would anger the team who, in moments, would be performing a procedure on my daughter’s heart and that their anger might breed mistakes.  I was concerned that other parents would not be able to enter the cath lab with their children if I handled the dynamic badly or caused a scene.  I was terrified that if I didn’t speak up that something bad might happen to The Oldest Girl.  I was painfully aware that the only reason they were intubating at all was because they were not certain how well her already compromised respiration would respond to anesthesia.  And I had ten more seconds to make up my mind.  I was her only lightning rod.  I knew I had to speak.  We had waited over an hour and a half for the best person available to arrive for the procedure and it was clear that even though he was in the room, he did not plan to perform the intubation.  The choice then was a simple one.  If the hospital had decided that we could not proceed in his absence, we could not proceed with the intubation if he was not the one to do it.  If the hospital had determined that the senior resident could not perform the procedure without him present, I certainly did not want him practicing his technique on my daughter’s uncertain airway.

“Sir,” I interjected as he completed his trip around the table and had positioned himself next to the senior resident at my girl’s head, “I want you to do it.”

“You don’t have to worry,” his elocution dismissed again, “we have it under control.”

“Sir,” I interjected again, this time with more force, “I’m telling you that I want you to do it,” I asserted, and this time, I looked directly into the attending’s eyes so there could be no mistake that I meant it and I meant him.

“I’m sorry, it’s nothing personal,” I said, this time looking into the senior resident’s eyes, “I only have one The Oldest Girl.”

The resident had not played enough of this type of poker to keep his frustration from his face.  He was pissed.  He wanted this procedure.  Neither he nor the attending acknowledged what I had said.  The resident asked for a mask, the attending injected the IV and she fell into a paralyzed sleep.  We were asked to leave.  Knowing that they only had minutes to perform the intubation before she was in jeopardy, I quickly kissed her forehead, took my husband’s hand and walked out of the room without knowing who would perform the procedure or how The Oldest Girl would be.

“Are you alright,” I heard a kind voice ask as we exited, “do you know your way back?”  I turned to see that the cath lab nurse had followed us out of the room.  “I promise I’ll make sure that he does it,” she comforted.

I was so numb by what had just happened that her words did not register.  “Did you hear what she said?” my husband asked.  “She promised.”

“Do you promise he’ll do it?” I asked, locking eyes with hers like keys to a promise, “I’m not trying to be a jerk, she’s my only daughter.”

“I would feel exactly the same way,” she assured me with eyes as soothing as her voice, “I’ll make sure he does it. ”

“Thank you,” was all I had time to say as she hurried back into the room.

I felt anesthetized myself as we returned to The Oldest Girl’s room to await news.  Like an old-fashioned switchboard, I was on overload.  My circuits could not handle one more incoming demand and I began to shut down.  It was not until the floor nurse relayed the initial report back from the cath lab that I started to feel again.  The first thing the cath lab nurse said in her message was to tell mom the attending did it.  Relief washed over me like a tide.  We were also assured that our girl was fine, but that access to the heart valves was proving difficult.  While we waited for the next update, I talked to my floor nurse about what we had experienced down in the lab.  She hypothesized that the reason the mix up happened was because the cardiology service is independent of the anesthesiology service, and that the information was not passed from one group of The Oldest Girl’s caregivers to another.  She said that I was the best insurance that my wishes about The Oldest Girl’s care were known to all of her doctors.  She helped me formalize and articulate a family treatment plan for The Oldest Girl’s care.  One stipulation required that we be informed who was doing procedures on The Oldest Girl before they occurred. Another stated that we did not give consent to medical students, interns or residents to do procedures on her.  I did not want another protocol misunderstanding to occur in my absence, like in the operating room where I would not be allowed to follow The Oldest Girl’s care personally.

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue (cuz the family treatment plan’s in writing, baby)but Hallelujah!

So, I got pulled over by the Letter to the Teacher police…

You know the violation, right?

“Please send a letter that explains the strengths and challenges of your child.   What are the goals you have for your child this year?   We invite you to tell us any additional information that would be helpful.”

I didn’t write a letter.

I can remember when I was asked to do this for The Boy when he went to kindergarten.  Man!  You would have thought that I had won the lottery!  It was my opus!  Chronicle the first born!  I wrote my heart out, cc’d the grandparents, adapted a copy for his baby book, and, in addition, wrote him a Benidiction letter to be opened the day he graduates from high school.

Four kids deep, The Oldest Girls’ teacher had to email me to ask where her letter was.

Now, in my defense, The Oldest Girl has the same two, core teacher this  year as she did last year.  Those teachers sent me the exact letter request again this Fall.  I wrote a damn fine, and wholly complete letter to them last year.   I mean, come on, I live with The Oldest Girl, and they taught her every day.  It’s NOT like they don’t know her already.  Do they really need ANOTHER letter?  So I prioritized.  I had to write the letter for The Baby.  She was off to kindergarten, and neither the teacher nor school knew anything about her.  I wrote the letter for The Middle Girl right away.  I love the teacher she has been assigned, and that teacher holds a special place in her heart for my kids, so, like, you gotta keep the love flowing, right?  The Boy’s teachers did not request a letter.  He’s in middle school, and they really are satisfied with me as a parent if I make him wear deodorant every morning.

I confess.  I kind of gave myself permission to skip it.

Then I get the email, “Would love your insights about Oldest Girl when you have the chance.”

In fairness to the teacher, this was a loving and sincere message.  Genuinely, this is a teacher who wants to serve The Oldest girl and support her in every way possible.  I know this.  I believe this.

That said, I so felt like the kid sent to the principal’s office for smacking my gum in class.  Really.  That’s what not turning the letter in on time boiled down to.  Smacking my gum in class.  The attitude problem was entirerly my own.

As some of you veteran parents already know, it’s the tedium of parenting that sometimes breaks Hallelujah.  It’s those phrases or tasks we have to do and say over and over and over and over again that erode enthusiasm like acid rain. Like…making lunches or doing laundry, or “Who’s turn is it to do the litter box?”… Blah, blah, blah!

However, as I confess in I Was The Mamma, the idea of playing nice really resonates with how I was raised, and it was my duty to send in the letter.

I needed to connect to the joy of her.  I needed to let her light of love shine through me.  The Oldest Girl is a TORCH!

I resolved, however, to mix it up this year:

Oldest Girl

Deeply empathic.

Intrinsically driven.

Creative.

Passionate.

Resilient artist.

Ardent friend.

Ready  music.

Perseveres.

TORCH!

intense

convicted

situational intolerance

easily hurt!

Go forth and grow strong in relationships.

Gain confidence through self-investigation.

Stage performances.

Seek opportunities.

Acquire new accuracy and skills.

Honor the truth in the opinions of others.

Rise up.
Drink deeply!

Oldest Girl.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Catalogue of Laments Since The Husband left town for a Week Yesterday Morning:

1. The Boy has been vomiting for two days.  He face is the color of Crest.   His knees are as wobbly as his mood.  The Boy doesn’t cry much anymore.  I had to run out to get the girls to soccer.  He called me to tell me dry heaving hurts and, “Mamma, when are you coming home?”
2. The Mamma has also been a frequent porcelain flyer.  Enough said.
3. The cat ran away.  I found her sulking in the basement.  This is the cat that often drinks from the toilet.   I hope she didn’t have a bad, bad water experience.
4. Back to School Night is tonight.  No way I can go now, of course, and attendance advertised as strictly optional, of course, but we all know that there will be a clutch of those kinds of women (who don’t act like ladies or deserve the title) that take attendance.
5. I can’t find the Phillips head screwdriver.  If it’s MIA enough to elude me, baby, it’s gone.  I’ll have to check under The Baby’s bed.  That girl takes trophies.
6. The Oldest Girl lost a tooth and I don’t know how to do the email from Flossie.

Catalogue of Blessings since The Husband left Town for a Week Yesterday Morning:

1. A BFF specifically called to check in on how The Boy and I were feeling.  She made a great joke about, “Blessed are those who mourn!”  (She loathes puking so much that we call it The Thing That We Do Not Mention.)
2. The Boy lifted his head from the sink long enough to say, “But Mamma, you’re sick too, you shouldn’t have to clean it.”
3. The cat lets The Baby hold her.  The cat lets The Baby carry her around.  The cat lets The Baby be the mamma.
4. I don’t hang out with those kinds of women. My friends pick fresh roses from their gardens to share their beauty, they assign my cell phone number a special harp ring on their phones, they carry soup, and make their own pretzel dough.  The women friends in my life don’t keep score cards because they are too busy living and loving and growing.
5. I will use The Husband’s pocket knife.  Screw the Phillips.
6. I got email, Baby.  I can text.  The Husband does not have to be in-state for me to delegate!

How I keep my relational, spiritual and mental math can be a Hallelujah breaker.  The heart is not a checkbook.  I decide whether to count debits or deposits.  That kind of balance is Grace.

Even in the potty, I’ll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Our family rotates through theme songs.  During this season, for example, The Husband and his girls are all about the Wicked soundtrack.  They drive together with the windows wide in his NYC repo Crown Vic ride like an undercover Broadway audition, belting out show tune after show tune at the top of their lungs.  Hair dances everywhere in the backseat wind tunnel, and the girls occasionally have to pick it from their teeth like unwaxed dental floss, because it’s hard to sing with such abandon without getting hair stuck in your bicuspids sometimes.

About five years ago, the song was Jesus, Take the Wheel.

About the time Carrie Underwood enjoyed her American Idol adventures, the family and I found a church.  There was something that stirred all of us about Jesus, Take the Wheel, especially The Oldest Girl and The Middle Girl.  They internalized it to the extent that they entertained family and friends with their rendition complete with choreographed movements in sync.

My beloved grandmother, Beauty, inspired their best show.  The Oldest Girl fell to her knees and sang from the bottom of her earnest, healed heart while looking directly into my Beauty’s proud, moist face.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Time goes on as it always does, and we went to another song.  And as much as we heard it and sang it then, I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Until yesterday.

We were in a car accident yesterday morning.

No one was hurt.

Everybody’s OK.

Long story short, the vehicle ahead of the car directly in front of us suddenly slammed on its breaks.  The car directly ahead of us hit his breaks, and swerved to the shoulder to avoid hitting the first car.  I had time to break and swerve to miss him, but the vehicle behind us was unable to maneuver or stop in time, and she rammed into the back of our truck.

The accident happened at 8:05 a.m., on an interstate less than three miles from our front door as I was driving my four children to school.

At the time of the accident inside the truck, the kids and I were engaged in a daily routine.  We were praying together.

After the initial slam of impact and making certain everyone was uninjured, The Oldest Girl observed, “Mamma, we were praying.”

It wasn’t until later in the day, after the logistics of getting the kids to school in another vehicle, (Papa’s car, and they probably belted Wicked all the way to their schools) the accident report, insurance procedures, etc. that I thought about Jesus, Take the Wheel, again.

It was actually The  Mamma In-Law who brought it to mind.  As always, she held me over the phone lines as I shared my account of the experience, and after making certainly certain her beloved grandbabies were well, she ministered to my stress.

No one was hurt.

Everybody was OK, but it was the first time I experienced a close call with my children.  I realized what could have happened, and am deeply humbled to realize that The Husband could have gotten a very different kind of phone call.

I remember how cold I felt when The Oldest Girl was sick and I was stripped of my Maternal Coat.  I thought I’d been shocked beyond surprise by the reality that reality interrupts my life.  However, the impact of the reality that I could lose all of them at once dries up all the spit in my mouth.

I had actual cotton mouth when I admitted to The Mamma In-Law the very idea was freaking me out more than a little.

It was then she reminded me about Jesus, Takes the Wheel.  The Mamma In-Law opined, “You say you were praying at the time?  Do you remember how those girls used to sing that song?  I can just imagine them throwing up their arms in the backseat, screaming, “Jesus Take the Wheel!”, and that’s pretty much what happened, right?  Jesus took the wheel and bounced that Chevrolet right off your ass, didn’t He?”

And “What could have happened…” is about as insidious a Spiritual and Mental Health trap as “What I should have done…” is an Hallelujah breaker.

I had to laugh.  That’s precisely what happened.  Jesus pretty much took the wheel and bounced that Chevrolet right off my ass.

Thank you, Jesus!

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

I give myself a big D- as a Mamma today.

The only reason I don’t Flag myself, is that I still care enough that I failed my sweet and only boy so completely.

The Boy.

Ah, me.  He hurts me.

It’s not his fault.  He’s 12, and it is his job to be every inch the almost indecipherable teenager he is and will become.

Prior to writing this post, I checked out some other blogs on the topic.  I am in good company.

It amazes, but does not comfort me, how many of us had our own Hallelujahs broke at his age and never healed.

Like me, lots of fine voices raise the F word to identify the party that broke us.

The voice.

Or the face.

Or the name.

Or the penis.

Or the betrayal.

Or the hurt that is still such a nemesis that it breaks our own Mammahoods we desperately seek to do sooooooooooo, oh so much better than was done for us.

As for me, that hurt is still where much of the anger lives, I know when I was first broke.  I needed no ritual ceremony to uphold the bloody sheets.

I understand.  I so understand my limits and lids.  I know my triggers ad nauseam.  Frankly, they are not all that interesting.

I know my hurts, and which parent I blame for what like some freaked out list of grievances from Rainman.   Like the scar I got sliding into home when I was in the third grade, it’s all very familiar without inviting movement or healing.

The thing is, it doesn’t matter anymore.

My scars might now scar The Boy.

And if I don’t stop blaming, and beg God for the healing only He has to offer, all I’ll do is play the obscene forward.

And if I don’t stop, when The Boy sits on his therapist’s couch when he’s 19, or 21 or 35, and asserts, “It’s all my mamma’s fault,” then he will be right.

Because the statute of limitations on parental wars crimes done to me is up.

If I don’t find Power through God to FORGIVE and to change my responses, I will do to them, every inch of what was done to me and more.

‘Cause I know what was done to me.

I already paid for that.

I don’t want mine to pay too.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!