Are you prepared for the end???

Last night, I scared the heck out of myself. 

I take a bunch of pills every evening, and some of them are huge.  My calcium supplement looks like something the Jetsons would eat for a meal.  Usually, I grab the handful and pop them in my mouth, following up with a little water to wash them down.  "Rut-Ro" as Astro Jetson used to say; last night the horse pill caught in my throat and would not wash down.  What terrified me was that I could feel it blocking off my air supply, and I thought I might die.

My life passed before my eyes.  Not the past events, but my immediate concerns.  I hadn't updated my will.  Dang, now my crazy brother would end up with the share of my "fortune" that should go to my nieces. How will my sister ever find my safety deposit box key when I'm not even sure where it is? How long will my body lie here? Will Trixie have to resort to cannibalism in order to survive? And what will happen to Trixie?  Who wants a dog that eats all your underwear, overturns your trashcans, occasionally goes potty inside instead of outside, and costs $102 a month in maintenance medicine? And why oh why hadn't I done my dishes?

Obviously, I am writing this, so I was able to dislodge the pill.  But, this experience had me pondering death and asking the question, how many of us are prepared to die?

You know that according to the Mayan calendar, our world is doomed to end on December 21, 2012.  There are nutcases  people actually preparing for it by moving to what they perceive as safer parts of the country and stockpiling food, water, money, and guns. Check out this website if you don't believe me: http://www.survivalplan2012.com/.  Are you prepared to survive the Apocalypse? Have you done your dishes?

We don't know what the future will bring.  I truly doubt the interpretation of the Mayan calendar that predicts our demise is going to come to fruition.  So, I will finish my Christmas shopping, stay on my diet, and get my car's oil changed.  But just in case, just in case,  I plan to keep my dishes done and put away. 

A Blog Inspired By My Conversation With Patty

Have you ever felt jealous of somebody else's life?  Especially when you read about those lives on Facebook?  Some people seem to have it soooo great.  They have lots of friends!  Beautiful homes!  Perfect family members! Loving marriages! Many fun activities to fill their days! New purchases they photograph so you can share in their joy! Delicious restaurant meals that sabotage your diet attempts!  Oh my goodness, if only you could Freaky Friday it and be your friend for a day!

Does Facebook somehow make you feel like your life is incomplete? That everybody else is having a great time of it while you are not? 

If you answered yes, welcome to the club. And please, continue reading.

If it helps any, let me share with you a lesson I learned one summer. Many years ago I spent my summers at the Port Deposit public swimming pool. (Ha!  How many locals remember that place?) I made friends with a pool regular, a mother about my age with two adorable sons.  She had the perfect life!  First of all, she was physically beautiful.  I envied her smooth tan, dark luxurious long hair, and her curvy figure.  I adored her boys.  They were such sweet kids.  One was brunette like her, and the other a redhead like his daddy.  She didn't have to work.  She lived in a gorgeous home, grew a fabulous garden, and canned and baked to her heart's content.  Her favorite times were spent with family and friends, vacationing and partying together. Well, as a single teacher living in a cramped furnished apartment and trying desperately to recover from a very difficult school year, I was so enamored of her; and I have to admit, so damn jealous that she had everything I thought I wanted.

As the summer progressed, our conversations deepened and eventually she confessed something to me that put everything else into perspective.  She'd once been hospitalized for weeks following a nervous breakdown she suffered in her attempt to be perfect.  Well hey, I'd never felt the compulsion to be perfect, and I'd certainly never required medical attention because of it.  Maybe my life wasn't so bad after all!

We all have our trials and tribulations.  If you get past the events people celebrate and publicize on Facebook, you'll remember that into each life some rain certainly does fall.  If you're feeling envious of someone, you can be sure someone else is feeling envious of you.  Life is like that.

My friend Dee and I have both suffered through some horrifying life events.  But, a while ago we sorta made a pact. And that was to focus on enjoying the simple good/fun moments as they were happening...really experience those times because who knew when the next one would come?  We keep our expectations minimal. Are we sacrificing dreams and just settling for the mundane?  No,  I prefer to think we're appreciating what we have and not moping about what we don't. (Well, sometimes I mope.)

So, this holiday season as people competitively post all the fun they are having while I am sitting home quietly playing solitaire on my computer, I'll try to keep things in perspective and remember that one of these days, I'll have an event to post on FB.  I'll take lots of pictures and make it look good!  Cause I'll know, it really is good (for now).

Shake Your Booty

I just came from my Zumba class at the Havre de Grace Senior Center.  It was three years ago that Dee suggested I sign up for a class or two.  I am forever indebted.  The Center offers a variety of classes, less than half the price of those offered privately or through the community college.  I believe there are some government subsidies involved...yea America!

Most of the classes are wonderful, but there have been a few fails in the offerings.  I had always wanted to learn Tai Chi, but after one semester with the instructor, I was done.  He was a cranky man, made cranky by his desire for perfection of form.  I did my best, but I am a slow learner.  He seemed to focus on me and snap any time my form was off.  It was off a lot.  At one point he exclaimed in sheer exasperation, "Is there something wrong with you?!?"  When I told him I was currently in physical therapy for my bad knee, he backed off for a while.  (I sincerely apologize NOW to any of my former students that I may have barked at as they struggled to learn.  I so get it now!  If it makes you feel better, Karma got me good during this class.)  I was traumatized, and I will sadly never look like those Chinese people you see stretching and turning in controlled slow motion at the outdoor parks.  No more Tai Chi for me.

There is an afternoon class offered for free for people with arthritis.  Since an orthopedic doctor once told me I was riddled with it, I signed on.  This is a wonderful class that anybody in any shape can take.  The class uses all the exercises I performed in physical therapy.  It is like free physical therapy!!  What a bargain! I love to go.  There's a couple there who just make me shake my head.  The husband is one of the sweetest men I've ever seen.  He smiles constantly, engages the quieter and shyer classmates in conversation, and participates in the exercises with gusto.  His wife is the biggest sourpuss on earth. One day she had kvetched the whole hour.  Finally, she started yapping about the finger exercises and how worthless they are.  I'd had it, so I looked at her with great concern and said, "What's the matter?  Do you feel like you're not getting your money's worth?"  I caught her hubby's eye as he struggled to keep from laughing.  I keep trying to talk an older friend of mine who has become very sedentary to start with this class.  But she'd rather watch TV.

My favorite class is Zumba Gold.  The "gold" is the gentle term indicating this class goes somewhat slower than the ones you see advertised on TV.  There are some real characters in this class.  One of my favorite people is Rosie.  I knew her from my much younger days when we took aerobics together.  Someone told me she is in her eighties.  She rocks!  She looks years younger and her agility is enviable.  However, she is truly a senior.  One day she was on a rampage that there were too many young people in our class.  Since you only have to be fifty to attend class, I tried to convince this older woman that people thirty years younger may look too young, but they're really old.  She wasn't buying it. I don't know what her problem was, we meet in a big gym with lots of room.  I don't see those "young" women anymore.  I prefer to think they graduated to regular Zumba somewhere and not that anyone got them kicked out for being too young.

I stay in the back row; and as a result of that, I've learned a lot about my classmates.  One lady travels a lot in the USA.  I know because of her t-shirts.  Another woman thinks she's a ballerina.  She points her toes for everything, moves her arms gracefully like she's a dancing swan.  And, as I huff and puff, she floats with her beatific smile plastered on her face.  I knew another woman's diet was working as her butt shrank before my eyes.  The person to my left loves to dance, and when it is time to shake it, she shakes it like Shakira.  On a side note, her kindergarten grandchild whom she taught to dance, had her mother spoken to because of some of the risque moves she learned from granny.  Miss Fingers is also in the class. She uses weights and does her own steps quite often because, as we all know, she knows best.  I don't know why more men don't take Zumba.  The cardio is universally good for all of us. But, only one man takes the class.  I've seen others peek in the room, and I can just tell that they really want to participate. I guess they think this is women's work (they are, after all, of an older generation).

I think some of the biggest problems facing the elderly are loneliness and inactivity.  I know people who are compromising their quality of life by refusing to get off the couch.  If only they would take a few classes!  The exercise is good.  The people are welcoming and friendly.  It's a great place to go.  If I may borrow some lyrics from the theme to "Cheers" (as written by Gary Portnoy and Judy Hart Angelo), I'll leave you with this:

                Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.
                Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.

               Wouldn't you like to get away?

                Sometimes you want to go

                Where everybody knows your name,
                and they're always glad you came.
                You wanna be where you can see,
                our troubles are all the same
               You wanna be where everybody knows
               Your name.

'Tis the Season For....

Holiday bazaars!  That's how they advertise them, but don't kid yourself.  These are Christmas bazaars.  The predominating colors? Red and green.  Who do you see on every other table? Santa Claus.  What kind of music is playing?  Christmas carols. I rest my case. Starting the first weekend in November and ending the first or second weekend in December, Christmas bazaars spring up all over the countryside.

If you're like me and you want to get to as many as possible, it takes a little planning.  Newspapers advertise better than any on-line site I've found (sorry Patch).  I mark the date with the sales I want to attend and paper clip the newspaper ads to the festive Thanksgiving picture on my calendar so I don't forget the day and place.  Time is no problem, they all seem to be open from 9-3. But that in itself is a problem.  Trying to make it to four bazaars during those hours takes some special attention; you must plan your driving route so you hit the sales in a natural order.  Time is wasted if you have to backtrack. Keep notes if you hit a bazaar that's a real bust; you might not want to waste time there next year.

You can find anything you want for the holidays at these bazaars.  And even some stuff you didn't know you  wanted.  Take my friend Laurie, for example.  I'm sure she had no intention today of buying two handmade doggy pizzas for her beloved pups. But she bought them and an assortment of doggy bone treats.  Because some of these shows can be overwhelming, I suggest you walk the perimeter first and get an idea of the crafts for sale.  If you aren't careful, you might buy that Ravens scarf for $20 and find the same thing two booths down for $5.  However, if something truly unique and reasonably priced calls your name, you best grab it up before it calls somebody else who answers. Occasionally, I look at some of the items for sale and think, gee I could do that.  But as a vendor explained, "We do it for you, so you don't have to."  Sounds reasonable to me.

There are a few things that make me sad when I go to these bazaars.  The crocheted items get to me.  Those tables never seem to change.  The soft mounds of crafts are the same size from the beginning of the show to the end of the show.  People like to crochet.  But people don't seem to buy crocheted items.  A lot of crocheted items are aimed at covering toilet paper: little cap like things, toilet paper Santas, toilet paper snowmen, you get the picture. When's the last time you actually saw a crocheted toilet paper cover in a bathroom?  Been a while, hasn't it?  Now, I did recently see the little cap-like covers as favors at a church Christmas party.  Sorry to say, we church people weren't very kind.  We pulled the toilet paper rolls out of the holders, and wore them on our heads like Rastafarian caps.  The woman who made them was NOT amused.

I feel uncomfortable making eye contact with the vendors.  They all have that same look in their eyes as they silently beg you to please, please buy their crafts.  They pay a lot of money to rent the tables, and sometimes they need a lot of sales to break even.  Oh, and if you enter into conversation with a vendor, it gets even dicier for the buyer.  Do you now have to actually buy the thing you've just told the crafter is really beautiful?  This year as I looked at some jewelry, the vendor said to me, "I remember you from last year!  It's so nice to see you.  What can I do for you this year?"  Ohhh, she's good.  I don't remember her from last year, and I'm sure she doesn't remember me, but now I am a repeat customer and expected to buy.

Christmas bazaars are great places to buy gifts for friends and family.  Or yourself, for that matter.  But be careful to really want what you buy.  It's a little hard to return something to a vendor who has packed up and gone home.  Ask me.  I know that for a fact.  I simply fell in love with a purple necklace, so I had to have it.  Upon returning home, I nestled it into my felt-lined jewelry box, right next to the nearly identical purple necklace I bought last year.  Buyer beware!

Enjoy the season!  Happy shopping!  Happy holidays!

The Great American Smokeout Day

Tomorrow, November 15, is important to me for two reasons. Reason one, it is my friend JoEllen's birthday.  Happy birthday girlfriend!  Reason two, it is the annual day that Americans are encouraged to quit smoking in the hope that one day clean will lead to a lifetime free of tar and nicotine.  A long time ago, I suffered through many of those one day ciggie fasts. 

 I fondly remember the first time I smoked a cigarette.  I was in sixth or seventh grade.  George Fritz and I sat out back of Darby Township High School and smoked away.  I used to steal them from my mom's pack, and we actually had a hiding place for them.  Mom eventually caught me, our family moved to King of Prussia, and that was the end of my smoking habit and George Fritz (I hear he became a police officer).

I didn't start smoking again until I graduated from high school. I worked with teens and older people (in their twenties) and there were many nights after work spent gazing up at the stars, blowing smoke rings into the sultry night air, and discussing life as only teenagers on the verge of adulthood are able.  Coincidentally, that was also the time I started underage drinking.  I felt so cool and so grown up.

The world was different for smokers back then.  We could smoke anywhere.  I smoked in my dorm room. I smoked during college classes.  I loved being able to light up a smoke during a particularly stressful exam.  We could smoke in restaurants, in the middle of the meal if we so desired.  There was even a smoking section on airplanes; but the reality was all of the plane was a smoking section as the blue air was constantly recycled. I remember faculty meetings when the librarian brought out the big ashtrays to put on the library tables for the smokers.  The smokers gathered early at school and we had the best time telling jokes to start our days.  We were an elite club of cool people!  When smokers visited a non-smoker's house, an ashtray was politely provide by the host so the polluters could smoke comfortably in their home.  Mr. Ward, a maintenance man from the Board of Education, would puff on his cigar as he worked in my room while I was teaching class.  I loved that man.  Sadly, he died young...cancer.

Eventually, the Surgeon General convinced me I needed to quit.  I tried many, many times.  One New Year's Eve in Glen Rock I had resolved to quit smoking then and there.  The next day I drove desperately through the ghost town looking for an open gas station, a cigarette machine, and my fix.  I couldn't do it; I just could not quit.  When I worked as an underpaid teacher's aid in Glen Rock, my friends knew when I'd run out of money because I quit smoking.  Ha!  Next paycheck and my resolve was shattered. When I dated Gary, I quit smoking because he was a non-smoker.  Is it any surprise we broke up a month later?  I was a lunatic in withdrawal!  I refrained from smoking for a few more months, but one Happy Hour in a bar when he was with his group of teachers and I was with mine, I thought maybe a cigarette would ease my broken heart.  I was hooked again.  I didn't think I'd ever be able to quit.

And then I met Phil the photographer during a family vacation in Ocean City.  We met on the beach one morning when both of us were taking pictures of the sunrise.  He asked if he could come get me that evening and we'd do something.  Hey, the family was only planning on playing cards that night so I was game.  We had the most romantic walk on the beach, the kind of walk people always imagine when they write personal ads.  And yes, we were those gross people you see and tell to get a room.  It was wonderful!  He was dreamy!  He was also a non-smoker, so once again I quit my nasty habit then and there.  He said he'd call me once we both returned to our homes.

I got home and came down with a wicked case of bronchitis.  The illness helped my resolve and as each day passed, I did not smoke. The days passed and passed and passed; it was six months before Phil called me.  We went on a date, realized there was no chemistry, and said our fond farewells.  I may not have found the man of my dreams, but I found something better.  I found out that I could go six months and not smoke if I did it one day at a time and never touched another cigarette.  The money I had budgeted for cartons of cigarettes was donated to Christian Children's Fund as I sponsored a child in Mexico.  On my teacher's salary, it would have been a financial hardship to start up again.  My parents figured if I could quit a two pack a day habit, they could too.  And they did. My brother, Glenn, quit after a tax on smokes made him so furious with the damn government that he wasn't giving them another &%$#* penny by buying their overtaxed cigarettes.  So there!

Thirty plus years later I am still smoke free. 

I continue working on my sister; and I'm hopeful.  I keep telling her she has to quit.  She really doesn't want Glenn and me raising her kids. Really.

If you still smoke, take the challenge to go one day without cigarettes.  It might lead to a healthier lifetime.  And if nothing else, think of all the money you will save.  Good luck!

Thanksgiving Remembrance

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.  It was a relaxing day spent with immediate family.  There was no talk of diets, and lots of delicious food in which to indulge.  After dinner, my sister and I would pour Bailey's into my mother's coffee and watch her get tipsy.  We'd laugh so hard that I'd have to run to the bathroom, or else! I especially loved that last day of work before Thanksgiving because the anticipation of a four day break made everybody pretty jovial at school.

I will never forget one pre-Thanksgiving Wednesday that was not  going well.  It was an ugly day, cold, damp, dark, depressing.  I woke up late and had to rush to school without breakfast or a shower.  Ugh.  I was grumpy all day, and so were the kids. While doing afternoon hall duty at our little corner, Dottie and I did nothing but complain.  She had locked her keys inside her car, and we all know what a PITA that is. I was dreading the drive to PA in the dark and in the rain. 

For some reason, a little sixth grader that neither of us knew, stopped to talk to us.  I remember her bright smile and her shining eyes; she was so happy.  I also remember that she was covered in ugly bruises. Those marks signaled one thing to me, child abuse.  I didn't know if her teachers had already reported it;  but all teachers are mandated reporters, so I started to gently question her in my attempt to find out who had hurt her.

Nobody had hurt her, she explained.  She had leukemia.  I didn't know what to say.  So, I hugged her and wished her a happy holiday before she skipped to her locker and headed home.  Talk about feeling shame!  Dottie and I could barely look at each other, and tears filled our eyes as we shook our heads and sighed.  My attitude towards life, the drive home, rainy days, and early darkness changed in that instant.  I was very thankful to realize how healthy and blessed I truly was.

On Monday I learned she had passed away that weekend.  There's no describing the grief I felt; it still stabs today.  I wrote her family a letter about their angel.  I explained how I'd only met her once and she changed my life.  I could only imagine the effect she'd had upon the people who had known her a lifetime.  I sent money to help with her funeral arrangements.  And that was it; I never heard from her family.  Life went on.

Months later, someone casually mentioned they had seen the letter I wrote to her family.  The family had framed it, and it was hanging on the wall of their home.  Talk about feeling humbled.

I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.  Don't let the hectic preparations for the Big Exciting Holiday Experience get in the way of celebrating and appreciating the blessings of your life.  Don't be afraid to eat too much; life is a banquet!

Why I Won't Answer My Phone

I refuse to answer the phone for the next two days.  Poor Trixie.  She becomes agitated whenever the phone rings.  She'll look at the phone, then run to me, then look at the phone and so on and so on until it stops.  She's been suffering quite a bit lately.  I've tried to explain to her that it will only get worse, but her English isn't very good.

You probably know why I'm not answering.  Robo calls.  Ugh!  They are in full force.  I don't know which candidates are the worst offenders as I never listen long enough before hanging up.  But, I do know they disrupt my dinner preparations.  I'm not much of a cook, and if I am disturbed in the middle of meal preparations, odds are good I'll forget a key ingredient or burn something.  I've yet to go to the powder room without the ring-a-ding-ding of the phone and Trixie's frantic barking in the background.  The late night ones scare the heck out of me.  Everybody knows that calls after 9:00 are bad news.  It infuriates me that political callers do not have to adhere to the Do Not Call List.  But then, why should I be surprised?  It's simply another case of our government making a law that they do not have to obey.

I probably should stop watching TV too.  But, I can't.  I need my daily General Hospital fix.

This has been a most contentious campaign.  While I have not unfriended anyone from my Facebook page recently, I have unfriended people in the past due to politics.  Case in point is my brother.  He and I were friends for less than a week.  I posted something political and he responded by calling me a socialist idiot. Click!  I deleted that moron from my social network life.  It was freeing!  Yes, I still have to face him when I go home to PA, but in person we know enough not to discuss politics.

I was unfriended by someone.  It took me a while to realize, but when I did, I contacted her and  asked if I had offended/upset her.  Here's part of her reply:

Honestly, I just am making a point to stay non-controversial, avoid political comment and generally reduce as much negativity as possible. I did not intend to hurt your feelings so I quietly blocked you.

Ha Ha  She's calling me a negative influence on her life and my feelings aren't supposed to be hurt?  She offered to consider unblocking me after the election, but I told her in my own little negative manner to bite me.

Anybody who knows me knows that I am a dedicated Democrat.  I appreciate my Republican friends trying to change my mind, but there is such a thing as lost causes.  I still love my Republican friends, and I hope they will continue to care about me...even if they have to wait until after the election to show me the love.  If it makes them any happier, I have completed the sample ballot I will take to the polls, and I am voting in the local election for a Republican who strikes me as the best person for the job.  I'll even do a write-in vote for the first time in my life.

I don't care who you vote for, sorta.  Just get out there tomorrow and vote your conscience.  This is a close and critical election.  We Americans are lucky that our votes actually count and can make a difference. 


        

Faith/Religion: Something I've Been Told Never to Discuss

I went to church today, something I do whenever I'm in Maryland on a Sunday.  Today, the pastor had a lot to say, but what I was left pondering was faith.

I guess I am she of little faith.  So many Christians seem so secure in their religion.  Why, some of them even hear God talking directly to them.  How do they do that?  How do they know they hear God directing their lives and not their own inner voices telling them what to do?  They say, in response to my question, it's faith.

I have a good friend who is an atheist, not an agnostic, a real honest non-believing atheist.  She has had it with religious people, and she often fills her Facebook page with examples of why.  There are an awful lot of Christians out there doing very unChristian things.  A minister wouldn't marry a couple who were long-time members of  his church.  No, they weren't gay; they're an interracial couple.  Bet you didn't think that kind of thing was happening anymore.  Zealots claim it is their God directing them to do some of the ugliest things in the name of religion. A pastor in Florida is proud of burning the Koran, a religious book he doesn't happen to agree with. The murderer of an abortion doctor feels he's done God's work by killing that doctor and saving babies. Did he miss the part of the Bible that says thou shall not kill? People have beaten gays bloody in the name of religion ("God hates f_gs"). And those protesters (who shall remain nameless in my blog) who try to ruin the funerals of our deceased service people believe that God has told them to do that.  Those are big examples, and some may say those fringe groups don't represent the masses.

However, it would be just as easy to give you many examples of regular people distorting (or conveniently forgetting) the Bible to excuse their bad conduct.  Remember that trip I took with all those seniors?  You know, the ones who smugly touted their Christianity and their belief that all Jews are doomed to hell?  We had to sit as groups of four at one of the restaurants we visited.  The table in front of me had four women who were seated together.  Well, there were four there for awhile until three of them got up to go to the bathroom and never came back.  Three white women left a single black woman to dine alone.  I was incredulous at that blatantly unChristian act... and furious.  With the blessings of my table, I joined the other lady for lunch and made a new friend.  And don't get me started on the love the sinner hate the sin baloney.  Worry about your own damn sins. I do; I worry about everything.

But humans are imperfect! They make mistakes! They can't be perfect, only God is perfect!  Well then, those same imperfect people need to stop dictating to others what they can and cannot do in the name of God.

Two years ago, I left my church of thirty years.  I had weathered many rectors, some good and some bad.  But never had any of them caused me enough pain to want to leave.  When contention during an email exchange with my ex-rector and vestry left me reeling, I quit.  I was broken hearted to leave.  And I was broken hearted by the responses of people I had considered family.  One told me I had unresolved hostilities towards the man;  I thought I was providing concrete examples of what he had done.  Another had called me, supporting what I had said, and then backpedaled faster than a clown in a circus when push came to shove during the email salvo.  At the funeral of a friend from the church, I was visibly snubbed and ignored by a woman who'd always been warm and friendly to me.  My faith took a beating like never before.  I went to church to learn and love, and this is what it came down to?  So, who needs church?  Who needs religion if this is what it boils down to?

Well, I do. 

I had something happen to me in my life that was so removed from anything I could ever begin to explain or understand.  My dad was in the hospital.  I had returned to Maryland, but got the call the next day to get home now.  The next night my family and some friends were sitting on the deck talking about everything we were experiencing.  My mom casually mentioned that my dad had said the strangest thing that day.  He told her to ask me if I got the book about dogs that was in a box inside my front door. I turned pale.  I always enter the house through the back door in my garage.  I don't always check the front door, but when I let Trixie out that night, I found a box stuck in the front door.  It was a book about training dogs that I had ordered from Amazon and forgotten all about.  How in the world had my dad known about it?  How? I defy anyone to offer me a scientific explanation for what happened.  My dad was with me, and he hadn't left his hospital bed.

Some things just happen and can't be explained.  That's where faith comes in handy.  God works in mysterious ways, or so I've been told. When my faith is shaky (which is often), I try to remember that moment and that box.  I know there is much more to life than I'll ever understand here on Earth. I hope that I can do what's asked of me to make this a better place to be.  That is, if I can recognize who's doing the asking. (If your group comes knocking on my door with my key to heaven, it may get shut in your face.) If church drama gets distracting and out of control, I'll walk off again. My life isn't always free of stress. So,when I'm down and out, I sure hope I can feel God's loving embrace. 

And frankly, I hope I have the faith to recognize it for what it is.