A letter to my son Ethan . . . .

My dear child,
Today I attended the funeral of one of your friends. Jake was only 24, and it was hard. I felt compelled to go to the funeral for a number of reasons. He had been one of my students, he was one of your closest friends, and because I felt such pain for his mother.

I knew it was going to be hard. I saw some of your friends, some of my former students, and co-workers who know what kind of trouble we've been through over the years. Of course, you weren't there, not physically, but you were really all over the place for me. You have been since I learned of Jake's death. This one hits very close to home on every level, especially since you are once again in your wandering mode and I don't even know if you're aware of what happened. As I sat there, I wondered how long it will be before I have to plan this for you. As that thought enters, it makes me angry again, as it always does when that darkness creeps in. How can a mother even go there? She can go there after you've been a fraction of a millimeter from death numerous times. She can go there when she knows any waking moment could be your last when you pick up that needle, snort that line, smoke that bowl, or pop that pill. You think you're invincible and know when to stop. You always say that, and then you end up in an ambulance, a hospital, or detox again. I always fear that the next time will be the last.

I can't trust your words. I so badly want to, more than you can imagine. It's not because you don't mean them. It's because you will say anything to convince me, or more so to convince yourself that you have some semblance of control over your addiction. In the last six years or so of this struggle, you have had so many words of reassurance to offer, but they are more often than not, hollow. Your intentions are good on some level, but the active drug addict brain is pulling the punches. I can no longer trust your words, only your actions. The only words I believe are, "I love you." I will always know in the depths of my heart that you love me. Of course, that knowledge is always dampened by the truth that you will "love" me more if I do whatever it is you want. But, I know you love me, and you know how deeply I love you. That knowledge comforts me.

In six years, I stood by you through juvenile detention stays, adolescent "behavioral hospitals" (and I use the term very loosely,) treatment programs, county jail, arrests, your life in a trap house, desperate and frantic phone calls, and numerous detox and treatment centers as an adult. I have used every speck of strength to maintain hope each time, hope that THIS time it would click, you'd get it, you'd push through the hardest part, you'd sincerely decide that you wanted out of that life and push for another one, that it would work. I know that when you hear of Jake's death, if you haven't already, it's going to hit you very, very hard. Ethan, his mother told me, "Tell your son to live every moment, to live." Please live.

So many people have told me over the years that I needed to let you go because of the damage each relapse and disappointment does to me. Just how does one let their child go? I understand what they mean is that I need to distance myself, to let things fall where they will, and I can and have done that on many levels, but I can't just let you go. When things are bad, it is very consuming because I just want a change so badly. When things are better, that's when I can sit back and let you go easier. I know I can't fix any of it. I don't try to fix it, but I do continue to be there when you need my emotional support, and every time, I start to hope again. I don't know how to turn that off. I don't do all of this right, I never have. There's so much I've done wrong, but I've done the best I've known how to do. I pray that's enough and that I won't one day be planning your funeral.

You know as well as I do that there isn't any explanation as to why you're still alive. The pericarditis alone should have killed you if all of the overdoses haven't. How many times has it been? How many more times will it be? When will it stop? As I've said before, I will never be able to understand any of this from your perspective. The irrationality of the addict thinking is beyond my comprehension. However, you will never understand it from my perspective. The pain of watching your child suffer is terrible. I get angry when people say, "It's his choice. He keeps choosing the drugs." Hell, I even say it myself sometimes. Unfortunately, I know it's not that simple.

So here I am, after your friend's funeral, wondering what is coming next for us. Will I find myself in that same position or will it be better? As I finish writing this, I just got your phone call. You left treatment (your 11th attempt at this point, if I haven't lost count) two days ago, after I once again got that hope back. I hadn't had an opportunity to tell you about Jake when you were in a safe environment so I had to do it tonight, when you were high. Your devastation at this news was heart wrenching on this end of the phone. I know how much you loved him. I hated telling you, but maybe this will convince you that it's time. You are 20 years old but you've lived three lifetimes. As any mother will tell you, you're still my child, and I still wish I could cuddle you on my lap as you cry and make it all better. I can't. When you called back after the initial shock and said you were calling to go back to treatment again, that this was too hard and you don't want to die like Jake, hope began to rise again. How can I lose hope completely? I know that sweet, joyful, happy soul is still in there under the darkness. Jake is no longer living with the struggle, but he's also no longer living. You have squandered so many chances for a new life. I pray that you'll take this next chance.

I love you.

Strength . . .

For years now, people have told me what a strong person I am. When I hear that, it always makes me squirm uncomfortably. I feel like what others see is a lie, and there's nothing I despise more than liars. So, I typically respond with something about how I'm really not, etc. Then it feels like I'm deflecting in some facade of humility. That makes me uncomfortable too. I want to just accept it as a compliment and say thank you, but I don't know how to.

The truth is, I'm not the person everyone else seems to think I am. I'm really NOT strong, but I apparently do a pretty good job with that facade. Truth is, I'm weak. I'm scared. I'm sad. I'm making it up as I go. I feel like a complete failure in most areas of my life. I don't think I've been a very good parent. I often feel like we'd all be better off if I just stepped back and hid away from the world for a while. Don't worry, that's not self-harm talk in any way, just sometimes think it would be easier to escape. The problem, and what others see as strength, is that I'm not good at the retreat. Perhaps it's my bull-headed Taurus nature, but I tend to push through things until I can put it behind me. I don't know that it's strength any more than it is stubbornness. 

I've always been a pretty independent person, thanks to my upbringing. I'm not afraid to do things by myself. I like to eat out by myself, go to the movies by myself, spend time with myself, and probably most of all, travel by myself. In fact, I most love traveling by myself because I don't have to worry about the mood, frustration, or boredom level of anyone else. While I would often enjoy sharing the beautiful places I've seen, being alone allows me to get in my own head and think through things. When I lived in Atlanta, I had season tickets to the Broadway shows, the ballet, and the opera. Many people thought it was weird that I went by myself. I never saw the need to wait around for someone else to do what I wanted. If I had, I would have missed out on a lot of things. When the boys and I decided to leave Ohio and move back to Texas, many told me I was so brave to quit my job, sell my home, and move without anything concrete to go to. I wasn't brave. I was scared to death!!! I had two kids to support and I had no job and no roof to put over their heads! What was I thinking? Well, once that ball was rolling, there was nothing else to do but roll with it. So brave, I don't know. When Asa and I drove out to Reno, Nevada, and back one summer a few years ago, people kept asking me who was going with me. I would say, Asa. What they meant was, "What male adult person is going with you?"  None, I know how to read a map, fill up my gas tank, and all those nifty things that allow for a successful road trip. Again, strong and brave? No, I wanted to get there, and it was the only way, so I had to do it. Brave, strong, the things others see in me, but I'm not so sure.

Where I really tend to see the "Strength" card played is when it comes to Ethan. I once thought that ending a marriage would be the hardest thing I ever went through. Then, I thought getting a divorce from someone who also worked at the same small college in the same small town, would be the hardest thing I ever went through. It was hard hearing some of the comments from people who had no idea what was really going on. Surely, that will be the hardest thing I would ever have to go through, right? Wrong! That wasn't strength though. That was just coping. On the outside, people thought I was strong. Physically, I had a silent heart attack and later grew a grapefruit sized cyst in my right ovary. The surface, strong and coping. The internal stress manifests itself physically for me. I don't think I was strong. 

Move forward a couple of years, past the divorce, after the big move, and on to Ethan. The first time I took him for treatment, I had a crying fit walking back to the car with his big shoes, which he couldn't have because he wasn't allowed to have shoe laces. Then, I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse! Well, you all know that it has, and has again, and again, and again. Some have said that I've handled these years with strength. No damn way! I trip and stumble constantly. I'm so scared, so sad, so there's much fear all the time. When I think I'm handling it ok, the realities of practical issues come crashing over me and all that discouragement and disappointment wash over me like a tidal wave. I suppose the fact that we're both still standing should be as a result of our strength, but can't feel it. It would imply that I'm coping well by choice. I'm coping by mere rote memory. I get up and do the same thing each day from memory. Inside, I'm a mess. The setbacks of the last few weeks are trying so hard to find a place to hide out in my gut, quite literally, so that I can ignore them and keep going. I'm out of room and it's now seeping over the edges. That's not strength. Inside, I can't think clearly anymore, I can't manage my finances well because there's always another chunk of money involved which I don't have. My health has suffered considerably. My work situation is hostile, aside from my students and amazingly supportive colleagues. None of this is strength. I'm crumbling rapidly lately. 

I don't necessarily think we can judge our trials against those of another. If I say, "Well, a lot of people have it so much worse. My problems are petty," then I've fallen into the trap of judging. Yes, we all have our issues and they really can't be compared. What seems small to one will be huge to another. Comparison is judgmental. I try not to respond as above. With our problems, we all manage to cope and handle them. Some handle it well and others don't. That doesn't mean that one is strong and the other is weak. It's simply a different mechanism. So when someone says they could never be as strong as I have been, I squirm. I am not special or unique in this way. Maybe I'm better at hiding it, but I'm losing that skill too. 

In the end, I still pray for strength every single day, even though I'm not really sure what it actually is. 

. . . . How the "tomorrow" went

It's a new day. I went in for another group session at Changes, still without Ethan. Last night, he was texting with me and annoyed that I wouldn't just come pick him up and see him where he was. I told him that if he wanted to see me, I would be at Changes and he could find a way to get there if he wanted to. There was no way I was going to drive almost an hour away, in a town I know nothing about, to God knows what kind of a house and situation I might find. Lord knows I've been in some scary situations with him in the past! I will never forget the time he was kicked out of the trap house he had been living in, a meth house, and he was a tweaking mess, but had nowhere to go. I certainly wasn't going to let him come home. After a couple of anxious hours. I ended up calling the guy who ran the house and begged him to take Ethan back in. Yes, I begged for my child to be readmitted into a meth house. As insane as it sounds, that was the safest place for him. There is a very lengthy list of "things I never thought I'd do or say." Anyway, there was no way I was going to meet him anywhere I had questions about. Finally, he said he would meet me at 3:00, wherever I wanted.

We agreed on a public place to meet. As he walked up to the restaurant, we both just couldn't wait to hug each other. It felt so good to hug my child again! I held on to him for dear life, marveling in the new form he had filled out in this last year of relative health. As I've said before, the downs of this last year have nearly killed him, but he is still immensely healthier than he was when I last saw him. We cried, we hugged, I wanted to slap the shit out of him for the pain of the last few days, but more than anything, I just couldn't stop  holding him. As any parent knows, it doesn't matter how old your child is, it's still your baby, and I was finally getting to hold mine.

We had a good talk for a couple of hours. He explained what he wanted to explain, and I explained how I felt about it. At this stage in the game, after so many years of "I know what I'm doing Mom," "just trust me," and "I've got this, Mom," I don't trust much of anything. It's just impossible to until I see the proof of it. All I could give him was, "I pray that you are doing the right thing." I can't agree with it, I can't feel comfortable with it, and I can't just casually accept it, but it is what it is. He appeared to be relatively stable, but had been without his meds for a few days, so there was that, but he was enough stable that I agreed to take him back to the half-way house he claims is legitimate. I pray that it will be enough to do what will keep him clean and that HE is able to do so. I don't trust any of it, but what can I do about it? He's there, he's not on the streets again, and for the moment at least, he's pretty stable. Of course all I have to compare his current situation to is what he left in Texas, so yes, that's better. I could NOT leave here without seeing him. I now had that. Not like we'd planned, but I had it. Again, those damn expectations! I'm coming to visit my drug addict son who has been in adult treatment for nearly a year following five years of useless, sometimes damaging juvenile incarceration, hospitalizations, etc. Did I really EXPECT everything to go smoothly and as we planned? Stupidly, I did.

But now, I've seen him. He didn't ask for anything but my love, and that's all I had to give him. All I can do is wait and see what he does. My anger of the last few days has dissipated. There's no point in hanging onto it. It's done. There is no point in holding on to the pain I felt the last few days. I've seen him now, he's not strung out, and I have done what I came here to do as well as I could. Holding onto the pain, anger, frustration, and fear is only damaging me, nobody else. I had a major breakdown in group this morning, just hit me like a wave, but perhaps that was the catharsis I needed to really let it go. I try to turn it over to God and distance more, but it's so damn hard. I can talk a good talk about doing it, but I haven't approached anywhere near perfection of it. Another forced lesson on the practice.

Tonight, I sat on the beach (finally, after two days) at sunset, enjoyed the soft, warm sand, and calmed my soul to the sound of the waves coming in. I watched the nearly full moon shine over the water, felt the strong wind clean my pain and sadness. I thought about the beauty of the Atlantic coast of south Florida. I was glad that Ethan is here. He can never go back to Texas. It's fully behind him now. I can see that. That's progress. I can let that go. He's almost 20. I have nothing else to give to help him grow up. He is going to have to continue to figure it out on his own. It's in him, and I hope he taps into it full force. He has ALWAYS done everything full force! I constantly pray that he will choose a full force life of sobriety and joy. There's so much potential in him. It is only a miracle that he has survived to this point, so I can't help but sincerely believe that he has more to do in this world. I will continue to pray that he sees that. Do I expect more downs to come, yes, but perhaps this time my expectations will be beautifully crushed. The life of an addict is a struggle. It's not just the drugs. There are so many layers of it and to those of us who don't have the disease, it's easy to sit back and be mad about the complete illogical nature of addictive thinking. It's easy to believe that every action is a conscious choice, and easy to believe that addicts do stupid things to hurt the people who love them. The truth is, addicts have screwed up thinking. We all have our own screwed up thinking, but addictive thinking is truly a beast of its own. My son is an addict and I must accept that his thinking will likely never be the same as mine. I can pray constantly, and that's all I can give him, along with my love. I love my son.

Yesterday and today . . . maybe tomorrow

After much planning, begging, and borrowing of various sorts, I managed to plan a trip to Florida to see Ethan. I haven't seen him in nearly a year since that painful day I got him on the plane to Miami for another attempt at rehab. Since being here, he's had many ups and downs. Those downs have nearly killed him, but the ups have been huge. He is no longer the emaciated, lifeless skeleton I last saw. I know this because people have been kind enough to send me pictures of him over the course of the last year. I simply couldn't wait to see him!!

Then yesterday, I was in the middle of class, but caught a text come across the screen of my phone. Caught my eye, and I thought something must be going screwy with my phone because this looked like something from a while ago. The bell rang, my lunch period, alone in my classroom, so I read the whole thing: "I left Changes Mom. I didn't get high. call me when you can. I need something different. I love you." WHAT???? I'm leaving for Florida in six hours, how can you take off???? Completely crushed. That's the only way to describe what I felt. The plans were made, the hotel was already paid for, the flight arranged . . . . I had no choice but to still come, but I refused to see him if he was high. I simply couldn't do that anymore. The rest of the day was kind of a blur. I was a basket case. Couldn't stop crying. Couldn't handle my classes. Was fortunate to find a colleague to take my last two classes for me so I could leave. Couldn't bear to tell Asa because I knew how angry he'd be, and how worried about me he would be all weekend. A friend drove me to the airport, which was a good thing because I couldn't think clearly. I was really in a complete state of shock and just couldn't stop crying. What a mess. It was all just a mess. But, I knew I still had to go.

Just to add a little misery to it all, the flight was delayed for over two hours as we sat on the plane and waited while there was a fuel pump problem. Got into Ft. Lauderdale at 2:30 a.m. Rental car took forever. Got into my hotel room around 4:00 a.m. Exhausted, puffiest eyes in the world, emotionally, physically, mentally drained. Didn't know what I'd be facing the next day.

Today, I went about what I came here to do, even if it was without Ethan. Went to group meeting at Changes, met Ethan's counselor, Rob, Diane, Arthur, and all the people who had kept Ethan alive and making some progress over the last year. They all told me how excited Ethan was that I was coming, that he had planned on us each reading one of our blogs to the group and he had picked out which ones. I think everyone was in shock, but they all welcomed me in, hugged me, and gave enormous support! Another young man had his mother there visiting and they each got to read their impact letters to the group. It was really wonderful. I felt so cheated that I wasn't getting that opportunity. Yes, I was thinking about myself, but at that moment, I believe I had every right to. We tried to talk to Ethan on the phone, but he was adamant about staying where he was. Says it is a halfway house and he's still clean. I won't go into the specifics of why he felt compelled to leave. That's his story to tell. I only know how it all hit me, right in the gut. As has been my philosophy throughout the past six years of this scourge, just keep going, moving forward, forget about expectations. Still, I was so crushed.

So today, I went through two group sessions at Changes. They were two different groups, so in each I read the blogs of mine that Ethan had chosen and someone else read the one from his blog that he'd chosen. Lots of tears each time, but they certainly weren't all mine. Every person there genuinely cared about Ethan and everyone was so upset, angry, and sad that he wasn't there. They had been hearing about this for weeks! It was a good, but tough morning for me. Good to be with all of them, but so unbelievably unfair that I didn't have MY kid there. I spent the evening with another group in their meeting and then yet another meeting at the residence. I listened to the stories each person told, and I've never seen such courage, fear, pent-up anger, and mostly, sadness. The things some of these young people have experienced in their lives, in their early childhood, is unconscionable. It broke my heart. I also listened to the thought process they described. I will never fully understand the brain and thinking of an addict. I'll NEVER know that daily struggle. The screwed up thinking. The expert self-saboteurs that they are. Some have been clean for much longer than others, but it's all still there. Not just daily struggle, but minute-by-minute. Their stories of using are Ethan's stories. Their impulsive decisions are his impulsive decisions. Their disappointment with themselves after relapse is Ethan's disappointment. I also saw a group of wonderful people, people with huge amounts of potential, and it made me so sad that they couldn't necessarily see it in themselves.

My plan was to do all of that with Ethan, but I'm awfully glad I did it myself anyway. I was able to talk, cry, and talk about how his addiction has affected my life and the lives of those who love him. All of those people have seen him in a better way over the last year than I had seen since he was about 11 years old. I really, really wanted to see him!!! I MUST see him because I fear that if I don't, I may not get the chance again. That's how scared I am right now.

The other road home . . . .

The usual route I take when coming and going from New Orleans passes through Shreveport, Lafayette, etc. I really enjoy this drive. There's never any traffic and it's just me, the blaring iPod, and my regrettable singing voice which nobody is around to complain about. There is another route too, which is a little longer and one I used to know well. When leaving New Orleans this past Tuesday, I decided to take this other route.

My reason for going west toward Houston is that I wanted to stop in Huntsville (TX) and visit my mom for a couple of hours. I don't get to see much of her and she can no longer get up to visit me, so the extra time is well worth it. This route however, brings with it some emotional baggage.

The baggage begins as I approach the town of Vinton, La. I've written about Vinton before, about the scary place there, and my reaction to it. Last time I went past there, I had someone with me. This time, I didn't. As I got near, I felt the usual tension coming on and told myself this was just stupid! In the area between the east and west bound lanes of I-10, there was a large tree, complete with moss and all. As I saw it, I had a really terrible thought, which actually came out of my mouth, and an equally disturbing vision. I don't want to mention what exactly it was, so you'll have to forgive me on that. I noticed that I was physically leaning to my left, away from the town and the scary place. The feeling there is so overwhelming that it makes me cry and I can't shake it for hours afterward. Something really terrible happened there and for some reason it has such a strong effect on me. Try as I might to tell myself it's stupid, I just can't shake it. The feeling didn't begin to subside until I got to Orange, Tx.

Once I got to Orange, I pulled over for a few minutes and decided to check the GPS for the loop I could take around Houston to avoid that mess. It suggested that the shortest distance was actually the way we used to go back in the old days when my family would drive back and forth from New Orleans to Trinity, Tx, for Thanksgiving and other holidays. I decided to lighten the mood and let Jasper (what I call my GPS) lead the way. It had probably been 20 years since I took this back woods, east Texas route, and as I headed north on 287 from Beaumont, I was suddenly flooded with memories of all those past drives. Most of the memories involved my step-father, Walter. As we drove past the signs for DeRidder, just as we were all totally bored, he would say, "DeRidder," in a high pitched ultra fast way. For some reason, we always giggled at that, and it became one of those family joke things. The other silly family joke always occurred later when we passed Kickapoo. Our nickname for Walter was R.Poo. There's a long silly explanation for that, but somehow the name stuck and even our friends would refer to him by that name for many, many years. Anyway, I can't remember all the details of how it started, but whenever we drove past Kickapoo, my sister and I would start kicking the back of his seat. We told him we were just following directions on the sign. Just one of those silly things we'd laugh about.  Early on when I first turned north at Beaumont, I realized that the next day marked the 6th anniversary of Walter's passing. I had just left his beloved New Orleans and was now driving down this road of happy, silly memories.

It was around this point that I said, "'Jasper', go home, you're drunk." My GPS seemed to be sending me down every possible back road it could find. I let out a little laugh and even wondered if Walter was having some fun with me too. I just went with it and enjoyed the ride. Back road East Texas is kind of fascinating. I even went past the Big Thicket. Another memory involves a trip with a few of my fellow fraternity little sisters many years ago from Denton to New Orleans. We were driving in the middle of the night in a 2 door car that only had one working door. My three passengers were sound asleep in the back seat, I was driving, and the headlights went out. Great! We were on a two lane road in East Texas in the middle of the night with no headlights. Fortunately, the moon was full and incredibly bright. With the bright moon and staying on the white bumps in the middle of the road, we made it to Beaumont without any other problems. I woke everybody up and said we had to stop there until the sun came up so we could go on the highway. After waiting an hour or so, it was light enough to go on our way. We climbed back in through the single working door and drove on to New Orleans. When we finally go into town, my friend's father checked out the headlight issue and informed us that the alternator was completely dead. He had no idea how the car was running at all much less how I was able to stop for an hour and then get it started again. One of those little miracles, and I've always felt like we were being watched over.

Although the memories mentioned above were happy ones, by the time I turned west at Woodville, I was crying. I was thinking about Vinton, thinking about all the old trips, thinking about going to visit my grandparents, and thinking about Walter, and it was all too much. There are too many emotions for me along this "other" road home. I anxiously headed as swiftly as possible for Livingston and then my mother's in Huntsville. One last observation along the way. I drove past a Valero convenience store and gas station in Onalaska and saw a rather disturbing scene. There were probably eight police cars and a swarm of cops there and the whole place had been roped off. There was one car at the pumps, but I clearly saw a shotgun on the ground. It was clear that something bad had happened, and I'd had enough bad images passing that tree on the way toward Vinton. When I finally rolled into Huntsville, I was relieved, but it didn't stop there. More memories flooded in and the crying started up again. I drove past the street to the cemetery where most of my family are buried. I thought of the happy memories of my time in graduate school there at Sam Houston State. I thought of visiting my great-grandmother in the little brick house which still stands on Avenue O. I thought of all the time I treasured being at my grandparents farther up the road and of how much I missed them. Then I thought of the innumerable weekends my ex-husband and I spent at his parents' apartment when we first married. Almost every weekend we made the drive from Denton to Huntsville to visit them. For me, it grew very old, very quickly. I loved them too, but there was all sorts of other drama involved in it as time went on.

I got to Mom's and had a really nice visit with her for a couple of hours. I told her about all the varied emotions and memories I had been experiencing that day and came to the conclusion that I simply can't take that road home anymore. It's too hard. Even with the happy memories, there's just a bittersweet and sad feeling that I don't like, and Vinton still sticks with me for hours.

In general, I find it exciting to take the road less taken. In this case though, I need to take the happier road full of my bad singing. I've got nothing to prove to myself.

Today and Mother Teresa

My day began with an electricity outage on my side of the street and a couple of blocks behind me. Great! That means no shower and blown dry hair. All I had to work with were the three candles you see above. I like the fact that my house doesn't have a bunch of big windows, until I need them. Asa complained the whole time, but I reminded him that he didn't have to worry about his hair as much, didn't have to deal with makeup, etc. Figured I'd better get the garage door open only to discover that the emergency release latch had a very short string, and it was right above the car. Climbed up and pulled. The string came off. Tried moving it and it was solidly stuck. Climb back down. Got the WD-40, and climbed back up. Finally got it moved, opened the door. Remembered that I had done laundry last night and the clothes were in the dryer. Sadly, the electricity must have gone out before they dried. Had to make it a "jean day" even if it wasn't supposed to be one. Got dressed, attempted to heat up my sausage biscuit in the microwave and then couldn't figure out why it wasn't working. Got to school late. Put on my make up on during 1st period, felt gross all day and just a yuck attitude.

As the day wore on, I just resigned myself to it all, and then word came that there had been a bomb threat at the Walgreen's down the street from our school. Really, a Walgreen's?? There was also a rumor that the Wells Fargo bank next door to the Walgreen's had been robbed, but not sure about that one. Of course, that's my bank.

Yesterday wasn't a whole lot better, just anxious and frustrating things going on.

So by the time I got home this afternoon, I had about an hour before I had to go to my Marian Consecration class at church. Had to finish my homework, and so glad I did. This week we've been studying Mother Teresa and her connection to Mary. I've always admired Mother Teresa. She was one of the most steadfast of the faithful and didn't waiver in her dedication to the poor and the children of India. Her story is fascinating. I wasn't aware of her mystical visions which lead her to begin her work in India. In her first vision, she described a huge crowd of all kinds of people that included the very poor and children. The people in the crowd were raising their hands toward her and calling out, "Come, come, save us -- bring us to Jesus." The second vision was the same crowd, but this time she could see suffering and sorrow in their faces. She was kneeling toward Mary, who was facing the crowd. She couldn't see Mary's face, but could hear her as she said, "Take care of them -- they are mine. Bring them to Jesus -- carry Jesus to them. -- Fear not."  Isn't that beautiful? Take care of them, they are mine. In the third vision, the same crowd was there, but covered in darkness. Teresa could see them anyway, but she was a little child. She was just in front of Mary, and Mary's left hand was on Teresa's left shoulder while her right had held Teresa's right arm. They were facing the Cross and Jesus said to Teresa: "I have asked you. They have asked you, and she, My Mother, has asked you. Will you refuse to do this for Me -- to take care of them, to bring them to me?" Wow! I believe I'd get right on that, and of course, Teresa did. She spent the rest of her life doing just that. How was she able to maintain her faith and sanity throughout all the pain and suffering she saw these people endure? My life isn't even minutely on that level, yet I sometimes have difficulty with endurance.

This was all a reminder of focus and perspective. My life has been much more stable in the last six months, but I still find myself letting all the crap seep into my focus when I should be focusing on something else. The annoyances of every day life, of inconveniences like the electricity being out, etc. so easily win our focus. We let them bring us down and feel downhearted. Instead, we should be looking for the blessings present in each annoyance and each inconvenience. Sometimes it's hard to find them, but they are always there. Some days I'm better at finding them than I am on other days. At the end of the day, list off the things we're thankful for, not the things we wish had gone differently or that demanded our focus to create a bad mood and unnecessary fussing at others. Each day is a gift, and each day is full of gifts. When I remember that, I'm much more at peace. I remember the things I should be doing and giving. I so wish we could all be better at this exercise. What a difference it would make in eliminating the bitterness, disappointment, and hurt so many live their lives by.

As Mother Teresa explains:
"The greatest evil is the lack of love and charity, the terrible indifference towards one's neighbor . . . people today are hungry for love, for understanding love which is greater and which is the only answer to loneliness and great poverty."

My accepting the small joys, allows me to be open to all the graces I tend to run from out of fear of disappointment and hurt. When I was climbing on top of the car in the dark garage and struggling to open the release latch on the garage door, I wasn't thinking clearly. I was annoyed instead of being grateful that I hadn't overslept, that at least I had a nice garage to put my car in, and that I don't have to live without electricity and all these other comforts every day. I forgot to embrace the frustrations for what they really were.