Her Story

I am the daughter that Jesus loved, at least that’s who I identify with in the Bible. My Grandmother’s name was Ruth. Of course, I see many connections, but this is my story from my point of view.

Doing my best, I feel blessed. And I feel loved. The Bible, I believe, has been changed to include negativity to keep us held inside a prison of our minds. The teachers I’ve had have given their best and my belief is that I consider my teachers to be blessed. I know that the best where they were, at that time, with what they had, was pure golden knowledge to me. My belief is also that if someone gives their very best teaching, the greatest reward is if the student surpasses the teacher. That means the ladder keeps giving all down the line.

Yes, there are always hurdles. As determined as I appeared, I loved hurdles as a kid. Setting up sawhorses by the barn, many times, i practiced jumping the rope or the lead and kept getting better and better. The trickiest and most fun were the ones with the cross bar across the long side that I would hook my foot on and fall flat on my face. These tricky ones were the most challenging and they taught me the most. When I look at the picture of the sawhorse, the jump rope I played with as a child was like the snake in the Bible, it looks like a guard rail meant to keep the car on the road. I learned so much from those ones.

Once, on a trip to get well, the daughter at the clinic took a ten but not a fin to satisfy the inner thirst for nutrients to nourishment her mind. Do I mind? Depends on how you look at it. It fills my mind with love to care, and makes me feel I want to be there, but i know i fail to bring her to healing. i must concede a mother’s love is not enough to temper the claw the mind had forged and taught the lessons wrong. I know what i do not know. I knew enough to pass the cup to the Dr. to fill her up and there it extends to his family and patients, and staff and all who came to any clinic, hospital, medical tent. All who came to elementary understanding of mindful manhandling.

As the doctor sits at the Father’s table, he uses his skill and his knowledge to the heights he is able. As boots on the ground, and the medic who shoots love in veins and leaves the intoxicating numbing pain behind; I feel like my box is opening, unfolding, like an umbel flower building a hedge as one of everyone who is able.

Well-heeled in bird paws he teaches us all to fly low and bloom like night flowers reaching, searching for the sun. And from this healthy place it opens the space for the gifts of grace for the people who lead themselves to self-acceptance. And again at the doctor, this time with my inner daughter. Before it was elementary school, this time it’s university. Instead of needing care, I need to be the mama bear, and stand my ground against miss information aimed at me to deaden my mind and hand cuff me with small lethal pills–all given for free.

Hoping for hope and understand. Hoping for love and fairness handling. I stand firm on my faith and sit by my Father’s place at the table. I came with cup in hand not for spare change but for the certain blessing of a life of adoration walking on the path laid out for me by God my Father, one with many names. Never knowing where my feet are going but always fixed on my destination. The marathon, the sprint, the test. the quiz: it is what you make it. The woman at the well gave her Jesus a drink and He quenched her thirst. Let that sit and soak in your throat like a sea breeze lozenge, or your preferred throat soothing that you stretch into.

As I drink in the breeze, dear daughter breathes in the charcoal of the master tower. Trying to rise up out of the mire only to realize her thoughts are rising lower as they fall higher. The lessons learned by society that keep her stomped on by feet instead of allowing her to walk to her place at the table with the Father/Creator the sun of forgiveness. The son can share the sun indeed and find the path through the mother’s dead deed. The ones who left the ninety-nine percent of goodness and went after the one percent of transgression to gain the force to force the nugget out are caught in a force of disaster. Refining it finer by the fire and giving it back to be spread out the masses in order to megaphone the whispers of grace restored in passing out pieces of peaches to preachers, and pieces feeding them crystal clean water, to lighten their fodder, to lead them through love, to the joyful laughter that is available to yours and mine from our Master above.

(Photo by Annie Spratt of Unsplash if you found your pleace in the photo, please give a donation to her)

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