The Elusive Question of Color

This may be really long, and maybe a little scattered, but I’m feeling very hopeful after a couple of recent conversations – one in “real life” and one online – in the last week that have shown that there are really people out there who can have open, non-political, discussions about race and culture.  Some will still read this with their political talking point glasses on, but some, I now know, can actually see past all of that stuff.

Skin color.  What does it really matter?  That question, well, it seemed to be the thing said for a long time in this country by those pushing for change.  Now, it seems to be being asked by those who are confused because they are judged for not thinking it matters.  It’s gotten to be a confusing muddle of information.

I would like to ask it though.  Skin color, what does it really matter?  Is it any different than eye color or hair color or the size of your ears or whether or not your belly button is an innie or outie?  Does the shared tone of your skin with someone actually mean you shared the same culture and experiences?  If I get a tan and am as dark as my husband, do I suddenly have more in common with him that matters?  If you are African American, do you share the same background, struggles, and goals as your neighbor who is of Haitian heritage?  Do I, as a “white” person with Polish and German heritages, have the same traditions as my friend with an Irish background?

To me, skin color is just a physical characteristic.  It means nothing more than if your pinky toe is longer or shorter than the one next to it.  So why do we invest so much energy into the tone of our skin?

There are, most definitely, people who judge on skin color, I’m not questioning that.  I am questioning why on earth we think this matters, and I’m talking to people of ALL skin tones.

I have been told I can’t understand because I’m white, because no one judges on that, that maybe I’m even envied.  If I was going to go the politically correct route, I’d say “Yes, I can’t understand, everyone thinks it’s wonderful that I have “white” skin, and I obviously have never, ever been judged on that.”  If I was going to go the politically correct route.  If I am intellectually honest, however, I can’t say that. 

In my 20’s, I lived with a man with whom I discussed marriage plans.  We even told my mom we were at some point planning to marry.  His mom, however, we didn’t tell her that, she didn’t like me.  Well, she liked talking to me, she liked how her younger kids got along with me and would be excited to tell me about their baseball games or their new toys when I came over, but she didn’t like that I was in a relationship with her son.  She didn’t like it because I was not Hispanic.  She never told me this outright, but she spoke it in front of me in Spanish constantly to her son.  She didn’t care if he found someone Argentinian, like they were, but she wanted him to find someone Hispanic.  A couple of weeks before we broke up, I told him I was not going to live my life with someone whose mother didn’t want me there, and a son that wasn't going to defend me.  Yes, I revealed that this little blonde Polish girl actually understood every darn conversation that went on about me.  Surprise! 

That is just one example in my 50 years of life.  I get it.  I get that sometimes there are people who look differently at those outside of their own culture.  I understand how it feels.  I don’t understand why we judge on that, or, more recently why we are judged for not judging on that.

The term “colorblind,” this was the goal some years ago, meaning to be able to look past someone’s skin color.  That term now carries negative connotations.  Why?  I was told recently that it is because people are ignoring other’s skin color and aren’t “embracing” their skin color, celebrating it.  And here I am very confused.  It’s skin color.  I don’t embrace and celebrate eye colors, I’m not sure exactly what it means to embrace and celebrate someone’s skin color, even my own.  It’s skin.  It’s an organ we all have.  It varies in shade, even among the “colors” we have defined.  I have no clue how to embrace it.  And wasn’t ignoring it kind of the goal at one point?  Why have we gone from realizing it doesn’t matter, to now realizing that it does?

Is part of our issue being comfortable in our own skin?  We are terribly oversensitive to if someone thinks we are too tall or too short, too skinny or too fat.  We hate our hair texture, the size of our nose, the size of our butts, the hair on our bodies… Is this part of the same thing?  Something else that was brought up in a discussion was that people of a certain race, within their own race, tend to judge each other on their lightness or darkness.  Is this issue maybe part of what is assumed those of other races are judging on too? At this point in time, is what we really need to do is learn to appreciate ourselves and all of our own physical characteristics? Can we help to combat some racism by having true love for ourselves and who we are, and realizing that those that don’t love us for ourselves are the ones losing out?

We all come from different backgrounds, different cultures and different mixes of cultures, we all have different personalities, different looks, different thoughts and feelings.  Every single one of us is different from the other, and all of us have some common characteristics with a wide range of other people.  However, we have this love of grouping and labeling ourselves into small definitions for some reason.  Maybe we need to stop that?

Many of our differing opinions on things, while they can be rooted in our background and culture, are influenced often by other things, such as age, education, work experience, life experience.  While we come from different cultures, we can have similar values as those not of our own, and we can have vastly different ones from our own children.

Just take a little time to ponder why we base so much on some arbitrary physical characteristic.  If you have insight into some of my questions, please offer it.

That’s why they have wine.

Want to Make a Difference?

We all see life from our own unique perspectives, based on our experiences.  You, me, people who achieve fame, people who don’t live up to their potential, people that go down the wrong path….

My perspective, it comes from a place where I’ve known the only so called “cheese” in our refrigerator coming from the government, life in an alcoholic family, my own cerebral palsy, a sibling’s ADHD, an uncle’s severe Autism, and, luckily, parents whose intelligence was kind of off the charts, which may have been my saving grace as, well, that got passed to me too. 

My experience, it made me grow up fast, when I was little, maybe 11 years old, I was in charge of making sure my entire family got up for work and school and that there was coffee made before I even woke anyone up.  That coffee had to be mugs in my hand to hand to my parents in bed, with orange juice in glasses sitting on the kitchen counter for my siblings. One of my biggest memories from childhood is when I dreamed my alarm went off and woke up my whole family at 4 am for the day.  They didn’t think it was funny, it still makes me laugh.  I also loved that I could pretend I drank that crappy, cheap orange juice that tasted like the can it came in before anyone got up, and didn’t really have to drink it.  There is a silver lining to everything.

I’ve dealt with coming home from an event with a drunk father driving, who, on our street, got upset that one of the kids went out into a street with a Big Wheel.  My dad pulled into the driveway, told us to get out, and that he was going to go back and run that kid over.  My mom grabbed the keys out of the ignition, ran in the house, and hid them in my bedroom.  My bedroom, which 10 minutes later was a complete disaster of every physical thing in it being picked up and thrown, shattered toys, broken furniture.  I still remember falling asleep that night crying, looking at all my broken things on the floor.  I hated the world, and wondered if that was what a nervous breakdown was.

My dad and I, personality-wise, we were very similar.  Smart, introverted, artistic, with the same love for music and horror and crime novels.  I thought I could “fix” my dad.  I thought I could just make him enjoy his life with us if he saw what a great daughter I was, how much I was like him.  The cost me being accused of by my mom of trying to break up their marriage, making him like me better than my mom.  I was maybe 12 years old.

I got moved around several schools during my late elementary school years.  I was always the new person, and I was who got bullied.  I don’t have any fond memories of those years.

A few years later, when my mom was crying one day over something my dad said, when he left the house, I’m assuming to go to a bar, I asked her why did they not divorce.  She said it was because of us, my siblings and me.  I told her we don’t want to deal with the fighting.  Well, she started divorce proceedings.  My dad had visitation during the separation, and one day my brother did not want to go.  My dad smashed in his bedroom door with a walking stick, as my brother ran away out the window.  I think my brother actually hated me for a few years, knowing that I was the one to tell my mom to do this.  I went off to running camp, where I for the first time felt connected to some of the girls I went to my expensive all-girls private school with, a school I only got into because of my score on the entrance exam which gave me a scholarship.  A camp I only went to because the coach called my mom and told her I had a lot of promise, and someone from the school paid for me to go. We couldn’t afford real cheese, there was no way I could have gone there otherwise. 

I felt like I finally fit in, much in part by a wonderful classmate and teammate who was my roommate at camp, who a few years ago died from a brain tumor.  I am very grateful for social media, as I was able to tell her how much she meant in my life before she died.  What I’m not grateful about, I got picked up from running camp, with all my belongings packed up in the station wagon, and moved to Florida, no warning. I never got to say goodbye to any of my friends.  I again felt completely alone, and this was compounded by the fact that friends were mad at me for not telling them I was leaving.

Why am I telling you all of this?  Because I want you to know what it means to someone to have someone reach out to them, to make them feel like they belong, how that can change their lives, and possibly impact the lives of others.  To let you know that my opinions on things, this is where it arises from.  I’m not guessing what it is like to have a rough life, a life where you suffer from depression and anxiety and feeling like you are on the fringe, I’m talking from actual experience.

Luckily when we arrived in Florida, we moved in with my grandparents, and I knew a girl on the street my grandparents lived from my visits who helped me fit in when I went to the first day of my new school.  She likely has no idea how much that meant to me, but it did.  I went on to have a great 2 years at that high school, and graduated with some lifelong friends.

I was lucky.  I was lucky.

When I grew up, I did go to therapy.  I was on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication for a while.  I worked on skills to be able to get through my life without the meds, worked on my very eroded self-confidence.  I got degrees in psychology and sociology, and I worked with severely mentally ill people in both a group home setting and as a case manager.  I had no trouble empathizing with their situations, and I have a really good insight into knowing their feelings, and did a darn good job at turning some people around from looking negatively at their lives to finding the positives.  It was the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done in my life, something I would still love to do, but since we place so little care on mental health in our society, I couldn’t continue to afford to live on the salary I was paid.  Unfortunately, that extremely low rate of pay, much lower than even our teachers, means that there are a lot of people who could really make a difference who just can’t afford to do that as their job.

There are so many kids who feel they are not accepted, who feel on the fringe, who do not have the best family lives.  There are kids who suffer from mental illnesses like depression or anxiety, or neurological issues like ADHD and Autism, who are outcast.  They are not only made fun of by other kids, but parents of other children tell their kids to stay away from them.  We fear those with issues, and only marginalize them more.

My own child, he has ADHD and some other neurological issues.  He was born prematurely, my miracle, because if I hadn’t had an ultrasound that day he wouldn’t have been rushed for an inducement.  He wasn’t breathing when he was born, after being suctioned out with the cord wrapped around his neck, you could see the fear on my doctor’s face.  He’s had to deal with his own issues. He has some developmental delays.  He got suspended once in third grade because he stood up to someone who had been bullying him. As he got older, he really struggled in school.  He’s been on baseball teams where he sits on the end of the bench in the dugout and no one spoke to him.  But he’s never felt alone, because that was something I was never going to let happen.  Never.  Even if it was just me, he was going to know he was loved and a great person, and how it was OTHER PEOPLE’S problems if they were not nice to him.

What I have is a well-adjusted son, who has a good number of friends, who will go out of his own way to reach out to the person no one else is talking to.  I’ve reached out to some of these kids personally too.  I’ve been the person that some of the kids we knew, children of drug dealers, children of parents they had visitation with after they got released from prison, children who just weren’t fitting in for whatever reason, and given them love and acceptance, in addition to food and whatever else they may really need.

Do you want to make a difference, see if we can stop the senseless violence in our country?  Reach out.  Understand that there are so many people that have it worse than you do.  Understand that they really, really crave love and acceptance.  Stop the perpetrators of crimes, you will stop the crimes.

 

That’s why they have wine.

I'm Not A Feminist

What does it mean to support someone?

My teen has done some stuff over the 16 years of his life…lied to me, told me he hates me, bit me, not done as well in school as he’s capable of, even thrown up all over my bed when he could have easily leaned over the side (this last one is sarcasm, folks, feel like I need to say that in this day and age).  I don’t support ANY of those behaviors.  Not a one, nope, not anything that is going to make me say “I support you, so I am perfectly good with every choice you have made.”

How about the rest of you moms?  You good with those?  How about when your son comes home and admits to cheating on a test, do you pat him on the back and say “Good job, boy, I support you!”

No, that’s not how you parent?  Do you love and support your child?  Are you sure?  Yes, I agree that you do, sometimes we have to say we don’t agree, don’t think that is the best for you.  That is what actually makes us support our children.

So, then, your best female friend, your female coworker, your female neighbor, they do something you don’t agree with, do you say “Good job, friend, I support whatever you do”? Do you?

If you don’t, you are not pro-woman.  Being pro-woman means that we are part of the female Borg collective, and we support every decision.  What, you don’t know what the Borg are?  OUT, you are OUT!  My goodness, we can’t have dissent. (And if you really don’t know and would like to get my point, watch some Star Trek episodes, or at least Google the word.)

I was posed a question today, on why women don’t label themselves “feminist” even if they support equality – equal opportunities, equal pay, the right to vote, etc.  For me, it comes down to the modern day feminist movement is very abortion rights oriented.  I’m pro-life, it’s just not my group.

So, I’m anti-woman.  I believe something isn’t the right choice, but if I don’t support it, I don’t support women. I’m not worthy of support for my position as a woman, because that opinion makes me, well, unworthy of being a woman.  Apparently, there are levels of womanhood, and you have to checkmark all of the agenda items off to be one.  I think I made a recent post on this on Facebook, I don’t even know what gender I am because, well, I’m apparently not a woman, I have dared to have my own opinions (which ironically, would have made me a feminist back some years ago).  I’ve got the parts too, but those don’t count anymore.  I’m pretty sure I’m a human being, but who knows in these times?

For the record, I’m not for making legislation to tell everyone what to do, about abortion, or smoking pot, or wanting to go to a strip club, or a myriad of other things.  I do, however, hold opinions on those things, and if I’m talking to you about them, I’m going to try to persuade you to do what I think is the right thing, but in this day and age we live in, because I even have opinions on those subjects (you know, I actually THINK about how I feel about things instead of just going with the crowd), that makes me the most horrible, judgmental person on the face of the earth.

I’m good with that.  I have a brain, and I’m darn well going to use it.  That’s why they have wine.

The Attitude of Happiness

Every New Years, I hear a lot of people say “Thank goodness THAT year is over, and we are starting with a new one.”  Often, these same people said the same thing the year before.  I have a hard time being able to respond to that, being able to understand the reasoning.  It’s not just because that minute between 11:59 on December 31 and 12:00 on January 1 does not hold some kind of magic formula that suddenly makes everything right, it’s because I don’t understand how others don’t get that happiness is something that they actually control.

I’ve often been accused of having lived some charmed, perfect life because I believe that.  That could not be further from the truth, and I can tell you with certainty that I dealt with more stuff in my life by the time I was 15 than many people have when they are 50.  The difference, it’s attitude.

 

You are completely correct, attitude doesn’t make the bad things go away.  It does, however, help you to deal with them, to not allow them to overwhelm you or consume your life.  It does help you to see the good things that happen among the bad, the friend you would not have otherwise met, the trigger to change something in your life for the better, the love and outpouring of care from those around you.  To see the hope.

Sometimes it may take years to be able to look back at something and see those slivers of light, but they are there.  They are always there.

My problems didn’t end there, I’ve dealt with divorce, deaths of loved ones, health issues, financial difficulties, even abuse and rape among other things as I’ve aged, but I had already learned how to not let those bad things take over. The need to be able to act as an adult when I was 9 or 10, it has what has made me eager and able to see things as a child as an adult, to, in essence, have my childhood.  THAT has made me a better parent and often a better friend, to be able to find joy in the smallest things, to always be on the lookout for the silver lining.  Those bad things that happened in my life, they are what taught me what happiness really is, in all of its wondrous simplicity.  Without the bad, I couldn’t ever appreciate the good to its fullest.

My happiness doesn’t depend on my paycheck, how many friends I have, how pretty I am, who is President, or what health problems I do or do not have.  My happiness depends on ME, and I am in complete control of it.

Sometimes life gets hard, and that’s why they have wine, but in the end it is up to us to decide how we are going to let us affect us.

Here’s to 2018.  May it be just as great as every other year I have gotten to experience life, all of it, whatever it has thrown at me.

It's Really Not Funny

It’s really not funny.

The talk about women being able to get promoted if they “get on their knees.”  Discussing being able to grab their private parts if you are famous.  Catcalling from amongst a group of other men at a lone woman in an attempt to make her feel uncomfortable and give you a laugh.  Jokes about women being there to make you a “sammich” (as if that “word” alone isn’t already vomit-inducing).

Immature, a tell-tale sign of your lack of confidence in your masculinity (or perhaps in your self as a whole), even a bonding ritual with others with the same underdeveloped psyche, but not funny.

Calling it “locker room talk,” it doesn’t make it better. Because there are a bunch of you that can only get camaraderie by putting down women just means there a bunch of you that have never progressed past a certain developmental level.

 

I know, I know, I can already hear the insults aimed my way in your head.  Go ahead, say them aloud.  I’m sure it will make me look at you in a much better light.

I’m a very intelligent woman.  I have high standards. I am not afraid to share my opinions or to stand up for what I believe to be right. I really don’t have a need for people who can’t treat women respectfully, 100 percent of the time.  I’m not going to apologize for that. I’m also not going to raise a son who thinks that what is termed “locker room talk” is ok, that it is just what it’s like to be a male, and I’ve done a pretty darn good job so far.  I have a 16 year old whose respect for all people, male or female, is something I am very proud of him for.

The more women have been coming out about abuse and harassment they have endured, the more disrespect I’ve been seeing from many men towards women, particularly in their words and their jokes, or my particular recent favorite, being told to just be quiet when I have an opinion.  I guess that is to be expected, there will always be a fight when the customary order of things gets interrupted.

 

We weren’t supposed to fight back, but we are. Things are changing.  Thank goodness, it is about time. 

That's why they have wine. 

The Thing About Respect

Respect.

It’s a word being tossed, well, OK, hurled around social media lately.  It is a word, however, that from what I have observed, often is misunderstood.

Respect is not an entitlement.  It’s not a one way street.  It’s not something that can be dictated.

If what I have been reading and hearing is the norm, it’s not even a goal, but rather the illusion of it is.

If your child is disrespectful to you, for example tells you that he hates you, how do you deal with it?  Do you try to teach about respect and act in a matter to earn it, or do you just demand it?  What kind of lesson does your child learn if you yell at him and speak to him in the same disrespectful voice he spoke to you in?  If we demand that he never say those words again or he will be punished, but he is thinking that he not only hates you now, but also resents you and feels that you haven’t even taken a moment to wonder why they were disrespectful in the first place, are you now being respected?  My answer to that would be no.  You might be comforted, and even smug, that the next time they don’t say it aloud to you, but if they are still thinking the same thing, is that truly respect?  No, it is just the illusion of respect, and you feel good because can feel like you don’t have to worry about whatever it is that was causing the problem in the first place.  Yet the problem remains, and the respect is not really there.

Unless you live under a rock with no internet, TV, radio, or newspapers, you’ve no doubt heard all the chatter about NFL players who have knelt during the national anthem.  People are upset, understandably so, because the feel the flag and our country is not being respected.  However, what is being demanded by many, including our President, is that they be forced to respect it by standing.  Forced to respect it.  Forced.  As if respect emanates from the position of our knees, and not from our souls.

This might be news to some people, but you can respect the flag and our country without ever hearing the national anthem.  The best way to honor our country is actually through real action: voting, being involved in your community, standing up for our freedom.  On the flip side, you can be standing with your hand over your heart at a football game, purely because that’s just what you do, not even thinking about our country but about where you last saw the beer vendor or how far away the bathroom is or making a mental note to buy bread on the way home, or, if a player, about your competition, just giving an illusion of respect.  We seem to have come to a place where we don’t realize the first, and honor the second.

If we feel someone is not respecting our country, our first thought should not be the not-really-respectful thought of “you are a scumbag,” but rather we should be wondering “Why?” and go from there, to deal with any issues that may be hindering actual respect.  That is, if our goal really is respect, and not just the illusion of it.  We probably should also give the respect of listening to other’s feelings and thoughts, even if we think they are wrong, rather than calling them “monkeys that are paid to dance” for us, and perhaps throw in a bit of understanding that if we don’t treat someone else respectfully, they are not going to listen to anything we have to say.

Respect or illusion?  What is your goal?

That’s why they have wine.  I’m going for the real stuff.

Thoughts of God in the Aftermath of a Storm

A friend recently posed a question online asking about the response “God is Good” when speaking about what they were spared from in Hurricane Irma, when there were people in the islands and other places that were not as lucky….

I answered my friend with a basic answer, that I believe most people use that as an expression that might be the same as saying “Thank goodness” about something, that it’s just an expression of gratitude that things weren’t as bad as they could be, and it really doesn’t have anything to do with what others might have experienced.   But there really is much more to say, I just needed time to figure out how to put into words what I just know in my heart.

As is the usual case with me, I think much more deeply about these kinds of questions than I think people are asking, so I thought I’d use my blog to put down my thoughts rather than taking over someone’s post.

First, of all, God is good.  God is the embodiment of love, and he loves each and every one of us whether we choose to love him back or not, even if we don’t believe in him.  Believing in him does not give us a monopoly on him.  He doesn’t love us more for having faith or for being obedient, he loves us all the same.  That is what the whole parable of the Prodigal Son is about. (Luke 15:11–32, if you would like to read it, just Google if you don’t have a bible.)

God never promised any of us a life without annoyances, bad things, or even tragedies.  He is not a helicopter parent, he doesn’t put a bubble around us because we believe in him.  Rather, he is one that gives us freedom to choose what we think and what we believe, and lets us do things on our own.  He is always there to guide, but he does not control, he is the parent that many of us strive to be.  He doesn’t magically whisk us out of the path of a storm with a snap of his fingers, but he will give us the wisdom to know what we should do if we are to choose to listen.  All of this, this is what is referred to as “free will” in the circle of believers.

Now, this is where it can get difficult for people, both for believers and unbelievers.  His idea of what is best is not always what our idea is.  We often get caught up in expecting God to do things in a particular way, but we are not in control of God.  I do believe he has the supreme knowledge, so when he disagrees with me, as much as it sometimes pains me because I’m quite a stubborn woman, I do try to listen and to understand his reasons.

So, back to the storm.

I would very much prefer that no hurricane ever come my way.  Ever.  I have prayed asking that they don’t, but, well, that doesn’t really work.  A storm, it has to go somewhere.  I have learned, however, to pray for comfort, and that is a prayer that has been granted.  I’ve had a lot of bad things happen in my life, from growing up in an alcoholic home to sexual abuse to rape to almost losing my child at birth to divorce to dealing with a child’s disabilities, and that is just the big things.  God has ALWAYS been there to comfort me, even when I sat under the kitchen table crying quietly so no one would realize I was there when my dad was throwing things around in an alcoholic rage, God was sitting there holding my hand.  He held my hand through this storm too, and because of that, I was able to hold other’s.

Bear with me while I tell my own little parable.

Once upon a time, when my son was a baby and colicky and never let me sleep, my 11 year old dog, who WAS my baby till then and was who I talked to and vented to and who was always there for me, died.  I was very upset, and I did pray for comfort. To try to help me feel better, my husband took me to his mom’s neighbor, whose barn cat just had kittens that were being given away.  Though I did not really think a cat could replace my beloved dog, I took a look at them.  I sat on the ground for quite a while, seeing what cat would interact and trying to figure out if any of them could somehow fill the void I was feeling.  The owner of the cats, after a while, she said “You know what, I have the perfect kitten for you.  Wait right here.”  She went inside and came out with a calico.  “I was going to keep her for myself, but something is telling me this is the cat for you.”

God is good, meaning I am thankful he created this woman who felt I needed this cat.

That cat, she is my 16 year old Ally, who some of my Facebook friends after my posts during the hurricane now refer to as “Weather Cat” or “Tier 8.”  She could never replace my dog, but she has an equal special place in my heart.

That cat, she saved my life and the life of my son 13 years ago, during one of our normal every day Florida thunderstorms, when one of my huge oak trees came down through my house.  To make a long story short, she made a hideous noise at me and ran, which made me follow her, and seconds later the tree came down exactly where I had been standing, holding my then 3 year old son. 

God is good, meaning I am thankful he created this cat to give me the warning.

  

Since then, she has been my weather guide. During this hurricane, she remained calm the entire time, whereas she WILL freak out if there is any impending danger, such as about a year or so ago when what may have been a small tornado during a thunderstorm mangled the basketball hoop in our front yard, or when our house got struck by lightning a few months after that (during which I paid no attention and got struck washing dishes).  She is what God gave me to give me my comfort.  And, funny, my silly posts about her on Facebook during the storm, I have found out later gave some others comfort too. 

And my comfort, it was what God gave my family to give them comfort.  While my mom, husband, and son were glued to the newscasts of the hurricane and were feeling stressed, Weather Cat and I were calmly watching a football game in the other room. I said “Ally is calm, I’m calm.” I'm the one with anxiety disorder, so this is something! Everyone came in periodically to sit down a few minutes with us and get their calm too.  As the hurricane was passing over us, my mom was sound asleep, my son was able to laugh that she was missing all the fun and he was asleep about 30 minutes later, and my husband, who was sure he would be up all night, followed shortly.  While we weren’t spared the storm passing over us, God did hold our hands.

And so, yes, God is good.  I would still be grateful for that even if the roof had blown off our house or we lost all that we had.  It filled my heart when my son said “Well, if we get a bunch of damage, we can get insurance money and fix it up and get more money when we sell it,” because he was able to get past the fear and find a silver lining.  My husband realized that he is willing to part with a heck of a lot of things in the garage, that they are just meaningless possessions. THAT is what God does for us, he gives us hope, he lets us see the positive, he lets us see what is important.  He tries to let us see the bigger picture, to see how everything affects something else, and to see how good can always prevail.

As far as the material things that were lost in the islands, I pray that God can give people comfort and hope and that they will find that their lives are still as precious as good as they were when they had those things, and that they can get help for necessities and rebuilding quickly, as he lays it in the hearts of others to assist.  As far as deaths that occurred, death is always a hard thing to deal with.  I am not going to say that death is good, but I will say that the number of deaths that occurred was infinitesimally small compared to the number of people who were in the path of the storm, and THAT is good thing.  I will also say that several people close to me have died in my adult life.  From each of those deaths, I can tell you something good that came from it, as strange as that may sound, and I can only hope that those people are able to smile down from Heaven to see the way they have positively affected the lives of others.

I’m not God, and I really don’t have all the answers, but I do hope he helps fill in the blanks in my mind over time.

That’s why they have wine.  If only I knew someone who could turn this supply of hurricane water into it…