VISITOR FROM THE OTHER SIDE

Kit and I met in eighth grade at the brand new Lynch Terrace Grade School. We were the tail-end of the “baby boomers”, and new grade schools were sprouting up all over Gresham, Oregon in those years. During the spring of ‘66 our eighth grade class walked the mile up to Centennial High School to watch the theater department’s production of “Camelot”. Kit and I were so thrilled by the musical we decided to join Centennial High’s drama club our freshman year the following September.

Throughout high school we were best friends.  We ate lunch together whenever we could manage it.  We didn’t always join the same clubs, but theater was our bond.  Weekends we shopped together since Kit’s parents allowed her to drive the family’s VW van into downtown Portland unsupervised.  We slept overnight at each other’s houses.  I was invited along on her family vacations.  And to celebrate our graduation from high school in 1970 Kit and I went camping for a whole week in the Mt. Hood National Forest by ourselves.  

Then, as often happens in life, we drifted apart.  The two of us went very different ways.  I became a wife and mother.  Kit went to college, and decided on a career in the Navy.

Twenty eight years later our friendship came to an end when Kit passed away at only 46 years of age in October of 1998. Although I hadn’t kept in close touch with her since high school I felt her loss deeply. A mutual friend, Alice, called to give me the news of Kit’s passing, and the time of her military funeral the following day. I drove through a torrential rain falling over the entire state of Oregon that morning to get to Kit’s service. Thick, dark clouds full of hard rain suited my mood.

I couldn’t pull myself together emotionally at the intimate (25 people at most) graveside service where the flag draped coffin lay with a solitary red, white and blue floral cross next to it. Why hadn’t I visited her when I heard the breast cancer had returned?  Yes, we lived seven hours apart, but why hadn’t I called her more frequently? Why hadn’t I tried harder to show my concern by writing?

Our relationship became complicated in adulthood. Kit was an alcoholic in the last years of her life. She was often inebriated when I called her during the day; frustrated that she hung up on me midway through a sentence.  I called right back but she often didn’t remember we’d just spoken. Frustrated, and clueless as to how to get through to her I gave up.  It’s that simple.  I just gave up.  Now, facing her coffin, I sobbed; unable to forgive myself.

During the weeks that followed back home in eastern Oregon I wasn’t about to give myself a break. If I felt guilt, fine. I should. I should suffer. I’d proven to be a worthless friend.  Guilt was always just under the surface of any other emotions I felt about Kit’s passing.  I couldn’t or perhaps wouldn’t forgive myself.  I didn’t deserve forgiveness.  I punished myself three long months.       

It was a snowy January night, and I fell into bed early with my husband. It felt good to curl up with my back pressed against my husband’s warm back. This marked the end of a long work week for both of us, and tomorrow was Saturday. Sleep swept over me.

I awoke suddenly, not sure what woke me.  My eyes opened to behold the youthful countenance of Kit just inches from my face.  She was laying on her left side while I lay on my right side.  I stared into Kit’s eyes in astonishment: the sight took my breath away.

The bedroom was illuminated with a bright, but not uncomfortable, light emanating from her body. Her eyes intently looked into mine with an incredible softness and love, and our mutual gaze couldn’t be broken.

Here was Kit as I remembered her in high school over thirty years ago; young, healthy, with bright eyes. The only difference was her perfect, creamy skin had no blemishes. Kit suffered from terrible acne in those days. Yet here she was looking at me, perfect. And more importantly at peace. The girl laying next to me had no troubles.

I couldn’t take my eyes away from hers. How could this be? I silently repeated that question twice, not really expecting an answer. In a twinkling I realized Kit heard my question telepathically.

She didn’t waste any time getting to the point of her visit. “You have nothing to be forgiven”, she communicated in the most loving way with those eyes, and her thoughts.

“I’m forgiven?” I inquired of her.

“No!  You have nothing to be forgiven” Kit repeated.

The peace I sensed in Kit filled me. But I was still in disbelief at her physical presence. "If I could just touch your cheek I would believe." I said to myself almost as much as I said it to her.  With that thought I reached over to Kit’s glowing face with my left hand, and laid my palm on her cheek. It was warm to the touch!  "You ARE here!"

The next moment Kit was gone, the room went black.  My left hand was raised in the air as if touching something. My mouth was wide open in astonishment. This wasn’t a dream. Kit had visited me.

I sat straight up, turned to my husband on my left side, and woke him. “I saw Kit. She was here.”

Jay awoke enough to sleepily respond, “What?”

“I saw Kit just now! She was in our bed! She talked to me!”

“Can you tell me about this tomorrow?”, Jay pleaded. He wanted to go back to sleep, and figured this could wait since I sounded fine, although extremely excited.

“I’m sorry. Go back to sleep. But I’m getting up. I can’t go back to sleep after seeing her.” I glanced at the bedside clock. It was 2 AM.  I threw on my floor length robe as I headed down the stairs of our home. I knelt on the couch that sat directly under the window looking out on the quiet, snow covered street.  Gazing out the window while on my knees, both elbows resting on the back of the couch, my fingers kept running through my long hair. I know exactly what it means to have your “mind race”. I replayed over and over what had just occurred, trying to burn every detail into my brain. I didn’t want to ever forget what I witnessed that night.  I couldn’t calm myself enough to put it down on paper right then. Several hours later I finally headed back upstairs to try and get back to sleep.

The next day I bombarded my husband with every detail of my heavenly visitor. This isn’t the first time I’ve had an unusual spiritual experience so Jay listened quietly, and didn’t say much. Although a science professor he’s very generous when it comes to listening to other’s experiences however beyond his comprehension.

During the week that followed God reminded me of an incident with Kit when we were 16 that I’d long forgotten. Billy Graham, the world renowned evangelist, came to Portland that year for a revival meeting. Our church youth group attended, and I asked Kit if she wanted to come along. She agreed, mostly out of curiosity, to hear this man of God speak. Billy Graham gave his traditional “alter call” at the end of this powerful service while the hymn “Just As I Am” played in the background.

“Do you believe the scriptures that have been presented this evening?  Do you recognize your sinful nature separates you from God?  Do you believe Jesus Christ is God’s only Son, and that Jesus died on the cross to take the punishment for your sins?  Jesus invites you to make Him your Savior.  Don’t put the most important decision you will ever make off.  Give your life to Jesus, just as you are.  Jesus is waiting for you.” 

Even before Mr. Graham finished his alter call men and women, boys and girls got up from their seats to begin the walk down to the front of the massive auditorium. I bowed my head in prayer for those making the most important decision of their life that night when I felt Kit rise from her seat.

She leaned over and asked, “Will you wait for me? I’m going to ask Jesus into my life.”

I couldn’t speak because of the lump that rose in my throat so I just nodded my head. All my prayers for Kit were being answered in this moment. I sat in quiet praise, tears flowing, as I watched Kit make her way down the isle to the front where folks with Bibles were waiting to pray with those who thirsted for new life in Christ.

Kit became a child of God that night; adopted into a heavenly family. She may have fallen away from God as an adult, but God never walked away from her. Scripture tells us “nothing can separate us from the love of God”, not even ourselves!  What a wonderful verse and it brings such comfort.

God brought this memory to mind after Kit’s "visit" to assure me Kit is in her heavenly home, in a heavenly body, and in peace at last. The message Kit carried to me was true; I had nothing to be forgiven.

Do I believe in “ghosts”?  Do I believe in “conjuring” up the dead, or seeking a “medium” to converse with dead loved ones?  The answer to all these questions is an unequivocally NO!  The Bible, especially the Old Testament, is clear about the practice of divination being forbidden, as well as enlisting the services of a “medium”.  (See the story of King Saul and the medium in I Samuel 28:8-14.)  I did not seek this late night encounter with my deceased friend Kit.  I did not look for a “medium” or any other go-between to assist me in communicating with Kit.

On the other hand, I do believe God can accomplish anything He desires in any way He desires.  God is not limited. His hands are not tied.  God delights in surprising us, and doing the unexpected; which is exactly what He did when he allowed my deceased friend Kit to show herself, and share pertinent information with me.  He knew I desperately needed to break free from unnecessary guilt.  And God used a dramatic measure to do this!  

Do you have something discouraging you, destroying you, defeating you?  Look to the Creator.  He has the answer which will be unique to you and your needs.  I promise!  God did it for me.

   

ABANDONMENT, ANGER AND AN ANGEL

We were in Bandon, Oregon on vacation.  Classes at Eastern Oregon University would start in a week.  My husband, Jay, was a geology professor at EOU, and this was our last chance to get away before the new school year began.  I hadn’t felt well for most of the year.  Extreme fatigue seemed to be my biggest problem, but there was also the vague sense of a floating discomfort.  Deep down I knew something else was going on inside my body; something was attacking my body.  I was scared.  It became necessary for me to close down my ten year old photography business in which I did mostly senior portraits and weddings, because I simply didn’t have the energy needed to keep working.  At this time the one thing I was thankful for was my husband’s approving of closing down the business.  

I’ve always been an energetic person.  Persistent.  Obsessive.  Organized.  And busy.  I kept a clean and organized home.  The first sign of deteriorating health was probably evident by looking at our home, which began to accumulate dirty dishes, dirty laundry and much general disorganization.  Before things got too bad my husband took over the care of our home.  Eventually the only thing I did around the house was the laundry.  All of this was so unlike me, but I didn’t have the energy to even care anymore.  What was going on with my body?  I didn’t have a clue and neither did my primary care physician.  Perhaps it had something to do with peri-menopause I told myself.  Perhaps this is just a rough patch which I have to go through, and just a natural part of heading into my 50’s.  I was 48 years old.

 While in Bandon we heard about the attack on the Twin Towers in New York City on the car radio.  We knew something was wrong when we noticed the American flag flying everywhere we drove on the coast that morning.  By the next evening I wasn’t feeling well.  My jaw started throbbing, and I told my husband I needed to see a doctor.  Jay didn’t believe I had a problem needing medical attention, and he went to bed that night in the motel perturbed with me.  

I pored a hot bath and sank into it.  I was scared because Jay was shutting down emotionally from me.  And it was directly related to my illusive physical problems.  He didn’t want to deal with yet another complaint.  The last months I’d had one excuse after another for not doing things with him.  I slept a good deal of the time.  Here we were on vacation, and it was just too much for him I guessed.  Now he was abandoning me in sleep when I needed help.  The pain in my jaw increased as I began to have difficulty opening my mouth.  I was alone in this moment.  Tears fell as I realized Jay wasn’t going to take care of me.  I seldom cried, and I hated crying now.    I realized I had to take care of myself, and drive to the hospital emergency room alone.  

I slipped out of the hotel and drove the hour to the closest coastal hospital.  The physician diagnosed an infection developing in a plugged salivary gland.  He sent me out with antibiotics and pain killers, and with instructions to see my physician as soon as we got home to La Grande, Oregon the next day.

I had an “I told you so” conversation with my husband the following morning, and he apologized for not listening to me.  By the time we arrived back to La Grande I was in excruciating pain, and had a high fever.  The doctor sent me straight over to our town’s one hospital where I spent the next three days on IV antibiotics for the severe and complex infection which attacked my salivary glands.  My salivary glands had been giving me trouble since 1991.  Ten years!  Neither I nor my doctor made any connection with my salivary gland troubles, and the increasing fatigue I was experiencing.  With hindsight being 20/20 we now know these were the first signs of an auto-immune disorder called Sjogren’s.  The symptoms were dry mouth which resulted in the lack of proper salivary gland function, and fatigue.  Dry eyes would soon follow that.  

The remainder of 2001, and into the fall of 2002 the fatigue grew worse, and I began to sleep my life away.  It wasn’t unusual to spend 16 hours, and sometimes more a day sleeping.  When awake I was listless and miserable.  Jay became less and less tolerant of my excuses for not wanting to do anything with him.  In particular, we were house hunting at this time and I didn't have much energy for such a task.  His reaction to my vague symptoms didn’t surprise me.  More then once he had told me the story of his elderly grandmother who, when feeling neglected by the family, would admit herself to the hospital in order to get attention.  After a few days she would come home “better”.  She did this numerous times.  I knew Jay was comparing me with this grandparent even though he never said so out loud.  Nothing I could say would make Jay change his mind because my physician didn’t even know what was wrong me.  It all looked suspiciously like my husband might be right to everyone but me.  Things got so bad between us that summer I left him for a week with a note on the table explaining I wouldn’t be coming back unless he agreed to joint couple’s counseling.  I was frustrated that he continued to minimize my health issues, and this is what I wanted to discuss with a third party.  A week passed, and Jay agreed to see a therapist.  I came back home, and made an appointment with a therapist for the middle of September in 2002. 

Before our appointment I began having difficulty catching my breath.  The least exertion sent me to a chair.  In the middle of the month we met my oldest daughter and her husband at Disneyland for a few days.  I required a wheelchair because of breathing  difficulties.  Jay insisted I walk the one flight of stairs to our second floor hotel room at Disneyland until he could arrange for a wheelchair.  I ended up collapsing in breathlessness and fatigue when we got to our room.  The rest of the trip I refused to walk on my own.  I became increasingly panicked about my inability to get a deep breath.  As soon as we arrived home Jay agreed to drive me to the emergency room.  A couple hours later a technician drew a half gallon of fluid from my right lung by inserting a large bore needle into my lung through my back.  I was finally able to breath freely.  What a relief it was.  And my husband once again apologized for minimizing my physical complaints.  But his minimizing continued.

During the months of November and December I was hospitalized two times for vague complaints.  My primary care physician began to take my complaints seriously, and started running many tests.  Jay however continued minimizing my problems, not so much with words but by his inattention and lack of concern.  He didn’t want to hear or talk about what was happening with me.  And I didn’t have any proof that something was very wrong with me physically.
  

While in this rundown state I contracted a nasty gastrointestinal flue which I was defenseless to fight.  One night, unable to leave the bathroom, I began calling out to Jay, begging him to take me to the hospital.  In bed he continued to sleep as if he didn’t hear me.  I crawled down the stairs, not bothering to change out of my pajamas, struggled to the car, and drove myself to the hospital.  I was placed in intensive care.  A heart scan was performed along with other tests.  Nothing!  At least that’s what the technician who performed the scan told us.  Jay arrived in time to watch the screen as the images of my beating heart played.  Fascinating!   I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.  Something looked odd.  I asked, “What’s that?”  The technician’s response was, “Oh, that’s nothing.  It’s just fluid around your heart.  Perfectly normal.  The fluid will eventually be reabsorbed by the body.”  This couldn’t have been farther from the truth, but at that moment neither Jay nor I had any idea this accumulating fluid would threaten to take my life in just a few weeks. 

Once more I was sent home with no answers, and a lot of questions.  At Christmas I found myself back in intensive care, because my organs were failing.  Jay drove me to the hospital this time, but he was confused and at a complete loss.  He wasn’t the only one.  My primary care physician became so frustrated she decided to send all my medical records, and test results to an internist at a teaching hospital in Portland; Oregon Health Sciences University.  The internist promptly requested I be airlifted immediately to OHSU because he was fairly certain I had less then 48 hours to live if his suspicions of what I had were correct.  I was flown that night in a winter storm to Portland while my husband drove the 280 miles as fast as he could to be there with me.  

A diagnosis of idiopathic pericarditis was confirmed.  In layman’s terms, my heart was failing because the lining around it, the pericardium, was inflamed.   A thick viscus fluid under the pericardium squeezed the heart so it couldn’t circulate blood properly.  If I had been put on steroids when the fluid was first discovered surgery would probably have been avoided.  Now this was a life and death situation which required immediate surgery.  Medicated on narcotics I had no idea what any of this meant.  I signed the papers agreeing to surgery because it seemed simple enough.  I thought they would just put a needle into the pericardium surrounding my heart, and draw out the excess fluid; similar to the fluid in my lungs.  No big deal.  I called each of my three adult children to explain my imminent heart surgery, and explained that it was a simple procedure, and not to worry.  Within the hour I was wheeled into the surgical suite.  I couldn’t have been more misguided about this being a simple procedure.

When I awoke I learned my sternum was sawed in half, a heart-lung machine was connected to my body to keep it supplied with oxygenated blood while my heart was removed from the chest.  That is the only way the cardiologist could remove the inflamed pericardium which surrounded the organ.  Jay had been told it was a three hour surgery so his anxiety level rose dramatically when four hours passed before he was allowed to see me.  The cardiologist explained to Jay he’d never seen a patient with such an inflamed pericardium.  The pericardium had separated into three layers by thick fluid, so each layer had to be removed individually from around the heart.  That ‘s what took the extra time.  

Four hours later I was back in recovery with tubes coming out of my body everywhere.  I had been intubated, but I fought so hard to pull it out that in ICU that they had to take that tube out or risk me detaching other more important tubes.  My parents had come to see me, but my mother panicked  when she saw me.   My dad immediately took her out of the recovery room.

I spent the first 24 hours after surgery in CCU (Coronary Care Unit).  I have one clear memory during those hours in spite of being kept pretty much “out of it” with medications.  I awoke in a panic late that night.  The male nurse watching me was actually a vampire.  He was collecting my blood in plastic zippered pillow cases in order to take them out of the hospital in the morning.  This was so real that in my terror I called my daughter, Melody, back in La Grande and told her what was happening.  She in turn called Jay, and told him to get back up to the hospital because I was hallucinating, and was terrified.  Jay had just gotten to his hotel room, but he headed right back up to calm me down.  The next day I asked to be removed from whatever medication had been administered to help me sleep.  I assumed that was the culprit which caused the hallucination which seemed so real.  

  

It took about 24 hours before I was clear-headed enough to realize what had happened to me during the four hour surgery.  How can I describe that kind of pain?  It’s pain that takes your breath away, but you have to breath anyway.  Each breath is an agonizing reminder that I was sawed in half.  Coughing is excruciating, as is breathing deeply.  With each movement pain stabbed me in the very center of my being.  When I saw the dozen or so large, dark black sutures garishly marking the center of my chest I began to understand that directly underneath the sliced skin my bony sternum was held together with wire sutures which would remain the remainder of my life unlike the nylon sutures on the outside.  Besides pain meds, the other comfort was holding a pillow gently against my chest when I moved.  I felt as though that’s the only thing that kept my heart inside my chest when I changed positions.  I didn’t feel so silly about this when a nurse presented me with a red heart-shaped pillow,  an anatomical heart printed on one side and OHSU on the other, to hold against my chest the day I was discharged.  Evidently, most open heart patients experience the illogical fear that something might fall out.

Besides excruciating pain I felt anger.  A raging, full bodied emotion propelled by the fact I’d been physically violated.  Terribly violated.  Without my permission or consent.  Yes, I signed a paper agreeing to the surgery, but I had no idea what was about to happen to me.  Yes, my life was saved, but at a huge cost, both figuratively and literally.  I was told it might take a year for me to recover fully; a year of pain as my companion.  

But there was a second reason for my rage.  During the previous year my husband punished me emotionally for what appeared to be an overactive imagination which created ever increasing health problems.  As I look back who wants their mate to have a serious health crisis especially in light of almost no scientific evidence?  Jay simply didn’t want to believe it.  I didn’t want to believe it either, but my body was sending me the ugly message that I was very sick, and getting worse.  Until finally, whatever it was attacked my heart.  

“Whatever it was” turned out to be a diagnosis of Sjogrens Auto-Immune Disorder.  Sjogren’s is a chronic autoimmune disease in which the white blood cells attack moisture-producing glands.  Although the hallmark symptoms are dry eyes and dry mouth, Sjogren’s may also cause dysfunction of other organs such as the kidneys, gastrointestinal system, blood vessels, lungs, liver, pancreas, and the central nervous system.  Patients may also experience extreme fatigue and joint pain.  Sjogren’s affects the entire body.  Symptoms may remain steady, worsen, or, uncommonly, go into remission.  While some experience mild discomfort, others suffer debilitating symptoms that greatly impair their functioning; such as in my case.  Since symptoms of Sjogren’s mimic other conditions and diseases, Sjogren’s can often be overlooked or misdiagnosed.  On average, it takes nearly seven years to receive a diagnosis of Sjorgren’s.  For me it had taken ten years!

From Sjogren’s Syndrome Foundation.

http://www.sjogrens.org/home/about-sjogrens-syndrome/symptoms

Before I left the hospital I had my diagnosis, but it didn’t relieve the anger I felt toward Jay for not believing I was really that sick during the previous months.

Between pain, and anger, and feelings of violation I became intent on making Jay, my husband of eleven years, suffer during my ten day stay in the hospital.  In my eyes Jay could do nothing right, or say anything right.  I became demanding and difficult with him.  I would order him to get me a hot dog or some other thing I felt like eating or drinking, and he would immediately head out to find the item.  When he returned with it I didn’t thank him.  He owed me!  When asked a question by a nurse, or doctor Jay tried to help me answer, but I told him to shut up.  I silenced him.  I was not nice about it, or kind, or patient.  And I didn’t even try because he deserved whatever I dished out.  I was suffering, and so would he.  I’d never been filled with such vitriol, or experienced this side of my personality.  It unsettled me.  I was downright ugly.   But I continued bullying my contrite husband in spite of his obvious desire to comply gladly no matter how I behaved.  Each time a barrage of anger let loose he remained quiet.  He never defended himself, or walked away to protect himself from my attacks.  Jay looked so sad, and dejected as if being punished for good reason.  

Many nurses took care of me through those difficult first ten days of recovery, but one in particular was an angel.  Literally perhaps.  She was Japanese with a small frame.  But it’s her voice I remember most.  After observing one of my vicious verbal attacks focused on my husband this lovely woman in white bent slowly down to whisper in my ear, “Your husband loves you very much.  He wants to help you.  Be nice to him.”  Caught completely off guard by her soft voice I found my anger soften.    A couple hours later after another outburst she bent down to whisper again, “Your husband loves you.  He cares about you.  Let him help you.”  Whenever I heard that voice it seemed as if an angel whispered to me, and my anger weakened.  The morning of my discharge this nurse got me ready.  Her last action as I sat in the wheelchair was to whisper in my ear one more time, “Your husband loves you very much.  Be kind to him.”  And I heard one more thing although the actual words weren’t spoken.  “Forgive him.”

“Forgive him.”  It wasn’t a suggestion.  It wasn’t a nice thought.  It was a command; a command from heaven above.  Two words communicated firmly, but with such love that I couldn’t argue.  I wouldn’t argue.  I looked one more time at this soft spoken nurse who addressed me as no human ever had; with God-like authority and generosity.  There was no hint of passing condemnation or shame.  This creature simply stated the facts in the most gentle way, and with palpable love.  “Your husband loves you very much.  Forgive him.”  When I left the hospital that day I left my anger as well.  I didn’t need it anymore.  I offered my husband forgiveness.

Jay was a changed man!  He waited on me hand and foot,  fixing all the meals, cleaning the house, showering me with flowers and romantic greeting cards.  He brought me lunch in bed when I didn't want to leave the bedroom, which was daily for months.  He purchased us a beautiful new bed just before I came home.  Before the surgery if I accidentally touched Jay while sleeping he would jump involuntarily, and scoot farther away from me.  Now he wanted to be touching me while we slept, even if it was just my foot or hand.  His devotion was undeniable!  All this positive attention helped me through a very difficult year of healing.      

During the next year all my focus would need to be on recovery.         

       

                              

I WAS A . . . SHOPLIFTER

I looked like any other woman shopper perusing merchandise; thoughtfully comparing products, and then selecting my purchase.  The only difference was I didn't take my selection to the cashier.  I put it into my large purse.  At twenty-seven years of age, the wife of a Reserve Officer in our small town police department, the mother of three preschool children, and a Christian I became (for the first time in my life) a shoplifter.  It would develop into a habit that lasted three months.

I remember clearly what started my thinking about shoplifting.  One Saturday my husband went out as usual as a Reserve Officer, but he came running into the house about half-way through his shift.

"I've got to get out of this uniform.  A bunch of us in the department are going down to the Mall to shoplift."

In surprise I asked, "What are you talking about?"

"We are going to demonstrate to the managers of each store how easy it is to be ripped off by doing it.  The managers know it's going to be sometime today, but the employees don't know anything about it." He put on his big coat with all the pockets, and headed out the door.

I could hardly wait to hear how successful his shoplifting spree had been when he got off duty that night.  "It was easy", he said in amazement.  "Between the five of us we took a good five hundred dollars worth in just one a a half hours, and not one of us got caught!"

"You must have taken mostly small stuff then" I said.

"No!  A couple of the guys even walked off with a set of skis, and a winter parka."

My husband went on to tell me how they would return the merchandise at a meeting the next day in order to show the shopkeepers how to better protect their stores from this kind of thing, but I wasn't listening.  I just kept thinking about how easy he said it had been.  I plied him with questions about how each cop did it.

Our family of five lived on the wages my husband made at a minimum wage job for 35 hours a week.  This was in 1978 when it was actually possible to accomplish such a feat.  We did not get food stamps even though we qualified for them because my husband "didn't believe" in asking for help.  We lived in a tiny rental home which I painted and wallpapered in exchange for rent so the real estate company that owned it could sell it easier when they put it on the market.  Then we'd be looking for yet another home.  As a stay-at-home mom of three preschoolers I was overwhelmed by poverty, and extremely depressed.  I didn't have to look too far for an "excuse" to try shoplifting.

The next day I found shoplifting to be as easy as my husband described it.  I justified my actions by thinking to myself I was only going to take what we needed.  At first I took toothpaste, dish soap, plastic pants for the baby, and other necessities.  But it didn't take long before I was taking a lot of non-essentials such as pretty kitchen towels, and jewelry and lacy undergarments for myself.  I didn't take large things because I knew my husband would notice, and start asking questions.  I didn't want to put myself into the position of having to fabricate answers to those questions.

In the beginning it was nice to not have to watch every penny.  We were eating better because more of the budgeted household money was going for food.  I was stealing most of the non-food necessities like kleenex, aspirin, shampoo, soap, etc.

My stomach was full, but my soul felt hallow.  I can't really call it guilt; just emptiness.  Then a strange thing began to happen.  Each time I left a store with something pocketed away, a Bible verse popped into my head.  I have no idea where I heard and memorized this scripture, but it came with a quietness and authority that made it clear the Holy Spirit was speaking to me.  "If I regard wickedness in my heart, the Lord will not hear."  (Psalm 66:18)

Those words hounded me, especially when I was talking to God about something troubling me.  That verse made it clear that as long as I was stealing God was deaf to my prayers.  What a horrible thought.  I have never before or since felt as lonely as I did during those nights when I would lay in the darkness hearing that verse repeating over and over again.  My prayers to my Heavenly Father were bouncing off the ceiling, and coming right back to me.

After three months of daily shoplifting, I recognized the price I was paying for stealing was too high a price.  The price was separation from God!  In a simple prayer I asked the Lord to forgive me, and to help me break the habit. 

Shoplifting had become so automatic that I knew it was going to be very difficult to quit.  (No matter what the habit, it's never easy to leave behind.)  Each time I entered a store, and saw something I needed or wanted, the thought would pop into my mind, "You can have that for nothing."  But that is one of Satan's biggest lies; that we don't have to pay for sin.  The only thing that kept me from stealing on numerous occasions was repeating Psalm 66:18 over and over until I was out of the store.

I also avoided shopping as much as possible, and I stopped "window shopping" entirely.  No more leisurely roaming through the grocery store without a shopping list.  When shopping I had specific items in mind, and as soon as those items were in hand I went straight to the checkout stand.  I also learned to take the smallest purse possible!

One week of battling it out with my "habit" showed me I could be victorious!  Then I hit a stumbling block.  I was given five dollars too much change, and the moment it was handed to me I knew a mistake had been made.  But I took it, and had an argument with God all the way out to the pick-up.

"We could really use this money, Lord.  And after all, it was handed to me.  I didn't steal it.  The clerk gave it to me!"

I sat in our truck with my head on the steering wheel for a long, long moment.  All my arguments stopped, and I simply listened.  When I gave the Holy Spirit a chance to get a word in, He spoke.  I slipped out of the seat, and marched right back into the store to return the five dollars.  Winning a million dollar sweepstakes couldn't have made me feel as happy as I did in that moment.  I passed God's test!  There was no doubt in my mind that's what this had been, and I got an A!

There was one last thing I had to do before I knew my struggle was over.  This would be the hardest thing of all.  If I was serious about never stealing again, I would have to tell someone what I had done.  I chose to tell my husband of five years what I had been doing.  Two weeks after I stopped shoplifting I shared with him my three months of stealing, and my intention to stop.

He was silent as I told my story; no emotions or thoughts showing on his face.  When I finished, his first sentence was, "If you are ever tempted to steal again, will you please tell me so I can pray with you?"  Wow!  Of all the responses I imagined, this wasn't one of them.  I was grateful for such a forgiving and understanding reaction from this man.

That was thirty five years ago.  I can't say I've never been tempted to steal again, but I can say I have resisted the temptation.  I give God the glory for this!  I've learned to be content with food, and raiment, and whatever situation I've found myself in.  When God doesn't supply I go without.  God has proven Himself faithful to me over and over again when I trust Him with my needs, and those of my children.  

If I had not stopped attempting to meet our needs on my own I would never have had the joy of watching God provide miraculously time and time again!

I'm not suggesting that everyone has a problem with stealing the way I did.  But who among us hasn't struggled with a bad habit which we wanted to have victory over?  Perhaps the four steps I used can also help you break a bad habit.

1.  Memorize appropriate scripture that deals with the problem behavior, or thought.

2.  Avoid the temptation; whether a place or a situation!  While I could avoid "window shopping", I couldn't stay out of grocery stores.  So I made a plan of action when I had to be near that weak area in my life.

3.  Share your problem with someone you can trust who will pray for you, and encourage you.  Sometimes if may become necessary to get professional help.  That's OK!

4.  If you fail, confess it immediately.  Thank God for forgiving you.  Ask the Holy Spirit to give you the power to stop.  Then move forward.  Don't get stuck revisiting your mistakes.  Put your failure in the past, and move forward.  After all, God has!              

MY NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

Do you believe people can come back from the dead?  I never thought much about this question until I had my own Near Death Experience.  

Since the year 2000 I'd become increasingly ill.  This was disheartening since I was only 48 years old at the start of chronic physical problems.  I developed Sjogrens Auto Immune Disorder which, over time, attacked my salivary glands, heart, and lungs.  At the age of 49 I needed open heart surgery for idiopathic pericarditis.  (See February '13 blog, "ABANDONMENT, ANGER AND AN ANGEL")

In 2005, three years later, I was diagnosed with an incurable lung disease.  By October 2008, at 56 years of age, I depended 24 hours a day on supplemental oxygen, and struggled with an addiction to opiates and benzodiazepines.  Due to difficulty breathing Prednisone was prescribed which brought my weight up to over 250 pounds, and necessitated two cataract surgeries.  I was often bed-ridden, and wheel chair dependent.  Severely depressed I slept an average of 16 hours a day.  I'd given up hope of ever being healthy.  I spent a lot of time in doctors offices and in the hospital, but all the doctors could do was try and manage my symptoms.

I became isolated from family because they could not comprehend what I was going through.  I had no friends because I was miserable and depressed.  I made very poor company, and stopped socializing.  I seldom left the house since I had to always have oxygen with me, but mostly my obesity shamed me.  In public people treated me differently as a direct result of my excess weight.  I saw the harsh looks, and heard the unkind comments directed at me.  Before my illness I'd been anorexic for twenty years!  The difference in the way people treated me as a heavy woman was shocking and painful.  Church attendance stopped because I felt as though God had forgotten me.  The only person in my life was my faithful husband who took care of me, but I couldn't even appreciate him.  It was the darkest time in my life, and I felt I would be better off dead.  

Three days before my accidental overdose on Valium it had became necessary to have my remaining teeth extracted due to damage from “dry mouth” associated with Sjogren's Auto Immune Disorder.  This was the straw that broke the camels back, as the old saying goes.  A valium drip was used to sedate me for the surgery, but Post Traumatic Stress kept me from completely going under.  I have absolutely no memory of the gruesome dental surgery, or my fighting the dentist or yelling for him to stop.  My husband witnessed all this, and told me about it later.  I also have no memory of the following three days at home recovering while I self-medicated on my stash of Valium.  Then I overdosed. 

I remember only one moment clearly.  October 23rd at 8:30 in the morning I heard the voice of God say, "Call 911".  I began to argue with the voice because I felt just fine.  I was in a place where there was no light, no sound, no feeling.  Nothing.  But it was a very peaceful place.  Then the voice of God commanded more firmly, "Call 911" and He added the word "NOW".  I don't remember making the phone call, the ambulance attendants taking vitals, or putting me on a gurney and transporting me to the emergency room, or the fiasco that took place at the hospital to save my life.  I remember absolutely nothing but the powerful yet loving voice of God calling me back to life.  It was a profound moment which forever changed me in many ways.

I awoke in intensive care with inhalation pneumonia in both diseased lungs, intubated, and very confused.  When the tube was removed I was unable to speak, or write.  It's like my brain had been "rebooted" and I had to re-learn these things all over again.  After I completely woke up, and the intubation tubes were removed, and I had stabilized enough to be moved out of intensive care into a regular room, I knew the only reason I was alive was because God had literally called me back to life.  If I had not called 911 early that morning my husband would have found me dead that evening when he got home from work.  I knew I should (and perhaps did) die, but God protected me and brought me back!  I was ecstatic!  I felt God’s love in the most profound way, and I couldn't stop talking about Him or giving Him praise.  

While in the hospital, on top of my positive mental attitude and spiritual awakening, I quickly discovered I had NO PAIN anywhere in my body.  I'd been taking opiates for 20 years for chronic back pain.  Pain was part of my everyday life.  AND I'd just had all my teeth removed; yet I felt NO back pain, or mouth pain in spite of a mouth full of sutures.  When my primary care physician suggested I be taken off all Valium, and most of the opiates I readily agreed because I was "healed".  That's what popped out of my mouth. “I’m healed!”  I had no idea what I'd been healed from, but I "knew" my body was different, and God was totally responsible.  Seven days later I was released from the hospital to recover from inhalation pneumonia, and begin withdrawal from three different drugs.

For three months I was desperately sick from withdrawal symptoms, and didn't leave my bed except to use the bathroom.  I lost 50 pounds.  As horrific a time this was for me physically I was filled with joy, and happiness, and peace.  God was in that room with me; encouraging me, teaching me, and showering me with love.  I heard God's voice giving me instructions as to how I was to live my life from that time on.  In what I'm sure must be record time the pneumonia disappeared.  Remember, when I contracted double pneumonia I had diseased lungs which didn't work properly.  The fact that my lungs healed in just 3 months is incredible!   But much more was happening to my body.  Six months after my overdose I stopped using supplemental oxygen during the day, and by the eighth month I stopped using oxygen altogether.  All my Sjogren's symptoms completely disappeared!  My mouth, which hadn't produced saliva in over 15 years became moist.  My eyes became moist as well.  

By the time the worst of the withdrawal symptoms disappeared (just three months) my back pain slowly returned, but it was completely manageable now with a minimum of medication.  I've had individuals tell me it took them over a year to withdraw from the amount of Valium I'd been taking.  Over a year!  And I was feeling normal in just three months!  I also asked my physician if there was any possible natural explanation for the three months of no back pain while I was going through withdrawal.  She shook her head no, and added she’d never heard of anyone who didn’t have INCREASED pain during the first months of withdrawal from opiates.  She said there was absolutely no explanation for my lack of pain.  This was just another incredible miracle!  

On the one year anniversary of the overdose my physician could find NO disease in my lungs.  It was as though I'd never had a lung disease, much less an incurable one.  There was no residual lung damage.  She was astounded!  So was my pulmonolgist when she saw me.  Both doctors told me that this sort of thing NEVER happens, and that there was no explanation.  Also, the auto immune disease Sjogrens disappeared as well.  I was more healthy then I'd been in over 15 years.  I knew I'd been healed physically by God.

During that same year many other changes began happening to my body, mind and spirit; increased sense of smell, more tolerant and accepting of other’s beliefs, less controlling and less obsessive behaviors, “evangelistic” about telling others about God's love, less materialistic, a better listener, cured of bi-polar disorder and chronic depression!  In my life before the overdose I seldom read a book; now I’m an AVID reader, and “consume” four or more books a month.  I've read the entire Bible three times!  My 22 year marriage is profoundly stronger then I even knew was possible!  And I continue to be in excellent health.   These are some of the changes that have transpired in the last almost six years.  I give God the glory!   

I didn't understand what was happening to me until I began to read about “Near Death Experiences”, and the profound effects of such an experience.  (Read my blog, "The Fascinating Subject Of Near Death Experiences" in June, '13)  My spirit confirmed that the close call with death during my Valium overdose was a Near Death Experience.  

On October 23, 2014 it will be six years since my NDE.  My life will never be the same. Praise God!  This has created nothing but positive changes in my life, and marriage.  My husband, who never believed in a personal God, now believes in a God who loves and cares for us because of the miracles he's seen in my body, mind, and spirit.  We are involved in a spirit-filled Four Square Gospel church, and I LIVE MY FAITH!  I speak of my experience whenever I'm given the opportunity.  The message I want to communicate with anyone who will listen is that God loves us beyond measure.  Jesus' love is the ultimate answer to any problem.  We can trust our Heavenly Father and His Son with our lives!  No matter how dark things may seem in our lives, God is there with us!

This photo was taken of me one year before my Near-Death Experience.

  This photo was taken two months after my overdose while still on oxygen.

This was taken one year after my Near-Death Experience with my adult children!

       

WARNING WRAPPED IN A DREAM

Dreaming is my favorite pastime while sleeping!  Seems like a silly thing to say, but it’s true.  Some folks dream in black and white, but I dream in full technicolor!  Four and a half years ago, after many years of chronic illness with an incurable lung disease and Sjogren’s Auto Immune Disorder, I overdosed on Valium.  By a miracle of God I was found in my home, and resuscitated at the hospital.  After seven days in the hospital I returned home to recover fully from double pneumonia, and to go through the painful process of withdrawal from benzodiazepines.  Fifteen years of using Valium prescribed by a psychiatrist for a panic disorder had done me no favors.  For three months I was bedridden, and the sickest I’ve ever been in my life.  So it may sound astounding to say I was also the closest to God I’ve ever been during those three months, but it’s the truth.  God’s presence was palpable in my bedroom!  What a joyous time of fellowship I had with my Lord during this time of healing.  And God gave me a warning in a powerful dream!

My dreams took on incredible significance while recovering, but one dream in particular shook me to my core.  I found myself walking through an old barn with huge double doors at both ends.  To my surprise no animals were housed in this barn.  Rather, it was filled with row after row of vintage costumes and hats from many different periods of American history.   My mother and father (both Depression Era survivors) spent their adult years collecting many different things.  In my dream this barn housed just one of many collections, and it was breath taking.  Neither of my parents could care for this collection so I was given the opportunity to pick out anything I wanted for myself.  I was unaware there were others who’d also been given the honor of selecting items.  

I had my own small collection of costumes and hats, but nothing as all inclusive as this collection.  With eyes wide I slowly walked between the shelves which seemed to climb to the roof of the barn filled with these elaborate and beautiful items of clothing and accessories.  I let my hands pass over one velvet dress after another, admiring the lavish detailing, embroidery and frills adorning every piece.  The hats, gloves, ladies fans, and parasols begged for my attention as well.  Which should I take, and which should I leave behind?  So many wonderful choices!  A joyous problem to have.  I couldn’t have been happier at that moment. 

An hour or more went by when I noticed smoke filling the ceiling of the barn and quickly dropping down to eye level.  Somewhere in this ancient building a fire had broken out.  It had to be a big fire to fill the barn with thick smoke so quickly.  That’s when I noticed other people were as engrossed in selecting costumes as I was.  Immediately I ran from section to section shouting at people to leave immediately.  This barn was so old I knew it would go up in flames quickly.  There was not a moment to waste in getting these people out of the blazing barn.  

When the last person was safely out I ran back into the barn to see for certain there was no one still inside.  But I became mesmerized once again by these pieces of antiquity.  I must save this feathered hat, that brocade dress, this cameo broach, that pair of sequined pumps . . . Feverish behavior enveloped me.  One thing after another drew my attention, and blinded me to the imminent danger I was putting myself in.  

I heard the sound of the massive doors at the one entrance being slammed shut.  No one had seen me run back into the burning barn so the crowd decided it was best to seal the doors shut.  I panicked as I finally noticed the smoke at ground level and how little visibility was left to escape.  I took one last look of longing at the treasures about to go up in smoke and flames.  With all the lung power in me I took a deep breath from ground level, blindly running for the last doors at the other end of the barn.  Would I make it before they closed the doors?  I slammed into the last open door which was only open by a slim crack.  I mustered all my strength and squeezed through that tiny opening.  Gasping for fresh air I fell to the ground once I was a safe distance from the now blazing building.  

Horrified at how close I had come to loosing my life because of the overwhelming desire for material things, I was astounded at my self destructive choice to go back into that inferno.  I awoke from that vivid dream with a clear warning from God.  Material things could easily be my downfall.  God showed me if I release the desire for things I will live a long life.  Ignore this warning at my peril.  I look at possessions very differently now.  I am reminded daily of the scriptural mandate to not put your trust in things that moth and rust can destroy.  Focus on acquiring eternal rewards in heaven that cannot be lost.

What is in YOUR life that might be keeping you from focusing on "things" instead of on "things of God"? 

LOOSING A BELOVED PET

Our 12 year old Norwegian Elkhound, Mooksa, became very ill suddenly on the Friday before the New Year's celebrations.  We've lost two other Norwegian Elkhounds at the age of 12 years so we were afraid she wouldn't recover from this.  Her hips cause her terrible pain, and she can barely walk as it is.  So this is not necessarily a bad thing if she passes on now.  We're taking her to the vet on Monday, January 2nd, to see what he says.  We don't want her to suffer unnecessarily if there's nothing to be done.  We may be making a big decision on Monday. 

I'm not sure she'll make it through the night.  She's refusing to move from a "cave" out in the back.  She's refused two rides which she loves to go on.   She hasn't eaten, and will only drink water that Jay offers her.  Jay goes out to check on her every 30 minutes.  He just put a blanket on her because the temperature outside is dropping, and he put a light out there.  Why does dying have to be so ugly?

Jay finally went to bed so I'm doing the night shift vigil.  I just checked on Mooska (9:15 PM).  She moved so I had to search the pitch black back yard to find her.  I discovered her by the stone steps.  I replaced the blanket on her and added another blanket.  The wind is howling up here at our place so it's icy cold.  I'm so afraid she's going to die cold.

Another check at 9:45 PM.  No change.  It's so cold outside.  I don't want Mooska to die alone, but it's just too cold to stay outside with her for long.  Jay must feel the same way.  At 10:15 PM Jay got out of bed, dressed and headed outside.  He came back in carrying Mooska.  No easy task because she's almost literally dead weight.  I'm glad she's in the house.

Wind gusts up to 55 miles per hour tonight in our part of La Grande.  I'm so happy Jay carried Mooska into the house tonight.  She hasn't moved from where Jay laid her in the living-room.  It's midnight.

Mooska came into our bedroom at 2 AM, and lost the contents of her stomach.  She's breathing really hard and seems listless.  We cleaned up the mess and went to back to sleep.  

At 8 AM, January 2, 2012, we took Mooska to Dr. Omann.  She was running in doggie heaven just minutes later.  We miss her already.

I'm very thankful we've always had two dogs at a time that were different ages.  After we left Mooska's body at the vet for disposal we came home to Bandon waiting for us.  This is the third Elkhound we've lost, but we've always had another one at home waiting for us.  We are going to look for another Elkhound from a national Elkhound Rescue Organization.

Our first Elkhound "rescue" was an older dog by the name of Tiki.  It was just before Christmas, and I was taking professional Santa photos at a mall.  A woman came into the mall with Tiki, and asked if I would take a photo of the dog with Santa.  This woman was providing a foster home for the elderly dog until a permanent home could be found.  I couldn't believe my eyes because I thought we were the only people in the valley who owned a Norwegian Elkhound.  I took Tiki's photo with Santa, and discovered what a sweet dog she was in spite of a rather traumatic history.  I asked for the woman's phone number, and told her I'd be talking to my husband about the possibility of adopting this animal who had suffered abuse and neglect.

We both felt God wanted us to take Tiki into our family.  Tiki lived with us just a few years, but she had a tremendous impact on our family.  Tiki was a victim of abuse and neglect so she had many quirks, but that's what we loved about her.  She was afraid of men, so she became MY dog, and wouldn't leave my side.  Tiki LOVED, LOVED, LOVED car rides!  We never went anywhere in the car without her.  Because she'd gone hungry many times in previous years she'd often sneak food out of the lower cupboards, even flour or a can of Crisco.  We got quite a laugh out of some of the things she put in backyard holes which she'd dug for a "rainy day".  We were able to make her last couple of years happy ones so it was highly rewarding for us to make this remaining time happy.  I'm expecting wonderful things to happen when God brings another Norwegian Elkhound into our lives to rescue!