I DIDN’T GIVE UP!

The wind blew, the rains poured. Trees swayed against the power of the wind, struggling to stand, only to lose the battle, uprooted and flung across roads, blocking traffic and shutting down whole neighborhoods. Debris swirled in the air, carrying street signs over 50 miles away. Metal ripped from structures landed in trees not uprooted. It blew down power lines, knocking out electricity, sending homes and businesses into total darkness. The crashing sounds bought more darkness into the dark of the night skies, giving way to an eerie stillness that trickled into the morning hours, as if Mother Nature had died.

In the days of March 31 – April 1, 2023, the wind blew across our state with a powerful force. Alert sirens were blaring as the weather forecasters were warning of the impending danger and advising to take immediate cover. People hid in closets, retreated to bathrooms or any room with no windows. That’s where myself, my special needs son, and my three canine babies took refuge. Those with basements gathered loved ones and pets, if they could, and hurried to cover. If you were one who had storm shelters, or as my Mom’s generation called them, hidey holes, you huddled in those to ride out the storm. A short time later, we would immerse to destruction some of us had never seen. We were told we had just been hit with a high end EF3 with winds of 164 mph. An EF4 is 165 mph, thus the ones we were hit with being called a high end EF3..

Arkansas is part of what is known as Tornado Alley, so tornadoes are not uncommon, but for the areas hit they were. We were used to tornadoes, but they usually hit in the numerous rural communities that dotted the map around the major cities. This one started in the heart of Arkansas, traveling to the neighboring city and beyond. Structural destruction was devastating, but miraculous, loss of life was only 4 in the whole state! Our hearts went out to those families.

Arkansas really is a beautiful state, with some of the friendliest people you could meet. Little Rock is the capital of the state and sits in the center of downtown. Here is where our state capital was erected. It was designed to replicate the United States Capital building, and has been used in movies as a substitute for the real Capital Building.

The tornado started in the western part of central Arkansas. Videos showed the monster cloud as it was forming and beginning it’s destructive descent. Whole neighborhoods were left with anything from roofs torn from houses, to whole apartment complex laying flattened and in ruins. The monster didn’t stop there, but traveled over the interstate that separates Little Rock from the neighboring city of North Little Rock. These two cities are connected by a bridge that goes across the Arkansas River.

North Little Rock is home to one of the largest municipal parks in the country. It consists of 1700 acres. If you were to look up Burns Park, Wikipedia would tell you there are: 17 Soccer Fields; a Fishing lake; two 1 acre off-leash dog parks; 22 Tennis Courts; two 18 hole golf courses, two 18 hole disc golf courses; one 9 hole disc golf course; numerous playgrounds, including a playground equipped for special needs, picnic areas, pavilions; three outdoor basketball courts; Softball complex (5 fields); Youth Baseball complex (7 fields); RV Camping (52 sites); Archery Range; Amusement Park (called Funland); 15 miles of natural surface multi-use trails; 6 miles of paved multi-use trails; Covered Bridge; Union Pacific Caboose; World War II Tank; Old Log Cabin; Boat Launch to the Arkansas River. The local high school plays their baseball games there. National Soccer Tournaments are held there. It was a favorite hangout for many in my generation for sure. It’s a beautiful park.

The monster winds cut a path right through the heart of Burns Park. The devastating aftermath was heartbreaking. At least 10,000 trees were lost. Funland had just opened new rides one day before the tornado, now destroyed. Officials say the park is not going to ever look the same. Crews are still working to clear debris of mounds of metal, tree limbs and even mattresses that flew in with the high winds. As we drive over the interstate and look over at the park, it looks so desolate, like a deserted land. To those of us who spent our teenage years hanging out there, it is heartbreaking.

After racing through the park, the monster continue down its path, taking out businesses, a church, and a whole neighborhood. One person died. More homes were destroyed than not. Houses were flattened, some beyond repair. Trees lay across roads, making it hard for clean up crews to even access the area. It was mind boggling!

The destruction didn’t stop there. The monster wasn’t through with its destruction. It hit another neighborhood further north in the city. Big sections of that neighborhood lay in ruins, just like the others. But still, the winds blew, the tornado raged and traveled still further north to the next neighboring city, Sherwood. By the time the winds stopped, the city was dark, the businesses, house, street lights, all dark. It would be weeks before everyone got power back. Utility poles lay like toothpicks with wires strung out. Trees fell on top of power lines. It was a tedious process to restore power. Trucks were set up for people to dispose of freezers full of food that had spoiled with no power to run refrigerators.

The tornado still had another stop to make. It hit the next city, Jacksonville, home to the Air Force Base. I guess at this point, the monster was tired. It seemed to stop here, but there was another one heading to a town in eastern Arkansas.

When a tornado hit the city of Wynne, three people lost their lives. If it wasn’t for the intuition of the high school principal, the death toil could have been much higher. With the warning that a tornado was heading toward Wynne, the high school Principal made the decision to dismiss school early. All of the students were gone by the time the tornado ripped through their city. Wynne High School was a near-total loss.

The monster finally depleted itself of energy and fizzled out. An eerie silence took its place. People started immersing from wherever they had taken cover to take in the horror of the devastation. Neighbors with chain saws started cutting trees. The big trucks with the heavy wrenches starting rolling in to clear debris. Neighbor helping neighbor. It’s a southern thing. Volunteers starting flowing in, from preparing free meals for those who had lost so much, to starting a group to try to unite owners and the pets who found themselves lost. Group of volunteers came from other states to lend a hand.

There are still spots where houses still stand, waiting to be bulldozed. You still see roofs covered with blue tarps. You see empty lots where a house recently stood. You can still see an occasional uprooted tree, waiting to be chopped into smaller pieces.

Some areas will be recovering far in the future. Some will never recover what was lost. But, we will recover.

If you believe in reincarnation, I think I would have been a researcher in another life. I hear about something that intrigues me, if you give me the resources to do so, I’ll research the heck out if it. I will become obsessed with learning all I can about the subject. When it became obvious that my youngest granddaughter was autistic, I dug deep to learn everything I could so hopefully I could help her. When I was diagnosed with ADHD, I couldn’t stop searching for anything and everything related. My mental health counselor has been wonderful to fulfill my cravings for knowledge and flood me with information.

When my son was incarcerated, I went in search of anything and everything I could from how to deposit money, visitation, available resources to what kind of support was available to the family left behind. You might be surprised at the information that is out there. Some of it was information I wish I didn’t have to see, and some seemed to apply to facilities more humane than our regional detention center.

One bit of information I found on more than one website referred to the emotions most inmates go through are the same emotions someone grieving the loss of a loved one go through, commonly referred to as the Five Stages of Grief. Having gone through all of those stages when my husband passed away, I could relate to those emotions and see how they could be applied to his situation also.

For those of you who are fortunate not to have experienced great loss, the five stages of grief are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. These don’t necessarily come in any specific order and it would be safe to say, you might go through some of these stages more than once.

I didn’t want to accept that my husband was really gone. I knew he was as I stood by his bed and watched him take his last breath, but wanted it to be a bad dream. I was angry that he was gone. I was angry at the projects he had started but never finished. I was angry at God, telling him I understood if it was my husband’s time to go, but why couldn’t he have fixed the current problem we were facing before he took him. I had to ask forgiveness for this one more than once.

I don’t think I stayed too long in the bargaining phase. I had a lot of “should’ve, could’ve, would’ve”, but I knew no matter what I promised in return, he wasn’t coming back. My bargaining phase was more in regards to my son. If you will heal him and turn his life around, I will do such and such. But, God didn’t want to bargain.

I did feel depression, but that was caused by other factors as well, so hard to pin it all on the loss of my husband. I was already on a pretty high dose of antidepressants and didn’t want to add more, but consistent therapy helped with this. I think my depression was more a matter of anxiety about how I was going to handle every day by myself, or how I was going to go from a “We” to a “Me”. I had been with my husband for 45 years, starting at age 16. I didn’t know how to be alone.

Then there is the final stage – acceptance. The love of my life was gone. Life as I had known for the past 45 years was gone. No amount of bargaining, denial, or anger was going to change anything. Being depressed wasn’t going to bring him back. I was left only with the option of acknowledging that things would never be the same and I had to figure out how to live.

I can see how an incarcerated person could experience each of these emotions. There is the denial that they are really there, and if it applies, the surprise of such a harsh sentence for such a minor offense. The denial that you deserved such a sentence swirls in your brain. You’re angry, either at the system because you were wrongly accused, or yourself for doing what put you there in the first place.

You probably start bargaining with God to do this and that in exchange for being released or having your sentence reduced. There is probably nothing you won’t promise in exchange for your freedom. All other bargaining efforts have not turned out well, so you try to bargain with God.

I would think depression would be a given while you are incarcerated. You have to wait days, even weeks for all processing to be complete so you can be assigned to your “new home”. During this time, you are confined to a cell 23 hours a day. You have nothing to do but think of the family you left at home. You think of the mistakes you made, and wonder if anything will ever be okay again. If you’re like my son, you are being driven nearly crazy thinking of your children who don’t understand. The only thing he felt he was any good at was being a father and now that is gone. I’m not surprised more incarcerated people do not go crazy during this phase, and I’m not sure that isn’t the facility’s intent. Drive them crazy, medicate them and throw them to the wolves. Yes, the whole experience would certainly breed depression.

I would imagine there are some incarcerated people who finally are able to reach the acceptance stage. After all appeals are exhausted, all hopes are dashed, all doors to freedom are closed, acceptance would probably take hold. But for many, like my son, incarcerated for such a petty wrongdoing, a victim of a police department known for their bullying tactics, acceptance just can’t be found. Another thing to chip away at an already fragile mental state.

We are a family of deep faith, and thankfully we have a multitude of prayers warriors sending up prayers to the Lord for my son. Hopefully we will see God’s intervention before the depression wins out and we lose the man my son has worked hard to become.

My family is going through a really rough and scary time right now. The waves of despair and helplessness wash over us like the waves of a tsunami, threatening to carry us out to waters too deep to rise above. There’s no motivation to do every day tasks. There’s no desire to go any place where we may have to talk to someone. We just want to hide and curl up in a ball or retreat into a cocoon, and cry.

We do a lot of crying! But, we also are having to be strong for the babies who don’t understand what is going on, whose routines have been uprooted, who cry for a daddy who can’t be there right now. Our hearts are broken, our brains are like scrambled eggs. We can’t wrap our heads around how we got to this point, so it’s no wonder the little ones can’t.

What we are facing is a huge mountain, too big for any man or machine do flatten. It’s too tall to climb, too scary to even try. The enormity of this mountain is so overwhelming that we find ourselves succumbing to frustration, irritability, doubt, fear, anxiety. How can we possibly have any hope with that big of a mountain standing in the way?

But, God is not just any man. He is the Almighty, the great physician, the creator of the world, including that huge mountain. He is the only one with the ability to move that mountain! So, with bended knee, hands raised high, heads bowed down, we pray for His almighty intervention. We pray He will raise His hands and flatten that monstrous mountain as only He can! We would love for you to join us in praying also. There is never too many voices sending prayers up!

My faith has what has gotten me through so much. I know all things are possible with God. I’ve see that first hand, many times. But, I’m also human and let the sin of doubt and fear find a way to creep in. I ask God to take control, then I want to peak around the corner to see if He needs my help. I am trying to let go of what is in my hand so God can let go of what is in His hand. I really do want to give God all control, as I’m tired, weak, and defeated. This situation can only be handled by God! While you are praying for us, add the prayer that I can let go and let God.

Thank you for reading this, and thank you for praying for us! God bless each of you.

The next production at the Sight and Sound Theater in Branson, MO is Queen Esther. Since I don’t know much of her story, I have started reading the book of Esther in the Bible. One of first things that caught my immediate attention was from the preface:
“Although we may question certain circumstances in our lives, we must have faith that God is in control, working through both the pleasant and difficult times so that we can serve him effectively”. Good thing to remember when the going gets rough.

If you have never been to a production at the Sight and Sound Theater in Branson, you really should plan a trip to see one. Every one I have been to has been fantastic! I left each production feeling renewed in my faith.

I adopted a new puppy! It’s been a long time since I have had a puppy, thus forgot how much time, energy and commitment training a puppy can be! But, we are getting there.

I watched, with some apprehension, as I brought this little puppy, less than 10 pounds, home to be introduced to her two MUCH bigger sisters. How would they respond to this new addition that would require my love and attention? So, carefully we entered the house, greeted at the door by these two beautiful creatures, Dixie the Lab mix, and Fancy the Border Collie/Pyrenees mix, both full of curiosity, wondering what the timid thing was in my arms.

I quickly saw I had no reason to worry. They checked each other out the way animals do, and I guess they decided she could stay. I kept a watchful eye just to make sure. I think the bigger dogs knew she was just a little puppy and interacted with her as such. The 75 pound Lab became her playmate, as they rolled, barked, rough housed. At times I wondered if the Lab might be playing a little too rough as the pup gave a quick yelp. There was no need to worry as she could hold her own!

After several days of trying to find the perfect name , we decided on Dottie since she had the cutest dots on her feet and belly. I let the name roll off my tongue a few times and it just felt right. Dixie and Dottie were going to be fine as they both seemed to love playing and running.

I still had to see if Fancy, the Border Collie would give her stamp of approval. Fancy has seizures, thus she is not as active as her breed might otherwise be. The seizure meds make her lazy, wanting to lay around most of the time. But that is where her role seemed to have been established. Dottie would play so hard until she was plum tuckered out. Fancy would be stretched out on the sofa with all that beautiful white fur looking like a plush blanket and I guess it was calling her to it. She would try to get on the sofa, but her little legs couldn’t reach it. But, much like me, she didn’t give up until she made the jump and was snuggling into Fancy’s 90 pounds of fur.

As I watched all of this, I thought how nice it would be to have that soft place to cuddle where you felt warm and safe. How nice it would be to have that place of comfort where you could snuggle close until you fell asleep. Then the knowledge came to me that I do have that place to snuggle, that place where I feel safe and loved. I have that place where I can crawl up onto a welcoming lap and be wrapped in warmth and love.

The arms of my Heavenly Family are always open to receive me and wrap me in that warmth I need. No matter the circumstances, my mood, or my needs, those arms are there to rescue me and comfort me, just like the soft fluffy fur of the big white dog gives warmth and security to the wee pup who crawls up beside her. I never have to worry whether He might not want me snuggling up close. He is always ready with open arms. What a blessing!

It’s a new year, and at the beginning of each new year, I pick a word for the year. I have posted before about “HOPE” being my word of the year. It has been my word for the last few years, and yep, it’s my word for 2023! It’s still my word because I still have HOPE.

I saw many prayers answered this past year. I have many more I’m still waiting on an answer to, but I stil have HOPE. I didn’t give up when I didn’t get answers last year, and I won’t give up HOPE that I will get some more answers this year.

I still have HOPE the troubles some of my kids are struggling with will be resolved. I still have HOPE that health issues good friends are experiencing will give them better days. I still have HOPE there are still good people in this world and our paths will cross more often. I still have HOPE I can be that “person” someone needs so they won’t give up.

HOPE: a small four letter word that packs a whopper of power. As long as you have HOPE, you can make it through today. As long as you have HOPE, you can face tomorrow. As long as you have HOPE, you can look forward to the future.

I don’t have any idea what this year holds, but I have HOPE for good things to come.

I have felt compelled to write this page for my blog for quite some time. I know far too many people who are either struggling with their own addiction and/or recovery, or parents and loved ones of an addict. I have seen their tears, heard their cries, felt their pain and sensed the heartache. I have seen the constant worry about that relapse that is always around the corner.

I have taken this long to write this post because I couldn’t decide how to say what I felt needed to be said without pointing fingers in a way that would single out anyone. What I finally have done, or tried to do, is take those many stories I’ve seen or heard and combine them into a somewhat generic story. My guess is some of you who might be reading this can too sadly relate. I don’t want it to be a downer, but truth is, addiction is a downer. So, here goes the story.

My child was stolen from me. The sweet child with the heart of gold, compassion too great to describe, with a crooked smile that was so like their dad, quirky sense of humor and a joy, was gone. The thing that took my child left another person behind, a person I didn’t know, and certainly didn’t like. I was left with someone who didn’t know compassion at all, didn’t show love, didn’t care about the pain they caused. Left for me to deal with, was someone I was somewhat fearful of, someone who stole from me, cursed at me, lied so many times I lost count, watched me cry and didn’t care. The child left behind didn’t have my child’s heart of gold. This person had a stone cold heart. No, I didn’t like this person. I wanted my lost child back.

Opiates took my child from me. I felt like a failure as a parent. My mind was spinning out of control, screaming for it all to stop, all the while my heart was crying. I longed so badly for the cute and smart little baby I had brought into this world. I missed their hugs. I mourned the loss of the hopes and dreams I had for them. I wondered where we had gone so wrong in raising them.

So much money was lost, either by my child stealing it, or handing it over for their legal issues. If I’m going to be honest here, I was, and still am, an enabler. I couldn’t handle seeing them go down a dark path I was afraid they would never come back from. I failed because I didn’t make them accountable for their actions. I shielded them from suffering the consequences of those actions. I allowed them to fail when all I wanted to do was help them.

For the first few years of their active addiction, I had my spouse/significant other to help me carry the load. They seemed so much better at dealing with all the drama than I was. But, then suddenly, the Lord called my support person home, leaving me to bear the burden and deal with the crisis myself. I thought losing that person in their life would bring back the child I loved, and take the place of the child I didn’t like. It didn’t. I had conversations with God, telling Him I understood if it was my support person’s time to go. I asked God why He couldn’t have fixed things down here before He took that support from me. I felt truly alone with this burden.

It would take years before my good child would come home and take the place of the bad child. But so much muddy water had accumulated under the bridge that it still has a way to go before the flood of mistrust ebbs. I am always walking on egg shells, wondering if or when the next relapse is coming. Sometimes it drives me crazy with worry. Every time I see them display any of the actions I experienced during their active addiction, my heart races, my mind goes in overdrive, my fear resurfaces.

I don’t think anyone can relate to what an addicted love one can do to a family. Granted the addict is suffering their own kind of hell, but the family suffers because all they can do is watch helplessly as their loved one keeps digging a bigger and deeper hole. You can’t really talk to anyone about it because you are afraid of being judged for what you already blame yourself for. Embarrassment and shame are your daily companion. Tears are cried until you wonder how you could possibly have any tears left. Finally, if you let yourself, you begin to admit you are powerless to change anything. It’s at this stage you know God is the only one who can get into the mind of the addict and change their heart, and lots of prayers are sent up pleading for God to take over. It took a lot from me to get to the point where I was willing to let God take over. I would ask Him to take control, but I kept trying to take it back. I have to keep telling myself that God has this.

I pray daily that my good child will stay, but I know the ugly head of addiction is always right around the corner. I live in fear of losing them again to the evil clutches of addiction. I pray daily they will reach out to God to help them through whenever they feel themselves slipping back into darkness. I love my child. I need my child. I want my good child to stay. I want the good parent, friend, spouse they have become to stay. I want to see the heart of gold, to feel the kindness and compassion, to continue to be proud of how far they have come. Their story is still being written, their journey still filled with bumps in the road, their recovery always going on. But, they are still my child whom I love with all my heart.

Opiates destroyed my world and opened my eyes to an ugliness I wish I had never seen. I hope God will use me to help another family, because being a loved one of an addict puts you in a club no one wants to be in, and no one but another loved one of an addict could even begin to understand.

All the above words were told to me in real life scenarios. These are real people, experiencing real horrors. Addiction is a disease that is stealing our loved ones. I’m not sure any of these people know the answers to this problem, but they all have hope there are answers somewhere. Even when these people have been pushed to the limit of their boundaries, and I know they have, they hold onto hope. May God Bless us all and have mercy on us as well.

I came from a family pool of hard workers. I was taught to do a good job at any job you did. As a result, I developed a strong work ethic that carried with me all through my career. I was always proud that any job I had was gotten due to hard work, not who or what I knew.

When I became a new supervisor, I had a meeting with the members of the team I would be managing to tell them what I expected from them, and what they could expect from me. I told them I was a laid back type of person, NOT a micromanager as they were all adults and I trusted them to do their jobs to the best of their ability. I would be there to guide them, learn with them, fight for them if needed. I would support them in their career goals, listen to their ideas, work side by side with them. But, and that was a BIG BUTT, I gave them one warning: don’t push this one button. Don’t question my work ethic!

When becoming a Mom was added to my list of careers, I carried that same ethic into that role. I worked hard at being a good Mom. I took this role seriously and it was my most important, challenging, and rewarding job. Being a grandmother falls in here, too.

I wasn’t a perfect parent, but who is! There was not a manual to turn to for guidance, or one that contains a “how to fix” section. I made mistakes, learned from them, and did my best. I took on this role by choice, treated it with care, and grew in it. I also added to my “rules” to never push that one button- Don’t question what kind of mother I am!

I’ve had both buttons pushed. The work ethic challenge made the decision to retire a much easier one to make. Bulling doesn’t work with me. Questioning my parenting skills by someone I love brought out the mama bear in me.

I’m a petite person, but what I lack in statue, I make up for with my mouth. I admit I sometimes don’t have a filter on my mouth, which causes me to tell you like it is. I can brush off the comments about a lot of things. Just DON,T PUSH THAT BUTTON!

I never would have imagined me with a tattoo! No one who knows me ever would have imagined me with a tattoo! That was true, then…

I turned 60! It wasn’t something I had spent a lot of time thinking about. I always thought tattoos were for other people, but just couldn’t think I would ever be “one of those people”. Tattoos represented the badass, the brave if somewhat stupid people, but not me. I have seen plenty of questionable tattoos that made me wonder about the state of mind the person sporting them. Then there is that pain thing! I knew getting a tattoo had to involve some degree of pain, and I couldn’t comprehend willingly have pain inflicted on me! Then…

I turned 60! Im not sure if it was the thought of turning 60 and never really doing anything “daring”, or a older than middle aged crisis, or just the realization that I’m a grown ass woman and could do anything I wanted! I just got a hair up my backside and on impulse, took my 60 year old self to a tattoo parlor. I looked around at all the people decades younger than me. At first I thought I must have lost my mind. I almost walked out, embarrassed than my old self was even in there. Then I reminded myself that…

I turned 60! It was going to be now or never. I sheepishly signed in at the front desk and wondered what thoughts were going through those much younger minds about me being there. Were the tattoo artists praying they wouldn’t get the wrinkled skinned one to have to tattoo? I didn’t know at then how much truth might have been behind those fears, as I’ve learned since then that older and wrinkled skin was harder to tattoo. I was also what I learned later was a tattoo virgin. But then I reminded myself…

I turned 60! I was born with good genes and didn’t have wrinkly skin, and I have always had a high pain tolerance. I had my first child totally natural without even an aspirin for pain! Surely I could sit for a tattoo? I had been a virgin before, so what was the big deal of being a different kind of virgin? I had survived two other childbirths, one emergency C-Section with both our lives hanging in limbo, a hysterectomy, and a couple other abdominal surgeries. I was a warrior, made it this far, and…

I turned 60! Even so, I was still not brave enough to venture too far into this foreign experience, so I safely chose a small tattoo of a butterfly on my ankle. As the artist is starting to create his masterpiece, he informs me the ankle can be a bit more painful due to it being a bony area. Now he tells me! But, I was committed at this point, so I gritted my teeth and prepared to scream if I so felt inclined. I did make a few painful groans, but I wouldn’t allow myself to scream. After all, I was a grown woman and …

I turned 60! I won’t lie. There was some pain involved. I looked around at all the artists with their bodies literally covered in all sizes, shapes, and colors of creatures and designs. Through my gritted teeth, I asked the artist how they could stand all the pain each of those tattoos had to have involved. He told me the pain was part of the thrill and addiction of tattoos. I realized later what he meant by that. After the creation was complete, I had just a small butterfly tattoo on my ankle, survived the pain, and walked out with my head help high. I was so proud of that little tattoo. I reminded the artist that…

I turned 60! This was my gift to myself. I was so proud of how cute that little tattoo looked, and how badass I thought that made me look. I couldn’t wait to show it off. At the same time, I was a little worried of what my family would say. My Mom wouldn’t hesitate to let me know she hated it. She didn’t let me down. I got a lecture on how the Bible says tattoos are a sin. I have yet to find that verse! It took me a couple of days to show my husband and kept it covered. When I finally got the nerve to tell him, he told me I need to go wash that thing off. Whe I informed him I couldn’t as it was real, he asked me why. I said because…

I turned 60! And I wanted to, I could, so I did. He got over it. By the time of the second tattoo, he just shook his head. That tattoo was also a small one of a peace dove carrying a branch in its mouth, inked on my inner wrist. I’ve at this point learned some tattoo lingo, so I was “inked”. I learned what the artist had meant when he talked about the addiction. I was hooked! I still didn’t want a body covered in random ink, and vowed any and all tattoos would have some meaning. After all, I wasn’t one of those young things that normally get inked. I felt I needed to be conservative on the amount of tats (I’ve embraced the lingo!), because…

I turned 60! It would be a couple of years later before I would get another tattoo. I knew what I wanted, and drew the design myself. Of course, the drawing on a piece of paper would, as I quickly discovered, have to be much bigger than I had envisioned. My husband had recently passed away and I wanted a tattoo in memory of him. A black rose with black lace ribbon, an 8-ball in the middle of the rose to represent his love of and skill in shooting pool, and a copy of his handwriting was inked on my left thigh. This tattoo started with that very first butterfly incorporated and extended on until it reached almost to my knee. I wear it with pride, and get compliments on it all the time. He helps me feel a part of my husband is always with me. There is still one more story telling tattoo. It all started because…

I turned 60! A few months after my husband passed, I underwent total knee replacement surgery. I am here to tell anyone reading this to not undergo major surgery so soon after suffering a major loss! My emotional state was still so fragile, and a major surgery was not good medicine. I had never been through anything without the support of my husband to hold my hand, take care of me, help me recover. I was also dealing alone with other family issues that my husband had been so much better in dealing with than me. It was during this time, I claimed Phil. 4:13 as MY verse: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”. I repeated that verse hundreds of times during this ordeal. I knew if I got another tattoo, that verse would have to be a part of it. I knew the heat I would get from my mom, but that didn’t deter me as…

I turned 60! I was a widow, alone to care for our adult special needs son. I was a survivor. My husband always told me, “You’ve got this, Babe”. I am a warrior! I don’t give up. People always tell me I am the strongest person they know. They don’t see behind close doors when I don’t feel so strong. But, deep down, I know I’m strong. My next tattoo had to show that. Again, I designed what I wanted inked on my left inside forearm. My tattoo is a curved feather, one end curving into the word strength, the other end curving into the words Phil. 4:13. Below the word strength is a small heart with wings, representing all those I’ve lost. Above Phil. 4:13 is a small paw print to represent the pets I’ve lost. The feather represents Psalm 91:4: “He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithful will be your shield and rampart”. A tattoo with loads of meaning. I will continue to rely on my faith to get me through. I may or may not get another tattoo. But if I do, I’ll always remember it all started because…

I turned 60! What have you done because you turned 60?