THANK-YOU!

Some people do this sort of thing on Facebook where things like food and family photos and political propaganda go, but I felt this was worthy of a blog post because it's special to me because of who sent it to me. I call him my "adopted son" and if I did that on Facebook it would cause mass hysteria of mega proportions so I'll do it here where people take things in stride. Early this morning I had a package delivered to me...you know how packages are still being delivered for Christmas. Our delivery services are certainly highly overwhelmed during the holiday season! When my son, Matthew came to check on me because I was pretty sick last night, he brought me in a huge box that had just been delivered and left by the front door.  I knew it couldn't be a man because the box wasn't big enough and there weren't any air holes in the box. When I opened it, all my dogs immediately started sniffing it so the containts got their approval. Inside was a beautiful Queen-size Alpaca blanket to go on my bed to keep me and my furbabies toasty warm.

Thor wants to know what's the hold up with putting the blanket on the bed? He's ready to break it in!

💓💓💓💓💓💓💓

UPDATE: My adopted son sent me an update regarding my gift since it arrived after Christmas (like that mattered to me...I don't paddle asses for minor offenses like that) lol  But he felt he needed to explain why my gift had been delayed. The blanket wasn't his first choice. He had ordered up a MAN (actual flesh and blood) for me, kind of a John Travolta looking-fellow with the dancing skills to back it up. That's what he paid for anyway. Sadly, the idiots at FedEx got the delivery instructions wrong when he said to poke some holes in the box so the hunk of burning love could breathe. Instead, they poked holes in the man. What a mess! Needless to say, he didn't survive shipping. The blanket was just a last minute attempt to save face. I felt it was only right that I update my blog entry with my adopted son's first intentions for my gift so everyone would know what a truly thoughtful person he is. What is it they say about good intentions? Isn't the road to Hell paved with them? hahaha!

I love my blanket...it's much, much better than any John Travolta doppelganger.

MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART I (REPOST)

My first exposure to religion was as a young child. At the age of 5, I was baptized into The First Congregational Church in Brewer, Maine. For all those not familiar with the Congregational Church, a quick history lesson should refresh your memory. Does the word Puritan mean anything to you? It was a quaint church overlooking the Penobscot River. The beautiful stain glass windows illuminated the interior as the morning sun rose in the sky. I went to church with my family on Sundays, sat quietly and very still on the pew mimicking what the others did when they did it, yet I can't remember a word of what was ever preached in that church. My only memory is the feeling that there was more to it than what I was being told. I wanted to be touched by the real hand of God, but somehow, I always eluded His omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent grasp.

By the time I was 11, often, I walked to church alone or with my best friend, Margie who I asked to accompany me after she'd spend the night at my house. Her mother was dying from Hodgkin's disease, so she sought comfort elsewhere during that time in her life. My door was always open and I welcomed her companionship (and still do after all these years). One Wednesday night she asked me to go to church with her. But it was Wednesday...who goes to church on Wednesday? I soon found out. The Baptist preacher bellowed from the pulpit condemning all sinners to burn eternally in the flames of Hell. As he spoke and thumped his fist on the pulpit to drive home his words, I was certain he was speaking to me personally. I was doomed to burn in Hell if I didn't seek out Salvation, so when my friend asked me to attend Bible camp with her during that summer, I eagerly accepted. Maybe God would reveal himself to me at Bible camp.

We met in old army style tents outside a host church on Eddington Pond for various daily religious classes and activities. Each day, we were expected to memorize a new Bible verse. When that feat wasn't accomplished, off the person went to see the preacher. They always would return subdued and extremely repentant. When they upped memorizing the verses from 1 to 2, I panicked. I had trouble focusing and remembering the words. So naturally, I froze when I was asked to stand and recite my verses. My mind went blank and the interior of the large tent seemed darker and filled with impending doom. I felt true shame as I walked to the preacher’s office inside the church. I remember my long, slender legs shaking and feeling weak as I entered his office after knocking. I stood before him looking down at the floor.

At first, he spoke softly, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. He peered into my soul and I shivered. He stood and walked around me, then laid his hand on the back of my head. I trembled as he prayed for me and it seemed my fear ignited something in him. His voice slowly became louder and louder until it filled the whole room. I was a sinner and without a doubt, I was going to burn in Hell for all eternity.

As the tears ran down my face, I was instructed to kneel. I felt almost relieved to stop standing. My legs were weak and trembling. I cried and prayed and asked God's forgiveness. My pleading was frantic. I asked God to enter me and fill me with His Spirit. I truly wanted His Grace, but the only grace I would receive that day was being bent over a desk and being told to bare myself. As the pastor spanked my bare bottom, his voice trembled as he prayed for me. Each time his hand met my flesh, it lingered for a moment. When he finally stopped, he stood behind me while I repeated the verses.

I could feel the intensity of his eyes gazing down upon me. Each time he said, "say them again," his voice trembled, and his breathing quickened. Suddenly, his voice changed and the words that came from him were ones I had never heard before. He was speaking in some foreign language I didn’t understand. And then silence. It was finally over! By the time I covered my bare bottom, my skin was so tender it hurt to have the fabric of my panties brush across my bottom.

As I walked back to the tent, the realization filled me that something had just happened, but I wasn’t quite sure what that something was. Did God finally “touch” me? Had I finally received His Grace? It wasn't until many years later when I awoke screaming from a nightmare that I realized what had happened that day and I wondered how many others like me had been filled with the good pastor’s Spirit of God.