The Memory Box

It sits in the back of my clothes cupboard. Years worth of cards, letters, pictures and memorabilia all are stuffed inside. I'd wanted to do a little organizing, so I pulled out the old memory box. I must have tried rearranging it once before, for I found birthday cards bundled together, each from a specific person: my husband, son, brother and parents. Other assorted items lay in the bottom: a broken piece of a hockey stick signed by a favorite player from when I was younger. A plastic heart necklace from some kids I taught Sunday school to back in the early eighties. Items from my Nonna who had passed away long ago. It had been a long time since I'd viewed the contents of this box. What other treasures would I find?

I began opening the cards. There were humorous ones from my brother. We'd always had the type of relationship where we ribbed one another mercilessly. He would comment on birthday cards of how old I was getting--since I'm fourteen years his senior--and would include little drawings and sayings that had meant something to us through the years.

I opened cards from old friends, people I hadn't seen in a while. I found thank you's and good wishes from people when I left a job I'd worked at for twenty-seven years. Some of the patients wishing me well in my new life, and a letter of recommendation from my old boss that warmed my heart.

When I found my son's cards, I paused and read each of them carefully. A mother treasures such things especially when you aren't always vocal about your feelings. The writing inside the cards spoke volumes to me about the way he felt. So much appreciation for me as a mom. And love that he isn't able to express so easily.

The last batch of cards were from my parents. There were ones all the way back to the late seventies. There were humorous drawings from them, silly stick figures and animals that had made me laugh through the years. There were sayings from our favorite movies, and even some poetic prose from my mother. When I found a few letters my mother had written and carefully tucked into the birthday cards, I took the time to read them word for word. With her worsening dementia, it has become more important than ever to remember who she once was, and how caring and intelligent she'd been.

There were words from Mom that told of her happiness of our closeness. That we were more than mother and daughter, but best friends too. There were words that told of her feelings of love and how proud she'd been of me, though I'd always felt I messed up so terribly in my life. She called me her shining star, and said that if it wasn't for me, she didn't think she would have made it through some of the difficult times. I felt overwrought with emotion, and the words blurred on the pages of the letters as tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks. My husband asked why I was crying, and I couldn't bring to words what it meant to me finding these precious gifts tucked away in an old box.

I still need to weed through and do a bit more organizing. But today I'll do it with a lighter heart. For now I know just how much I've been loved and appreciated.

The Neighborhood Cat

He was orange and scruffy. He seemed ageless. He was bold, unafraid and in your face. He was friends with every child at the grade school down the road. His name was Tiger, and he was the neighborhood cat.

Just yesterday, my father asked me about that cat. My father is eighty-five, and I found myself amazed that the memory of Tiger popped into his head. "Kar," he asked. "Do you remember the cat that was friends with every kid at the school years back?"

I hadn't thought of Tiger in a while. But he is one cat I won't ever forget, especially since it meant so much to Dad to talk about him. It warmed me that thinking that the silly cat made my father smile and he couldn't stop talking about it for days.

Tiger would stand at the bus stop across the street waiting with a group of children for their morning ride to school. At the end of their day, he would trudge patiently and carefully across the street, once again, as if to welcome them home. There were times he would follow one particular child for a while, as if he knew that they needed a little extra care or friendship that day perhaps.

And Tiger would walk to the grade school near his own house, spending time just like one of the gang with groups of children, rubbing in and out of their ankles, looking up quizzically into their faces as if trying to understand what they were talking about.

The cutest story about this cat however happened when I sat watching a school concert one evening with friends. My son, Matt, was in a little chorus routine, and all of the moms jostled for position in the auditorium. It was a stuffy evening from what I remember, so the doors to the outside were propped wide open.

The lights dimmed, the children began to assemble in their places on the stage before us, when big as life, Tiger walked out onto the stage with them. Audience members couldn't believe it. That silly cat had gone too far. Boldly, brazenly walking not only into the auditorium, but also believing he had every right to be there with what he'd come to know as his friends.

Many people pulled out their video recorders and began filming, others erupted in laughter. One teacher went to shoo the cat from the stage, but of course the damage had already been done, and Tiger had completely stolen the show.

I never really found out what happened to that cat, as my own life got in the way. Rumor had it, that someone actually stole him from the neighborhood because they wanted to give him what they thought was a better home.

Whatever happened, I know that our lives are a little better for having known this special kitty. I learned some lessons from him. Be bold. Be friendly. Be caring. Be all "in your face" when you want something. Make new friends, keep the old. And rub a ton of ankles. Whatever will warm another person, that's what Tiger did. And that's something I'd like to do in this world. Touch lives and warm people with stories such as this one. There's so much seriousness. I want to be remembered like Tiger.

A mother's birthday wish

Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Matt, Happy birthday to you!

A mother's love doesn't dwindle over time. On the contrary, I believe it gets stronger. When our kids were little, they needed us for most everything. And as they grew, they needed us less and less. So if on my son's birthday I want to make a little fuss all over him, I'm gonna do it. I don't get much of a chance for this sort of behavior any longer.

Did I embarrass him today? Hope so. For isn't that what birthdays are all about? A time for fussing loudly, feeling special and making a little noise?

So here's to you my dear son. May you always be blessed. May God hold you in the palm of His hand. May you find favor in all that you do. May you have good friends, and never know what loneliness is. May you laugh often and love much. May you always have respect for those in authority, your grandparents and me and your father. May you have success in all that you put your hand to.

May you find a relationship with God at some point in your life, knowing He's the true author of all the events. May you feel a comfort, a peace in speaking with Him, knowing you can trust your heart to the author and perfecter of all things.

May you live a long and healthy life, enjoying your work, play and relationships. And may you know just how much this crazy mother loves you!

Happy birthday, son.

Refreshing and Regrouping

Nerves, frazzled. Lower back pain, incredible. Sleep, disrupted. Yes, this is how I felt several times this weekend. Caught up in the frenzy of food preparation, I obsessed while at work, and even in my dreams. You see, I'm an Italian, and this is how we roll. It's never enough. No matter how many gnocchi I made, as I looked at them on the wooden cutting board in my kitchen, I felt there should be more.

The Honeybaked Ham I'd purchased all of a sudden seemed so tiny, never enough to feed a hungry crowd. And what of side dishes? Were there plenty to go around?

My work week had also been daunting. With my new position as office manager, I've had to put out several fires, you see. When a phone call comes in from a patient who just doesn't understand why there was a specific charge on their bill, I must now deal with this, taking the time to pull apart their account until I find the issue. Or an irate patient who has a complaint. I've had to put on a good face, take the brunt of their anger, diffusing the ticking time bomb.

My mother's memory was rough this weekend too. Her dementia seemed to be worsening. I found myself snapping at her, caught up in how hard I've been working. Usually when she asks the same questions twelve or fourteen times, I'm able to answer them with poise and grace. Sometimes changing my answer ever so slightly, or chuckling a bit with her about it. But when your last nerve is frayed beyond repair, it isn't easy to continue to be kind.

My husband has added to the list as well. I love him, but let's just say, when he's around a little more than usual,( and trust me, he deserves the days off), I have no time to write, no time to myself. Since he puts in so many hours, he misses me, and feels we should spend every waking moment together.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run far, far away and not stop until I was someplace where nobody would find me. Well, at least for a few hours or a day.

Today is that day.

When my kids were little, we had friends that gave their children "Mental Health Days." They knew when their child was stressed beyond measure, and would offer them a respite from school, keeping them home for just one day. It would work, because little junior would bounce to school the next day, all refreshed and regrouped, ready to face whatever challenges the day brought.

This morning I decided on such a time. No phone calls. No television, well, except for the blissful hour that I watch an episode of a favorite show. No changing out of my bummy sleep clothes: the too big t-shirt, well- worn from years of washings, and the sweat pants that are miles too long. Hair disheveled, face, unwashed. I am on strike, picketing in the quiet confines of my own home. I will take time to write at least a thousand words in the book I'm currently working on. I will eat something totally bad, perhaps a bowl of ice cream, and I will forgive myself for it. I will not have any deadlines today, think about anything that needs to be done. And work, what's that? For there is not one thing I will clean today.

We all need such a day from time to time. A mental regrouping of sorts. Young mothers are stressed beyond measure; single moms especially who have no respite or a moment to themselves. Others who are continuous caregivers for a sick loved one. They, too, are human, and in need of a break. Perhaps we can be the one to give them a few hours rest.

I don't think it's a reason for guilt or shame. I think it's a necessary gift we must give ourselves from time to time. And if like me, today is that day for you, I hope you enjoy the solitude, the refreshment that a time like this can bring.

Oh, the phone just rang. And it was hubby asking if I could look something up about his new phone. My answer: Sorry honey, but not today. Ahhh, the bliss.

Hold on or let go?

Many times in my life, I've felt that I've been wronged. Or someone treated me unfairly without hearing the whole story, rushing to judgements that were completely untrue. Other times, situations that I had no control over would happen, leaving me devastated in their wake, scratching my head and asking what I did to deserve this.

I was married in my very early twenties to a man who the sun rose and set on. He was extremely handsome, very funny, and my family and everyone who met him, just adored him. We fell in love and married within a year. It appeared to be what I'd dreamed of since I was a little girl: the perfect man, perfect simple life, perfect love. Yet I had no idea what was going to happen.

Time began passing and strange occurrences began. The phone would ring at odd hours in our little apartment and then I'd hear the loud click as someone would hang up the minute I answered. My husband's personality would change drastically, and he'd come home at odd hours from his job, and make excuses to me--a very naive girl--about his behavior.

Then the day came I would never have believed. He told me he was leaving me. He wanted so much more in life. I was numb, betrayed, hurt beyond words. It had to be me. I'm not good enough, of course. I would later find out he'd left me for another woman, and that was the reason for all the suspicious behavior and phone calls.

I lost my appetite for a while, and depression settled over me, threatening to suck the life and joy right from me. Then as time passed, I began to heal, and it would take many years to truly overcome all the hurt I'd gone through.

Many, many years later, this same man, my ex-husband, approached me about our time together. He said he'd been unable to live with the guilt he felt, and the pain he'd caused. I granted him a few minutes to get "things" off his chest, confessing to me all he'd done in the marriage. Luckily, I was so far removed from him that none of this affected me the way it once would have. I only saw before me a shell of who he once was. A man that needed me to say that I forgave him. And I did just that: I told him he was forgiven. I let go of all the feelings of anger, resentment, hurt and insecurity I'd once held onto so tightly. I don't know if he felt free, but I certainly did.

There would be other times in my life when I'd heard about something a person said behind my back that was truly unfair. A person either that I knew well, perhaps a loved one. What would I do with this knowledge? I could choose to hold on to my well-deserved anger, after all, they had no right to say those things. Or I could choose once again, to forgive and let it go.

Bitterness and unforgiveness are powerful feelings.  We wield them over people like a huge sword, swinging it before us in an effort to hold people back, keep them at bay lest they hurt us again. I've never found any good in maintaining this stance. All that comes from such a position is a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, health issues begin to creep in, and you find yourself wallowing in well-deserved self-pity, which turns into self-loathing at some point.

What happens when we let it go? Immediately you are free of the bondage of what the infraction has done to you. The other person may not even know this, but you know it. You throw off the chains and yoke of anger, hatred, every mean spirited feeling that unforgiveness causes. You are choosing to think about something else. You are free to go on with the life you were meant to live, no longer bound or tied to thoughts of the person who once hurt you. Let them go. For what good is it to harbor ill feelings all of your life?

We may have to wash our hands of certain people who have abused us or hurt us in a major way. Some people are unsafe to be around. But at least entertain the thought of forgiving them for their treatment, if not to their face, then in the stillness of your heart. Because they, too, are flawed humans, as we are. They have their reasons for the havoc they wreak and the pain that they cause. But we are the bigger person, the healthier person, the truly free person.

Stepping into a new position

In a very short time, I will be moved up in the dental office I have worked in for the last ten years to the position of office manager. My dear, longtime friend and current office manager, Kathy will be retiring.

Thinking back to June of 2006, I remember being overjoyed at being hired in this office. The ladies I worked with, and even the female dentist all got along amazingly well. I made some of the best friends of my life here. We worked hard, but made time for laughter.

I'd come from a small town, and a very small dental practice that had been there for years. I worked for an excellent dentist whose work was impeccable. The patients in that practice were mostly elderly folks that I would come to love and care for in such a way, that when I moved away from my hometown and had to leave the comfort of the place I'd worked at for twenty-seven years, it would be with many tears that I would do so.

Kathy would make me feel welcome, she would believe in me when she taught me computer skills that I hadn't possessed at my old job. She would encourage and teach in such a way that I wouldn't even see her doing it. She had a warm, listening ear, and a sassy sense of humor. Though she was my boss, my superior, she never made her employees feel less than. Kathy had a way of building each of us up, stating our accomplishments and cheering us on when she believed we deserved it.

When she announced her retirement two short months ago, my first thoughts were selfish ones. Oh no, I thought. What are we going to do without her? And most importantly, who is going to step into her position, or who might we hire to fill her shoes?

When I was told it would be me, at first I declined. I'm not good enough, I thought. The words that have always been such a part of my vocabulary. And of course, I can't do things as well as Kathy can.

My next thoughts were worse. I've got to say goodbye to someone I really care about. A friend who has given me advice and counsel. A woman I've shared some of the deepest thoughts of my life with. I am going to miss her terribly. I don't want her to go.

Kathy has been teaching me all along even though I didn't realize it. The few more difficult tasks that I've learned recently are pushing me well out of my comfort zone. And that is a good thing. For when we get stuck doing the same things day in and out, not challenging our minds, we become stagnant and a little stuck. How on earth are we to advance in our lives if we don't embrace something a little harder than we've always done?

I'm ready to embrace a new title. And once again, we have a super team of co-workers and a newer boss whose enthusiasm is contagious and fun. I'm finally eager to take on more responsibilities with the same poise and grace my predecessor had done.

Oh, and the best news of all: Our dear Kathy has decided to remain with us one day a week. I will certainly look forward now to this special day, a day when we can catch up as friends, a day when we will have so much to talk about. I count myself blessed to have this lovely woman as one of the best friends I've ever known. And I'll take her words and sayings with me forever.

Here's to you, Kathy, for all you've done for us through the years. You truly are a very great lady.

A Godly Marriage

Marriage. What a topic. We could write for hours about it. What works, what doesn't, and what just plain annoys the heck out of us. Two imperfect people in a perfect union. A union created by God. And He doesn't make any junk, my friends.

Take a moment to consider what you saw in your mate when you first met. Take a good long look back. It may not be easy remembering those things, but if you dig a little for them, you'll find them. Pull out an old photo album and savor the memories, the really good ones. Doesn't it feel different?

But now he's lazy, she thinks. She's not attentive to me, he thinks. He never surprises me with anything. She doesn't give me any compliments. The list goes on and on, doesn't it?

What if we were the ones to make the first move? Give that compliment, surprise your husband or wife with a small treat, even a candy bar you know they like. Tell them thank you for working so hard at their job for the family, especially if you are married to a workaholic type.

What about communication? For all the things you say he or she doesn't do any longer, or for the things you wished they'd do, did you ever really ask them about it? We expect a partner who has been with us for years to read our every thought, every body innuendo. It isn't so. Did you ever sit down next to your spouse, putting the cell phone away, the television set off for just a few minutes and say the words, "honey, I'd like to talk." Powerful little words that may open up a whole new world for you.

My husband and I are Italian, so we speak a lot. Communication is a big part of this marriage. We are not the strong, silent types, neither of us. We air grievances quickly, tell each other what we like or don't like about a particular situation, but we never keep one another guessing. Even when the topic may turn to something difficult, or perhaps something that means a little more to one partner than the other, it's best to give all the reasons, present your case so to speak so that your partner truly understands where you're coming from.

Do you want him to attend church with you? Did you ever think of saying "I'd really love it if you'd come to church this Sunday with me." What we often say is, "You never want to go anywhere with me." This sets our spouse up to make excuses and retreat into their own little world, when we really want them in our world.

What about, "Would you mind if I picked the restaurant, movie, or store that we shop at this time?" And not, "You never let me decide about anything." Try it. It's so simple.

Now for the biggest news. Did you ever pray for your spouse, really pray for them? I'm talking about crying out from your very soul when nobody else is around? Perhaps they have an issue from their life, or you two have been arguing for so long you've forgotten how to be kind to one another. Take it to the Lord. Speak it out loud, ask Him for answers, but not until you've prayed for that man or woman. Ask God to bless them, take care of them, protect them, and ask Him to help you to have a heart of love toward them. Even if your marriage has cooled, God can ignite the spark of true love once again if you agree with Him.

Prayer is not empty words. It is God's promise to us that whatsoever we ask....It's God's covenant with us, a direct line to our heavenly Father. He cares about the details. He cares about your marriage. He loves your spouse with an unconditional love, one we can't even begin to understand. And He will make a way in the darkest places when you do not give up and call upon Him to be your guide and Light.

May you rekindle love with open communication and prayer.

Bonding over food

Is there any greater enjoyment than a good meal, especially one that reminds you of your youth, and simpler times? They call such things "comfort foods" and for very good reason. Today, my elderly Mom and I decided to make such foods.

With Mom's dementia and learning so much more about it, I've seen that the very strengths she once had, such as cooking and baking are traits that can withstand the test of time and memory especially if a loved one shares that passion as well.

I entered the warmth of my mother's kitchen today, (well, a little warmer than usual because with her condition, Mom is always very very cold. The heat was a blaring 74 degrees at the time.) to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table, a well-worn recipe card in front of her, studying it as if the meaning of life was written upon it.

"What's that?" I asked Mom.

"My old recipe for Strufali," came the reply.

Strufali, for those of you who aren't Italian, are little fried dough balls, maybe an inch or so in diameter. Made almost like a pie dough, dropped into boiling oil, then after they are drained on paper towels, put into a pot of heated honey and turned over again and again. These little delectables had usually been made for New Years in my family in the past. My Nonna had made them, and Mom too, bringing to mind my youth and the above mentioned simpler times.

I made up my mind that I was going to be Mom's kitchen slave for the day. Rolling up my sleeves, I began measuring out the ingredients, after putting on a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup, stir-frying another cut up chicken breast, throwing together a meatloaf and oven roasted potatoes too. Did I mention I was a kitchen slave earlier? Indeed. But it was one of the most bonding, fun times with Mom in recent memory. I'd taken one of her favorite things, cooking and baking, and turned it into an afternoon of bonding together. Each time Mom would say, "Please, I want to help," I'd politely turn her down and say, "No, you're the master chef, and I'm your pupil." Now you have to understand, I think I'm a fairly good cook and baker myself, but to let my mother think she was teaching me precious gems of kitchen duties was priceless. Though she did help a little, and later would tell my brother she made the whole meal, it didn't bother me a bit.

What is it with us sometime when we feel we must take credit for everything, or we are completely slighted? It took nothing from me to let Mom think she made the whole delicious meal and the Italian dough balls as well. Her hand had certainly been in it, so in many ways, it was her cooking and baking. I've taken her ideas from many years, and have incorporated them into my own kitchen. Many of the things I make come lovingly from little old scraps of paper, splotches of food encrusted into them as I study Mom's handwriting from years ago. I don't deviate from much of it, though my mother was one of those "pinch of this, dash of that" types too.

When the Strufali were finished yesterday, and we dug into the tasty, honey-coated treats, the look on my mother's face was priceless. A smile, eyes closed, a moan of ecstasy when she bit into one. And when Dad walked into the kitchen and tried his own, the compliment of "these are the best ones ever," was like music to my ears.

What a good day, a bonding day, a day of love and understanding. A day to treasure as her memory may fade, her moods worsen, or God forbid, she forgets any of us some day.

I hope to have more days like this. Days where a mother and daughter can giggle like schoolgirls, talk about old times, work side by side, and share the love and stories that all have come out of an Italian kitchen and bonding over comfort food.

Recipe for Strufali from Grace Massa Langlois, in an article on La Mia Vita Dolce from 2010.

Cicerchiata-Struffoli, Italian Honey Balls

• 6 large eggs
• 375 g (3 cups) plain (all purpose) flour
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• Canola or vegetable oil for deep frying
• 710 ml (3 cups) honey
• 75 g (½ cup) candied fruit, optional
• 50 g (1/3 cup) slivered almonds, optional
• Candy sprinkles, optional
• Vegetable cooking spray (if shaping cicerchiata into a wreath)

1. Crack eggs into a small bowl, cover and allow eggs to come to room temperature, 30 minutes.
2. Add salt to eggs; lightly beat together with a fork.
3. Place flour on a clean work surface or in a large bowl.  Make a well in the centre.
4. Pour egg mixture into centre of well.  With the tips of your fingers or with a fork gradually draw the flour into the egg mixture.  Continue until all or most of the flour is incorporated.
5. Use your hands to gather the dough together.  Knead the dough until smooth and no longer sticky, 5 to 7 minutes.
6. Shape dough into a ball, cover with an overturned bowl, kitchen towel or wrap in plastic.  Let dough rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.
7. Fill a large, heavy-bottomed sauté pan with 5-cm (2 inches) of oil.  Attach a thermometer and heat oil over medium heat to between 185° C and 190° C (365° Fand 370° F). (If you don’t have a thermometer, drop a 2.5-cm (1-inch) cube of bread into hot oil.  If it takes about 1 minute to brown all sides of the cube and the cube floats to the top the oil has reached the appropriate temperature for deep-frying.)
8. Prepare 2 baking sheets line one baking sheet with non-stick baking paper (for cut pieces of dough) and line the other baking sheet with 3 to 4 layers of paper towels (to absorb excess oil).
9. Knead rested dough for a few minutes.
10. Cut dough into 12 equal pieces.  Work with one piece of dough at a time, keeping remaining dough covered.  Using the palms of your hands roll each piece into a rope 1¼-cm (½-inch) thick.  Cut the rope into 6 1/3-mm or 12¾ mm (¼-inch or ½-inch) pieces. Transfer pieces to prepared baking sheet (lined with non-stick baking paper); cover dough pieces with a kitchen towel.  (Cicerchiata puff out quite a bit when frying.  If I am preparing a wreath I prefer to cut the dough into smaller pieces.  You may want to fry a small batch before cutting all the dough to see which size you prefer.)
11. Cook dough pieces in small batches (do not overcrowd pan), stirring occasionally with a slotted spoon, until lightly golden on all sides, 1½ to 3 minutes (depending on size).
12. Transfer cicerchiata to baking sheet (lined with paper towels) with a slotted spoon.
13. When all dough is fried allow cicerchiata to come to room temperature.  Transfer cicerchiata to a large bowl.
14. Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan bring honey to a simmer over low heat. Simmer at low heat, stirring occasionally, until honey is melted.
15. Gradually pour honey (reserving 59 ml or ¼-cup if shaping into a wreath) over cicerchiata stirring with a wooden spoon until well incorporated.
16. If using candied fruit, nuts or sprinkles (or all three), sprinkle over top of cicerchiata and stir to well combine.  (If shaping into a wreath, reserve a portion of the candied fruit, nuts and sprinkles to decorate wreath.)
17. To serve, spoon into a bowl, pile onto a serving dish or shape into a wreath.

Introducing C. H. Armstrong

In honor of a new friend I made this year, I'd like to introduce C. H. Armstrong to you all. Today is her book blitz, and I'm happy to be a part of this exciting venture for a very talented author!

Here is a little about her awesome new book:

The year is 1992 and Victoria Hastings Harrison Greene—reviled matriarch of a sprawling family—is dying.

After surviving the Oklahoma Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, Victoria refuses to leave this earth before revealing the secrets she’s carried for decades.

Once the child of a loving family during peaceful times, a shocking death shattered her life. Victoria came face to face with the harshness of the world. As the warm days of childhood receded to distant memory, Victoria learns to survive.

No matter what it takes.

To keep her family alive in an Oklahoma blighted by dust storms and poverty, Victoria makes choices—harsh ones, desperate ones. Ones that eventually made her into the woman her grandchildren fear and whisper about. Ones that kept them all alive. Hers is a tale of tragedy, love, murder, and above all, the conviction to never stop fighting.

LINK TO VIDEO TRAILER

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKRsh85aWDQ

All the places to find her:

LINKS TO PURCHASE

Barnes & Noble: http://tinyurl.com/BNNookBook

iBooks: http://tinyurl.com/TheEdgeOfNowhere

Kobo:  http://tinyurl.com/KoboEbook

Amazon:  http://tinyurl.com/Ebook4Kindle

Facebook:  www.facebook.com/catherinehedrickarmstrong

Linkedin:  https://www.linkedin.com/in/charmstrongbooks

 

A little about her:

 

 

AUTHOR BIO

C.H. Armstrong is an Oklahoma native transplanted in Minnesota.  A 1992 graduate of the University of Oklahoma, “Cathie”is a life-long lover of books, and staunchly outspoken on subject of banned and challenged books.  The Edge of Nowhere is her first novel and was inspired by her own family’s experiences during the 1930s Oklahoma Dust Bowl and The Great Depression.

I hope you'll have a chance to check her book out, and take the time to read a little more about her on her website and social media.

Wishing you all the best my friend!

The Best Worst Year Ever

I got the title from a good friend of mine. There was a time in her life that she was going through one of the most difficult events ever, the death of her father. But, she said, there had been so many blessings that year, that she didn't want to look back at it as the worst year of her life. The good events were so abundant, so truly from God, that she told me "It was the best worst year ever."

That got me thinking. I, too, am in one of those best/worst times right now in my life. In early December, my stress level was at an all time high. My husband and I were fighting over pretty much everything. We had four days off together for Christmas shopping and frivolity, but we were both at a power struggle for first place with ideas and "how to do everything correctly." I was at the point that I wanted to go back to work to escape the most wonderful time of the year and the man in my life. My husband's stress level had also been through the roof as well, with extra long work hours and other issues he struggled with. I couldn't find a happy thought toward him, or one iota of compassion. My aging parents lay heavily on my mind at all times, and I felt the joy being sucked right out of me.

But. . . there were several blessings that crept up sneakily. I opened an email one morning from a Pittsburgh publishing company that wanted to feature my new book on their online television show. Now, I must admit, I was more than a little suspicious that this was a fraud. I chuckled about it, secretly wishing it was true. I did a little homework, a bit of research and found out it indeed was a real event! Eight other local authors and myself included, spoke about our books for the television cameras. I'm not quite sure what may come of this, but as I always say: Any publicity is good publicity. This unknown girl who struggles to make a name for herself as an author was given this incredible opportunity. It was a dream come true. But. . .

My husband took a terrible fall during a holiday family get together. It was so bad, he ended up in the hospital. Now, I must admit, the "Christmas Cheer" was flowing pretty freely during the party. So his faculties weren't quite up to par to begin with. But when he broke facial bones and scared me and his children to death, I couldn't help but become angry with liquor and the fact that he'd come from a family that liked to indulge. I was not brought up that way. It's odd for me to see people needing a drink to have a good time. So I haven't been thrilled with this type of behavior throughout our marriage. However, a few great things did come from this. No major problems for my husband. No neck or back fractures even though it was a tumble down outdoor cement steps. And the best part: A complete change of heart. My husband has not touched a drop of alcohol since it happened. This was something I'd been praying for many years.

Another sneaky blessing came in the form of another email one day. A popular cat anthology that I'd submitted a few paragraphs to, had accepted my story! Never before in my writing career have I been "chosen" for anything. I felt as giddy as a child while I danced around my house the day I found this news out.

My brother phoned me two nights ago. He said that our mother, who has dementia, had a terrible bout of diarrhea and was bleeding. He called an ambulance to take her to the emergency room. My husband and I were in the middle of watching the movie "War Room" at the time. I had been completely immersed in the story line and hoped it was only a fluke with Mom, I must confess. She'd mentioned eating a whole box of chocolate covered cherries, and we all wondered perhaps, if it was the "red" of the cherries they were seeing. I got a call later that they were admitting Mom to the hospital to run more tests. It was indeed blood that was found.

Now anyone with a parent or loved one with dementia must realize that a hospital visit can be devastating. Mom had been in the hospital last year, and it had wreaked such havoc with her mind, she truly didn't know where she was and why my father wasn't there with her every moment and sleeping with her at night. She came home depressed from that episode and way more confused than she had been. So I fretted: would this time be like that too? I went on to Facebook and typed a quick status about Mom going into the hospital. And about sixty-five people later, prayers were being offered in a major way.

Talk about the blessing this time. Not only did my family have the stamina needed to be there for Mom, but every hospital attendant, nurse and doctor treated her extremely kind. Everyone took the extra special time to explain things patiently to her again and again, and to comfort each one of us as we awaited tests. The biggest blessing came in the form of the male nurse I'd left Mom with last evening. I stayed as long as I possibly could. The male nurse whose name was Matt, had promised me she was in good hands. But Mom wasn't having a good night. Especially since she'd needed to drink prep for stomach tests in the morning. I had a very rough night, unable to sleep much, tossing and turning from worry. Would the test have to be cancelled if my mother didn't drink enough prep? Was she giving that nice male nurse a rough time?

When my father and I arrived at the hospital this morning, I walked over to Matt the nurse. He admitted that Mom had a fairly rough go of it through the night, but he'd been with her as much as possible, actually spending several hours with her. His demeanor and way that he spoke, assured me that he had been the right nurse for the job. He'd comforted her and reassured her. And when I talked with Mom a few minutes later, she couldn't stop talking about the wonderful young man who'd been with her through most of her scary night.

Mom's tests turned out wonderfully, she went through with flying colors and even had a clean bill of health. A very small issue had caused her problems, and she would be discharged in a few hours.

I sit here tonight thinking back over a full month. From early December when I thought I couldn't take another minute from the holiday stress, to today when I thought I couldn't take another minute from how tired I was. I believe with my whole heart and everything in me that it was prayer that sustained us all through these times. My husband and I have prayed out loud together for at least five years before we go to work every morning. Is our marriage perfect, nope. But have I seen some amazing changes in both our lives, some blessings that only can truly be accounted to our Heavenly Father? You bet. And the prayers of the Facebook friends during these last few days for Mom. They weren't only for her to be "okay." Those prayers sustained every member of my family, gave us the strength, humor and tenacity needed for all that we had to do. Those prayers helped put the right people in our paths, great nurses, good doctors and a positive experience for my mother. She talked with me earlier tonight about how nice everything was. She thanked me for being there and spoke highly of her care and treatment. For someone with dementia, she was acting pretty normal.

Yes, life is hard. I've made some of my own problems, and there are others that come from the natural rhythm of things. But in the midst of some of the worst times ever have come the best ones as well. For God has promised us that He will never leave us or forsake us. He upholds us with His hand. He loves us unconditionally and He is a blesser, my friends. The things I spoke about in this blog may not look to some people like miracles or really great things. But to me and my family, they are answered prayers. And the little extras, the little sneaky bonuses I've been given on top of it all, have really made this time of my life the best ever.