I want to write something fun and light. A bandaid for my heart as well as yours. Problem is, when I ignore my heart it beats the crap out of me, pounding until… I GIVE.

So, go ahead heart, blab away.

One day I was watching my Mom iron a fussy, starched white blouse with a bow. Walking away, she says, “Don’t touch the iron, it’s hot.” The pain I felt testing her warning by placing my hand flat on the iron is my earliest childhood memory. OUCH!

After that, albeit not the brightest child, but with potential, I trusted that irons were HOT. Life provides unlimited lessons. I picture God shaking His head, like the good Father He is, cringing as I take an inevitable life-slap, directly after an I-KNEW-BETTER choice.

Truth is, sitting with my Father, discussing my rebellious nature and knack for selective hearing is often bittersweet. A time of intimacy snuggled next to our Heavenly Father, lapping up His mercy and grace like a rain-soaked kitten in front of the fire.


When my children place their tiny hand on the hot iron? It seers my heart.

Even worse? When their adult choices go beyond a dollop of Aloe Vera cream and a scolding… it’s unbearable. That sense of dé•jà vu haunts while ghosts from the past point accusing fingers at not only my choices, but those of my ancestors. I smell the aroma from our historical family recipe, peppered with substance abuse, spiced with unresolved anger.

I’ve stared into this murky pool before. It’s behind me… beside me… and now… it’s in front of me, staring back through the eyes of my children. A family portrait in a gilded frame, eyes forward, posing behind smiling masks.

A tired script – been there – done that. A story written, told, shredded and burned. A noxious weed, pulled, and tossed only to sprout again, not in my neighbor’s lawn, but my children’s yard. A nasty bug, swatted, smashed, killed, and yet… it lives.

What can I do? I’m a Mom. Mom’s do… incapable of idleness.

Back on my Heavenly Father’s lap. Only this time we discuss my children’s choices. With no condemnation, He stirs the murky pool of my past mistakes with His finger. He comforts me while I spit pellets of but… but… but…

In the pool I see a brittle, cold, dying heart. It’s my heart. Or, it was mine, before He softened it. As He continues to stir the pool, four letters swirl to the top –

H –O – P – E


  1. very descriptive writing sorry it took me so long to read it I expect it to be as long as the others. Pellets with the p or bullets with a b I know the expression as bullets.

  2. It is no fun to be powerless over something we can see ourselves having so much positive influence in. Yes we are comforted by where we are now after struggling, as we now see & want to correct our loved ones doing. We hopefully have the faith in Him, we project in our own lives, when it comes to those around us who for whatever reason refuse to see and use our experience to diminish their own painful lessons. Funny how we too rejected much great advice and survived to live peaceful contented lives……Thanx Deb as always

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *