Manipulation, Confrontation, Deflection and Freedom

ma·nip·u·late

  [muh-nip-yuh-leyt]  Show IPA

verb (used with object), ma·nip·u·lat·ed, ma·nip·u·lat·ing.

1.

to manage or influence skillfully, especially in an unfair manner: to manipulate people's feelings.

2.

to handle, manage, or use, especially with skill, in some process of treatment or performance: tomanipulate a large tractor.

3.

to adapt or change (accounts, figures, etc.) to suit one's purpose or advantage.

con·front

  [kuhn-fruhnt]  Show IPA

verb (used with object)

1.

to face in hostility or defiance; oppose: The feuding factions confronted one another.

2.

to present for acknowledgment, contradiction, etc.; set face to face: They confronted him withevidence of his crime.

3.

to stand or come in front of; stand or meet facing: The two long-separated brothers confronted eachother speechlessly.

4.

to be in one's way: the numerous obstacles that still confronted him.

5.

to bring together for examination or comparison.

deflect  (dɪˈflɛkt)
— vb
	to turn or cause to turn aside from a course; swerve

free·dom

  [free-duhm]  Show IPA

noun

1.

the state of being free or at liberty rather than in confinement or under physical restraint: He won hisfreedom after a retrial.

2.

exemption from external control, interference, regulation, etc.

3.

the power to determine action without restraint.

4.

political or national independence.

5.

personal liberty, as opposed to bondage or slavery: a slave who bought his freedom.

Over seven months ago, I confronted someone about manipulation, specifically gossiping in a manner which resulted in alienation of affection of several relationships which were important to me.  I gave detailed instances--time, place, and persons involved.  

At first, there was denial.  I was told that was my perspective, with the blatant implication it was skewed.  Then there was an apology.  Apologies are weak and lame without behavioral changes to back them up.  When the rubber met the road--I wanted this person and myself to meet with another party tainted in careless talking--the one who apologized suddenly vanished from the negotiation table.  Complete, utter, silent disappearance from communication.

Cue Cyndi Lauper, I saw true colors.  

Before the incriminating disappearance, an attempt was made to take the position of upper hand:  I was accused of being angry.  The offender was not angry, I was angered, thus I was in sin.  It was a manipulative deflection from a self-awarded position of righteousness. 
     

Of course I was angry.  Relationship after relationship was being meddled with.      

Bishop T.D. Jakes, of whom I have the utmost respect, wrote:

• Forgiveness is not overlooking, ignoring, or denying a hurt or an offense, and it does not require your anger to disappear.

People, anger serves the purpose of letting you and others know you have been violated.  It is a legitimate emotion.  When handled improperly, it leads to trouble, but feeling it in response to a violation--don't let anyone condemn you for a marker the Lord gave to sit up and realize something is very wrong.  A manipulator will absolutely try to take that power from you, anything to shut you up and take the heat off them.   

More from Bishop Jakes:

• Forgiveness is not excusing damaging or wrong behavior.
• Forgiveness does not rob you of personal power or exonerate the person who hurt you.

             The person I confronted spoke of tears and how hurt they were--that they'd been confronted!  If anyone in your life doles out relational abuse, deems themselves not responsible, then judges you for a legitimate reaction to their behavior, there's a serious, diabolical problem.  You have every right to separate yourself from this person until the behavior has been rectified.     

• Forgiveness does not trivialize your trauma or lessen the pain you have experienced.
• Forgiveness is not forgetting the hurtful or harmful things people have done or pretending those things never happened.
• Forgiveness does not mean you should restore trust in someone who hurt you or that you should have an ongoing relationship with that person.

This is where well-meaning Christians miss the mark, pushing people back to accepting relationship from abusers without requiring the abuser to show, take or have any responsibility for reforming their behavior.  It is ridiculous when one thinks about it in light of relationship with Christ.  After professing belief in Jesus and His main mission on earth, dying in atonement for our sins, there is the necessary acknowledgement of one's personal sin and repenting of it.

When someone places their behavior, their very being, above this, there is a name for them, a manipulator.  See highlighted portions above.  There are vast differences between forgiveness, restoration and reconciliation. Forgiveness is always in order for the Christian.  Always.  Restoration and reconciliation are dependent upon the actions of the other party.

    

So do you forgive a manipulator?  Of course.  Unequivocally yes.  To forgive means to release them into God's competent Hands, to not seek revenge, to allow God to deal with the person in His timing and in the manner He chooses, acknowledging that vengeance is His, He is just, and He knows the hearts of all men.  

Since we do not know the hearts of all men, we use wisdom to search for what the Bible calls fruit.  Essentially, what are the results of their life?    

If there is no demonstration of remorse or attempts to mend damage, nothing to evidence the person is sorry for the behavior or intends to do better, it'd be, well I hate to say stupid, but stupid it would be to re-invest yourself in someone who will surely continue to disrupt your life given the chance.  Apologies spoken to hastily end conversation, to restore one to the position of power to abuse, ring hollow.  That is also manipulation.  Listen for the echo--no change of behavior.  

Do you have to re-enter relationship with a manipulator?  No.

Must you forgive?  Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.  

Why?  

Also from Bishop Jakes, forgiveness...

• liberates you from your past and sets you free to embrace your future
• unburdens you soul of agonies that could infect every area of your life for the rest of your life
• relieves that emotional ache you cannot seem to escape, the one that holds you back when you try to move forward and weighs you down when you try to rise up
• takes a realistic assessment of the damage done to your soul, accepts that, and takes deliberate steps toward healing
• will release you to a new level of purpose, vision, creativity, vitality, intimacy with others, and success in every area of your life
• is essential if you are going to grow into the fullness of the person God created you to be--and it is indispensable to fulfilling your destiny
• is one of the best gifts you can ever give yourself

And even more wisdom from Bishop Jakes:  "Most of the time, people who will disregard and devalue you to the point of committing a serious wrong against you or hurting you deeply do not care enough about you to apologize."  

  

Trust is to be given wisely, cautiously, and when broken, the onus is upon the offending party to earn it back.  Words alone don't cut it, though a declaration of intention is good if it is followed through with action to back it.  The Bible commands us to forgive, to release the offender and the offenses to God.  There are no passages commanding trust in man. Forgive, yes.  Love, yes.  And in cases of continuing abuse, that can be adequately done from a healthy distance called a boundary.

Pray a prayer of release for yourself and for the offender.  Say their name, releasing them and their deeds to the Lord.  Say it as many times as is necessary.  Bless your enemy.  Pray for their needs to be met, for the Lord to forgive them, for they surely don't realize the magnitude of what they've done.  Praying for someone softens your heart toward them so that bitterness does not flourish there.  If it has, repent of that, ask the Lord to cleanse you of it, and believe that He will do it.  Don't accept condemning thoughts from the father of lies, satan, and don't accept condemnation from a person who will not change abusive behavior toward you.
  

Walk in the light and love of the Lord.  Walk freely!  You were never meant to be imprisoned by another's actions on this earth, and refusing to forgive holds you prisoner in your own heart. Free the offender!  Free yourself!

Do realize that where there is not reconciliation, others may deem you to be unforgiving.  Let them have their thoughts.  You do not have to defend your right to free yourself from emotional, spiritual, physical or any other kind of abuse.  This is between you, God, and a person who may or may not wish to be in relationship with you.  

Trust that the Lord will show you when/if the time is right for restoration and reconciliation.   

Then keep walking.     

Hearty Potato & Sausage Chowder

Hearty Potato & Sausage Chowder

1/4 cup butter or margarine
1 ½ cups (1 large) thinly sliced onion
3 Tblsp all purpose flour
3 cups (3 medium) cubed 3/4-inch potatoes
4 cups milk
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 tsp pepper
2 cups (8 oz.) shredded Cheddar 
8 ounces (2 medium) cooked Polish sausages, cut into 1/4 inch slices

In 3-quart saucepan melt butter.  Stir in onion; cook over medium heat until tender (4 - 5 minutes).  Stir in flour until smooth and bubbly (1 minute).  Stir in potatoes, milk, salt and pepper.  Cover; continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until potatoes are fork tender (25 - 30 minutes).  Stir in cheese and sausage.  Continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until cheese is melted and sausage is heated through, (2 - 3 minutes).

That’s the recipe from Land O Lakes Treasury of Country Heritage Meals and Menus.

Now here’s how I cook it.  I mix together the flour, salt and pepper and put it in where the flour is called for, similar to making gravy.  This business about stirring occasionally does not work!  Stir frequently, I use a wooden spatula to get all the way to the bottom, or you’ll have potatoes stuck on the pot that’ll take two days to soak off!  Whatever you do, don’t let this scorch.  It will ruin the taste.  Ask me how I know that.  I use red potatoes because they don’t cook to mush, however if you’d like the potatoes to be extra soft, you could use a baking type potato.  With the leftovers, add a little milk when you warm it; it stretches the soup, and to my palate always seems to need it anyway.  

Meeting of the Minds?

More like passed each other in the intersection.

From time to time Mr. A mentions how his mother cooked cubed potatoes in a skillet for breakfast, a delicious home-cooked memory for him.  

This morning I decided to cook some like that for him, knowing full well it wouldn't be as good as his mother's, but I tried anyway.  There was slicing and chopping; potatoes, onions, and sausage were involved, a sizzle from the drizzle of olive oil in the skillet, then a few cracks of eggs, and a nice breakfast materialized.

He was still coming to consciousness at the table, one of many aspects of opposites attracting us being I'm wide awake at first light, but he said something that resembled acute cognitive awareness, "I heard you in here playing Chopin."

I thought and said how clever that was, the symphony of kitchen clangs creating the music of his breakfast.

He said, "How it's spelled."  

I said, "C-H-O-P-I-N."

He said, "Yeah, choppin'!"

Then, "You'll never figure out how my mind works."

Probably not, but it makes me laugh, every day.

Hardened Hearts

What did
my generation
want
for their children?
All
the best schools
the right clothing
the new truck
the latest iPhone
the popular activities
the best
of everything
two incomes
could buy
and what
do
parents 
in Third World
countries
want
for their children?
Enough food to live
a few garments
to cover
their nakedness
the opportunity
for an education
and should
that opportunity
present itself
the girls
might be
kidnapped
for the pleasure
of sick bastards
the boys 
might forego
in order
to go to war
or
to work
for
a bite
of food
while people
fat
and satisfied
resent
their desires
question
their motives
afraid
they may
have to share
from the hoard
of junk
which crowds out
their family members
in homes
lovely
on the exterior
only
the rich
resent
the poor
for intruding
then go
to church
to worship
Jesus--
turned away
from lodging
born
in a barn
soon
to flee
His country
His earthly father
warned
in a dream
of murderous
intentions
for His life
Was
this little family
well received
in Egypt
or spurned
did they,
refugees,
hide
and come out
only
to work
on the fringe
doing jobs
the Egyptians
despised
a skilled carpenter
harvesting
olives
pomegranates
ever fearful
they'd be sent
back
to the place
where murder
was their destiny?
People crave
a taste
of what 
we gorge upon
and we 
hate them
for their hope
and
callously
wish them back
to their
waking nightmare
so as not
to disturb
the American
dream
they'll die
of lack
while
we die
of excess
these beggars 
named Lazarus
will be comforted
and the rich
who would not
share
will discover
they'd grown
too fat
to fit
through 
the eye
of the needle.

Throwback Thursday July 24, 2014

Stunt cyclist, 1967ish, 4 years old  

My best guess is 1967, as that is the year my mother cut my waist length hair because of the rat's nests.  That's what she called the massive tangle of curls which was entirely, genetically, her fault.  The tricycle was red and I loved it. It was not long before I got my first bicycle with training wheels, a gold Hedstrom, and I promptly demanded Daddy take off the training wheels.  

I liked a challenge, living on the edge, even when my age was in the single digits.  

In my early teens, I saw a neighborhood boy riding a unicycle, and I decided I must do that, too.  I asked for and received one for Christmas.  I got two paint poles out of the utility room and used them like ski poles for balance until I learned to ride without them.  My Grannie later told me my mother said she didn't think I'd ever ride it, but Grannie told her I would.  

And I did.  I'm 14 here.    

This wasn't enough.  I would sneak off with a friend who had a vintage Harley and go riding with him.  We once clocked over a hundred miles an hour and another time went airborne after hitting a root in the Blue Springs region.  I had to sneak because I was forbidden to ride motorcycles.  My mother had seen some gruesome injuries when she worked in the emergency room, even described them to me.  It made no difference.  I wanted to ride a motorcycle and I did.  The last @$$-whoopin' I got was for doing just that.  It didn't stop me.  

Freshman year, same friend and I were supposed to go to graduation that year and play Pomp and Circumstance for the seniors.  The volunteer band was missing a tuba player and a clarinetist because we, dressed rather nicely, went motorcycle riding.  I had on yellow dress slacks and wedge sandals and I lifted my legs as high as I could when we rode through the dip at Cherry Creek so as not to get my clothes wet.  I got away with it that time.     

I wonder sometimes where this spirited girl went, but there is no question at all it was thoroughly and irrevocably in my genes:

My older son is standing; my baby boy is rappelling.  

More than once, a disapproving comment was made to me about the climbing nature of my baby boy.  To the best of my recollection, I never once tried to hinder him.  How could I deny something I'd genetically bequeathed to him?

I'd climbed my share of tall South Georgia pines, and it was one of my favorite things to do.  I roller skated, forward, backward, and as fast as I humanly could.  

Skating, I can tell you, is not like riding a bicycle.  I donned some roller skates in my mid-thirties, went one round, promptly exited the skate floor and took those off.  I'm 51 now, and have not, won't, try that again.  I will grow older as gracefully as I can, but there is a part of me which still longs for an adventure.  

Not some tacky midlife crisis, but a true adventure.  I look forward to blogging about it, whatever it may be.  

Mama

Mine.  

Yours.

The day you have to let her go.  

The days, weeks or months preceding the time she exhales her last breath...and the time afterwards.  

I'm not an expert, but I've been in your shoes.  I scrolled through my Facebook news feed this morning, and near the top was a heart cry of someone in the agonizing wait, the transition of her mother from this part of eternity to the next.  Then there was another post which was foreboding.  Another daughter in mental and emotional pain over her mother's physical suffering.  

The words were not abundant in either post, but a person reading them who has walked that difficult road didn't need many to know.  Our mothers, in physical agony, give us life, and we, in emotional agony, release them from this world.

Once, I left the hospital for a short while and sat at a restaurant in the mall drinking something, God knows what, I forgot, maybe a Coke or sweet tea. Sitting by myself at the mall drinking a cool beverage wasn't something I'd ordinarily do; I simply needed to take a break from the surroundings my mother could not escape.  Life seemed so unfair at that moment.  I was 39 years old, able to come and go as I wished, and my mother, someone who'd always relished her independence, was tethered to an oxygen machine and IV fluid lines.  My break was physical only, as my mind and heart remained a couple of miles away where she was.    

How many times I wondered about what was going through her mind.  She sat on the edge of the bed calmly waiting for death.  After a career spent mostly in geriatric nursing, she knew exactly what, when, and how...and would that have been a mental torment in addition to the physical suffering? She didn't elaborate, true to her form.  I asked her once if she'd like to lie back and she said matter-of-factly, "I can't breathe."  She did say she wasn't afraid. And she wasn't.      

As she waited, she requested something I'd never done for her, a bath.  Mom was a borderline hoarder, her home a dusty, chaotic mess of practical and sentimental items she couldn't part with, but her personal hygiene was beyond meticulous.  She wouldn't go barefoot because she couldn't stand the grit of sand on her feet.  I gently washed her back, her feet, and she, not much of one for praise, said I did a good job.  

As the youngest of her four children, I doubt she'd expected that I'd be the one attending her.  It didn't seem likely.  I wasn't nurse material.  I had older siblings.  Two were incapacitated.  One she seemed to favor a bit more than the rest of us, was present, but there are things pertaining to a woman's dignity which are preferably done by a daughter.  

Mom legally appointed me to speak for her in the event she couldn't speak for herself because she knew I would, and I did.  To say no to a medication which would elevate her dropping blood pressure was hard to do, especially when I was required to sign a paper documenting the refusal, but the temporary condemnation of the enemy saying I was signing her death warrant was overcome by the memory of her frank words, "There are things worse than death."  She, helpless in a bed, rather than caring for someone in that predicament, was one of them.      

The day before she lost consciousness, when Mom and I were alone in her hospital room, she looked at me with her dark green eyes, pupils almost indiscernible, and said, "I know you'll be all right."  Even on the brink of death, her piercing eye contact was unnerving.  (Her best friend of over four decades, prior to becoming that, admitted she'd called her "Mean Eyes" behind her back.)    

Mom knew I'd be all right because I was the one most like her, good, bad, and ugly, a survivor, a scrapper, one who loved deeply, just most people didn't realize it because they saw only the 'don't cross my line or I'll push you back over it' side.  Our likenesses caused us to butt heads a number of times, a battle of wills which sometimes made Armageddon sound like child's play.  

I have few nurturing mother stories to tell.  One I do have came after her death.  I was in bed, burning up with a fever, and I sensed her presence, laying her hand across my forehead as she would when I was a child.  Some might say I was delirious, and I have considered that possibility myself, but ultimately concluded she was checking on me.

She had left my presence bodily, but the essence of her which cared deeply had not died.

She had a vision about heaven once, said the Lord spoke to her, told her He was going to give her a glimpse, just a glimpse, of what was to come.  It was so overwhelmingly beautiful and peaceful, she, ordinarily articulate, had trouble describing.  I believe that is what sustained her to the point her worn out earthly body would be exchanged for an incorruptible eternal one.

You may be told, with reasonable accuracy, when the end will come, but knowing it will happen and seeing it happen are two entirely different things. Be as brave as you can for your mother because hearing is the last sense to depart before her spirit.  (My mother taught me that when I was a teenager.  She was caring for two young men in the nursing home, both comatose, and she said she always told them what she was doing and why because she believed emphatically, and in contradiction to the medical science she practiced, that they were aware.) 

It is the oddest feeling, burying one's last parent.  It is as if one's boat has lost its anchor.  In the stablest of lives, which I was fortunate mine was, there is a compartment which feels uncontrollably adrift.  As long as my mother was living, I knew I had a place to go if I found myself in the position of having no other place to go.  I wouldn't have wanted to dwell among the mess of possessions she loved, but knowing I could if I had to was a back-of-the-mind comfort.  

Whatever age you are when your mother dies, you are finally, completely on your own.  

The lost feeling dissipates in time.  Be patient with yourself until that time comes.  

You become re-anchored in the strength she instilled in you.  You remember her wise responses to all manner of life's complications.  If she was a sweetheart, you cherish that, you give thanks she gave you life and taught you how to live it.  In cases where mothers fell short, bottom line, you are here, and she was responsible for that.  Whatever sacrifices she undertook to make that happen, God willing, you will come to a place of gratitude for that.

You'll get up each morning and go about your life on a grace I call autopilot. When the autopilot grace has done its job, the permanence of her absence on earth sets in, you continue on anyway, forced to be a little stronger. Everyone's journey of grief recovery is different, so I won't be so presumptuous as to tell you what the rest is like because I don't know.

I do know you will survive, the shroud of grief will eventually lift, though you'll always miss her, and the Words in the Bible about weeping enduring for a night, but joy coming in the morning show themselves to be completely and utterly true.  

In the meantime, know that everyone who has walked where you walk now cares deeply, they wish they could spare you this heartache, they know they can't, so they say prayers they believe will carry you through.  And they will.

My prayer for you is that the peace Christ promises which exceeds all human understanding will surround you now and always.

Rest in peace, Lillian Yvonne Allen Sutton, July 31, 1934 - January 21, 2003

Mom, front row, second from right