Category Archives: love

Turn Around

Turn Around

When I think of my spirituality today, I can’t help but think of my younger days.
Sitting in that church with my family wondering when will this be over.
Having that small rubber ball that I would roll from one end of the pew to bouncing back to me was at the time the only thing that kept my mind busy.
That in itself should’ve been bad enough I suppose.
However, I was sitting in the first pew and my mother was the one at the podium preaching.
Looking down every so often with that horror look in her eyes that was telling me.
“Just wait ‘til you get home.”
Which, as a kid seemed like an eternity.
“She’ll forget most likely.” I would think to myself.
But she never did.
“Someday.’’ She would say. “You’ll look for God.”
However at that age the only thing I was looking for was getting out of this monkey suit that was my Sunday cloths I would have to wear.
Off would come those dress pants that I couldn’t run in or kneel down in the tall grass to play with my small metal matchbox cars.
Off with that shirt that I couldn’t drink anything that would stain my front with.
Off with that tie – even though it was a clip on, I still had to have my top button fastened to keep it on.
What a pain.
To finally having my shorts back on.
My favorite T-shirt, which was at the time, The Six Million Dollar Man running.
Along with my old sneakers.
No socks of course.
As time moves on and life turns, those moments I would laugh when my mother would bring them up.
There was even a time in my earlier teens that I looked forward to Sunday’s.
Dressing up in my finest clothes, even thinking that maybe I’ll go further in my religious education like my mom did.
‘Til I fell in love.
Not that that should of stopped me, it was love.
I had always thought I’d make the right choice.
But as time moves on that small rubber ball, that ambition to further my religious views, even that small little boy with a clip on tie was forgotten.
Even that feeling of dressing up on Sundays.
Heck, even my girl is gone – moving on with her life, getting married and having kids of her own.
To this date, that is still one of my biggest amendments I have had to make.
The time I took from her.
In the end my mom was right, I did look for God.
Asking for the impossible, expected to be heard, ‘til I was praying, please not again – not again.
I had moved so far away from God that when I finally wanted him I could not see.
How blind I was.
As time went by, having those thoughts go in and out of my head like.
“Is there even a God?”
“What if we’re wrong?”
“What if they’re right?”
Going from wanting to believe to not even thinking about it.
As long as you had what I needed or wanted.
Years ago my mother had given me a gold cross.
I wore it for a short time then placed it around my rear mirror of my vehicle.
Over time I hung another cross.
A small Ankhs.
The Pagan star.
The Hindu symbol.
Even a crows feather.
At the time one of my friends mother’s evening gave me a Jewish star.
I’m not Jewish.
I had so many religious symbols hanging that when I put the brakes on I had to hold them back in fear that they would hit and crack my windshield.
I was always looking at that time in my life.
I used to bring a coworker in to work with me Monday through Friday.
She would give me gas money that sadly went into my tank instead of the cars.
One day she asked me, “If I was into religion?”
I can tell you that I was horrified!
“What do you mean?” I asked her.
“Why would you even say that?” I added.
She just looked at me and pointed to all the cluster of items hanging from my rear mirror.
“Oh these.” I said, looking back at her.
“Well, one of these are bound to work.” I said.
That’s how I look at it.
As time moved on and life turns I have found a God of my understanding with the help of others.
Not the one I was introduced to as a child or that young man looking to furthering his religious education.
Not even the ones I looked for hanging down from my rear mirror.
When I do talk about my spirituality today to people I will often say,
“That my spirituality is not the same as yesterday.
Or a week ago, a year, or ten years.
It’s always changing and growing.
As long as I seek it out.”
There has been many times that I can look at in my life that God has had my back. Looking out for me in spite of myself.
I’ve heard, “That God watches over drunken fools.”
Well, I fit both of those categories throughout the years of my using.
Heck, even some of my sober years when making some really bad decisions.
God was there.
But when I stopped running.
Stopped looking for things that was not part of God’s plan for me.
What ever they may be.
All the searching in my life for something.
Some power outside of myself.
When I finally gave over my will, God was always there.
All I had to do was Turn Around…

Mexican Apple P…

Mexican Apple Pie

Here’s a story of my dad’s cooking gone bad.
The morning started out the same for the last couple of days.
Dad, knowing where he was and who he was – not a big deal to some – if you know that – but dad has been forgetting a lot lately due to getting older.
The church had given us some apples early this week – just because, well, that’s what they do – just – you know what I mean.
Anyway, seeing the apples on the counter as I was making my lunch gave me an idea.
“Dad, would you peel and slice the apples so I can make a pie after work?”
“ Sure,” dad said.
“Just set them out on the counter.”
“They’re on the counter already,” “I said.”
“ No, they’re in the refrigerator.”
“No, they’re on the counter.”
“Are you sure?” “Dad asked.”
“Pretty sure, dad,” not telling him that I was looking right at them in front of me.
“Well, just make sure they’re out so I can peel them.”
“Yah, pa. I will.”
Like I said earlier, dad tends to forget.
On coming home I went to the refrigerator to get some water.
Looking down I noticed a pan covered with aluminum foil – not that that was a surprise.
It seems we always have bowls and platters but no covers. The day I open the package of plastic wear the covers must be getting thrown out along with all the wrappings.
None can be found.
Maybe I should ask Dad – nah.
“Thanks, dad, for slicing up the apples,” as I closed the refrigerator door.
Going into the living room where Dad was watching T.V., he said,
“Did you see what I did?”
“Yah. Thanks,” “I said.”
“No,” “He says.”
“ I made the pie.”
“Oh God,” “I thought.”
“Well,” “I said.”
“I was going to get the stuff to make it tonight at the store.”
“We had the stuff in the refrigerator,” “He says.”
“We did?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you ever look?”
“Yah, but we had no cinnamon,” “I thought to myself.”
“You know you’ve got to look around sometimes to see what we have to work with.”
“Yah, pa, you’re right.”
Feeling like I just stepped into a bad Abbott and Costello skit. Who’s on first deal.
After supper, dad sitting back in his chair, my partner handing him a piece of pie along with one for himself – please don’t ask why I didn’t get one – that’s a story for a different time – those who know my partner – just know.
Anyway, out from the kitchen I hear,
“What the heck is this?”
“Is what?,” “I asked.”
“What I’m eating>”
“I don’t know. I don’t have ESP.”
“Is this supposed to be apple pie?”
“Yes, for Pete’s sake. I made that today,” “Dad says.”
“You did?”
“Yes – why does no one believe that I can still cook around here.”
“Well, I thought we had no cinnamon,” “I told him.”
“Oh, for goodness sake. Am I the only one who looks around the house to make stuff to eat”.
“No,” my partner said.
“I usually look around the kitchen if I’m going to cook something.”
“Not the whole house.”
Once again I’m back in that Abbott and Costello skit.
“What’s in this?,” “He asks.”
“Apples!,” “Dad yells over the T.V..”
“Yah, I know that. But what are these little brown pieces?” and “Why’s it so hot?”
“It’s hot from cooking,” “Dad says.”
“It is? Well, what time did you make it?”
Dad, once again yelling over the T.V. “This morning. Then I put it in the refrigerator.”
“So it’s been in the fridge at least five hours and it’s still hot?”
“I don’t know why,” “He shoots back.”
Looking over at my father as I picked up his plate,
“Dad, just what did you put in the pie?”
“The stuff from the fridge,” “He said.”
“What stuff?,” (i.e. – on the word stuff – let me clarify – that could be anything that ends up in the refrigerator – eggs, soda, socks).
Going over to the counter where the pie now sits, taking a small mouthful, I realized it is hot and looking very red.
“Is there hot sauce in this thing?” my partner says from the table.
“My God, there is hot sauce in this.”
“Dad, what did you make the apple pie with?” yelling from the kitchen.
“Oh, I’m getting really tried of you two thinking I can’t cook,” “He yells back.”
“No one said that, dad. I’m just asking.”
Going over to the table hearing my dad yelling,
“Fine. I’ll never cook again.”
To my partner saying,
“Fine. You’re banned from cooking.”
And me, waiting for that 50’s show music to start playing do do do do.
Thinking, this is my life.
Oh God, this is my life.
Going over to my partner to get his plate.
“Here let me throw that away.”
“Throw what away?”
“The pie!”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yah.”
“Where?”
“I ate it.”
“You did?”
“Yah.”
“But I thought you didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t.”
“But you ate it?”
“I was hungry>”
Like I said, dad sometimes forgets and apparently so does my partner.
Oh, and before I forget…here’s the new recipe in our house.

Poppoes’ Mexican Apple Pie

1 Bag crab apples
Peeled and sliced
Wash with dish soap until bubbles are gone
Place in pie bowl – cover not needed
Add sugar to taste
1 large tablespoon salt
1 dash over shoulder
A handful of bacon bits
2 dashes of hot sauce
2 more for coloring
Bake in oven @ 700 degrees
For 5 minutes
Or until hot sauce bubbles

P.S. Come to think of it – serve in hard Taco shell with a two finger scoop of whipped cream – ice cream on the side – for your very own piece of Mexican Apple Pie…

My Father’s H…

My Father’s Hands

This thought came to me when I was sitting down next to my father in the hospital.
Dad was in again due to his breathing or lack of.
He had asked me to trim his fingernails for him.
As I was trimming them I saw for the first time just how old his hands looked.
All the wrinkles of time, to all the age spots showing.
I couldn’t get over just how old my dad had become while lying in this hospital bed.
Looking at my own hands and seeing how they’re shaping up now.
The small traces of lines forming from time – the age spots slowly being seen.
As I held my father’s hands it came to me all the things his hands had held throughout these years.
From holding my grandmother’s hand to his horse Major’s reins to the simple thing as a cup of water to his lips.
There is history in all our hands.
From tying our first shoe laces to that first button down shirt.
I started to see the past of my father within those hands.
He would tell me about the farm he grew up on.
Those hands moved dirt and tools to farm with.
Off to war so people like me can live with freedom freely.
From holding his mother’s hands to his first date.
To his wife as they started their life together.
Holding on to my brothers; then to me in the end.
His hands have felt the touch of so many things in life – that looking at them now made me realize how my life or better yet – just what my hands have touched so far in life.
My father told me once that you could tell a lot about someone with just their handshake.
To look someone in the eyes when shaking their hand meant something at one point.
That deals were done upon their word and a handshake.
How much we placed upon that.
When I started my journey in recovery who knew all the things that my hands would touch.
All those handshakes at meetings.
From being welcomed in.
To the one welcoming people in.
To see people bound with just that simple handshake.
You can see the friendships starting up that will last one day at a time.
How easily we can forget to hold on to those hands when we think it’s going too bad.
Looking down at my own hands again and seeing my father’s hands looking back.
Maybe not as much has touched them like my father’s – but God willing they’ll get there.
Trying not to forget that it all started with me holding on to that drink, thinking that my life should be so much better if only “they” would leave me alone.
Never realizing that my life was unmanageable because of that drink.
How much money passed between these hands to pay for the things that ended up destroying my life in the end.
Finishing up trimming my dad’s’ fingernails and really seeing for the first time just where my life was going today.
To knowing just what my hands touch on a daily basis.
The handshakes that greet us to the handshakes that bind us in life.
Being responsible in what my hands hold onto throughout today. Working on my fathers’ nails was just another God shot in how I interact with all my affairs today.
Being mindful of where I’ve been, to now.
As I let go of My Fathers’ Hands…