"Mary, did you know you could have said no?"

This year I discovered a tiny part of the Christmas story I never noticed before. As I listened to a pastor read the familiar passage in the book of Luke, something jumped out at me. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus.” Luke 1:30-31

It did not say, “Guess what, Mary, you are pregnant, (and how you got that way is complicated) but this is what you are going to do.” Gabriel told her what was going to happen before it did. This meant Mary had an opportunity to say no. Wow. I never thought about that. There’s that amazing gift of free will, even in the most critical world changing moment. I wonder if God even had a backup plan if she declined. Was there a group of “Mary Runners-up?”

That was Mary’s chance to say, “No, thank you. I’m flattered but I think I’ll pass.” Instead, what Mary did was go right into the storm with nothing but tremendous blind faith and obedience - even though she had to know it was not going to be easy and she probably felt in her spirit that it would break her heart at some point. However, she knew the mission was worth the price she would pay and that there would be beautiful blessings along the way that would belong to only her.

I think this passage jumped out at me because of a question someone asked me recently. I had just described some of the intense problems we had experienced over the past year, extremely severe issues regarding the children we serve that were way beyond anything we had seen in almost twenty years. The level of trauma and resulting behavior have been staggering.

“After everything you have been through with the children you serve, has it caused you to re-think whether you should include children at Blue Monarch?”

Yikes.  My immediate response was, “Absolutely not! It makes me want to serve them better.” I couldn't help but briefly imagine what might have happened if some of those families had not come to Blue Monarch for help.

I have the amazing privilege and honor of working with some incredible women of God. Every person on our staff comes to work each day not knowing what she will face before the day is out. She may get called a “big fat (blank)” and spit on by an angry child, or she may see a mother finally reunited with her children after we have prayed and cried with her and poured countless hours through the treacherous process to restore her family. Both can potentially happen on the same day. It can feel like quite a roller coaster ride.

But our gifted team doesn’t turn away from this challenge. In fact, in many ways I feel I work with a team of fierce first responders. When the building is on fire, they are the ones to run directly into it rather than turn and run away. In fact, I don’t even think you can work at Blue Monarch and not be willing to run directly into the fire and never look back.

Heroes that serve heroes

We are about to enter our 20th year at Blue Monarch, which is a little overwhelming to even comprehend. But it is because I am surrounded by a team of first responders with hearts of Mary that I look forward to whatever the new year brings.

After all, we have yet to experience a year that is not full of God's breathtaking miracles that he graciously allows me to see from my worn-out front row seat. May it be a Happy New Year, indeed. 

 

"Who broke the jar?!"

Like a lot of kids my age, I had my tonsils removed when I was younger. I asked the doctor if I could keep them, and much to my mother’s regret he was happy to oblige. I came home with a sore throat, all the ice cream I could eat, and two nasty looking tonsils floating in some kind of clear liquid.  

The jar of tonsils had an important job to do and were immediately tucked away on the top shelf in my closet.  

I had a powder blue diary with flowers on the front, along with a small metal lock to keep out intruders. The tiny key was kept in a separate undisclosed location that I frequently moved for extra security. Nevertheless, I was still concerned someone might read my private thoughts, so this diary eventually became the decoy diary. It developed into a false narrative about how much I loved practicing the piano, going to church, and minding my parents - just in case.  

The real diary was out of sight strategically hidden behind the jar of tonsils. That journal described a night when my friend, Janet, and I sneaked out of her house to smoke a cigarette down by the creek and how I watched another friend steal bikini underwear from a dime store downtown. I don’t think it included how disgusting the cigarette tasted or how I lost respect for my friend for being a thief. I probably couldn’t include those things because this diary was the raw, uncut version, which meant there was a standard of badness to uphold. In the meantime, the tonsils were there to discourage anyone who might be tempted to dig.

One day I came home, and the jar of tonsils had fallen off the shelf and broken wide open on the floor. The odor was something so hideous it became the standard by which to measure all bad smells the rest of my life. I was mostly concerned about the diary and potential invasion of privacy and vowed to never put my secrets on paper again. Even to this day, I keep a dream journal but that’s it.

As I observe the incredible women of Blue Monarch, I am often impressed and amazed at their willingness to share such personal feelings, failures, and poor choices to their peers and even large crowds of strangers. They don’t start out with that level of transparency, but as they eventually reveal their true stories to others, they begin to find freedom from no longer carrying the dark, ugly secrets. 

This process is not easy and usually brings lots of tears. But once they release the ugliness into the atmosphere, we literally see the weight lifted as well. The secrets no longer hold power over them, which is why the process is so healing.

This steady building of integrity brings them to a place where honesty becomes a much easier way to live. It is often surprising how truthfulness takes so much less energy than covering up lies and keeping them straight. That can be exhausting. Just think of the time and energy that went into keeping two diaries that were nothing alike. And neither told the whole story so both were essentially worthless.

There is a crossing over point, so to speak, when we can tell a woman has reached a significant level of integrity in her recovery. It usually reveals itself in a confession with lots of tears.

This is how it often goes. She will probably leave a note on my desk with a heartfelt apology for breaking a rule and not respecting our program or staff by her indiscretion. She will come into my office, sit in the least comfortable chair because she thinks she deserves it, reach for a tissue or two when I hand her the box, and she will spill the beans about a rule she broke when she clearly knew better.

We will talk about all the red flags and how her behavior impacts her recovery. We may even discuss how the specific act was listed on her own plan to prevent possible relapse, and then we will talk about how to go forward. She will later dissect each step of the act with our counselor and program director to examine the thought pattern that caused her to stumble. 

But sometimes I almost have to smile privately to myself because whatever “it” was, will typically be much less severe than even the smallest crime she committed before coming to Blue Monarch. The comparison will be dramatic.  

This is such a tangible indication of how the woman's world has shifted. Her standard for honesty has changed and she desires a clean heart over a deceitful one. An act that was not even worth noting in her old life feels completely unacceptable in her new life, and she recognizes how it may lead to other poor choices if gone unchecked. Where she may have previously allowed her pride to get in the way, she will come to us for accountability, which demonstrates great humility and maturity.

It is evident the children we serve have paid close attention to their parents’ behavior. It shows in their language and actions and some things may take a while to reteach. But as our moms and kids heal and recover together, they will also pay close attention to moments like this one. The day Mommy decided to be honest will make an impression on her children because they will see the relief and freedom reflected on her face.  

Our program is lengthy with many hiccups and struggles along the way but there is a brilliant rainbow at the end of that crooked road. With every day, we get one step closer to the moment that family will look back and be proud of their journey together. They will say, "Look what we did! It was a tough one, but we did it with integrity and honesty." 

Now that I think about it, maybe it’s time to tell my mom about the real diary and stop wondering who broke the jar.  I believe that’s what the women of Blue Monarch would tell me to do.

The righteous lead blameless lives; blessed are their children after them. Proverbs 20:7 NIV

 

 

"But I love the boogie man! And I miss him."

He was snaggle toothed, needed a haircut in a bad way, and had a smile that would melt your heart. Those were all the things we could see on the outside. What we couldn’t see were all the dark things swirling around on the inside that should never belong to a child.

Little did we know, this six-year-old boy was withdrawing from alcohol when he walked through our doors, something he had enjoyed since he was a toddler. His mother had not disclosed this information because of her shame for allowing it to happen in the first place. And Lucas probably thought it was something all little boys did, that all children had hangovers from time to time. So, while the other kids at Blue Monarch were “jonesing” for Sundrop, he was craving Budweiser.  

Apparently, alcohol was not the only thing Lucas was suddenly doing without. We later learned his father thought it was “educational” to allow him to view things on TV that even adults shouldn’t see. Things I’m sure were burned into his young, impressionable mind that will be difficult, if not impossible, to erase.

One thing abundantly clear was that Lucas was attached to his daddy and going through withdrawal from him along with everything else. Naturally we wanted to encourage his relationship with his dad, but it didn’t take long to discover this was not a good idea.

Time after time we drove to meet Lucas’ father for weekend visits, and he wouldn’t show up. It was one lousy excuse after another and none of them made the disappointment less painful for Lucas. Each time our staff exchanged angry threads of text messages as we hurt along with him. The few times the father did show up, it became clear he was exposing Lucas to drugs in the home, so we quickly went to court to get the visits stopped as soon as possible. Lucas was angry with us - and the judge, for keeping him from his father. We were the bad guys.

The visits were replaced by scheduled phone calls, but these were just as inconsistent and disappointing as the visits. On one occasion the dad allowed a buddy of his to get on the phone and call Lucas inappropriate, ugly names, just for fun. Fun for whom? Lucas was crushed and hung up the phone in tears. He also knew his father wasn’t taking the necessary steps to resume weekend visits, which added to his overflowing bucket of hurt.

We were relieved when Lucas’ father went to jail but that only made his son even more depressed and angry. Is it any wonder Lucas struggled in school and wasn’t interested in all the typical little boy things? It was a heavy load for a young child, and we had a limited window of time to rewire his troubled, distorted world. 

Unfortunately, the father got out of jail and the disappointing phone calls returned. But they were just as inconsistent as before. Lucas’ behavior declined, and he decided he no longer cared about consequences or even rewards. All seemed silly to him. Well, his word was “stupid.” The only thing that motivated Lucas was the hope of seeing his dad. I think he would have done anything if that man was the carrot we dangled in front of him, which was not one of our options. 

Lucas eventually revealed he was carrying an even heavier load than we thought. Just when it seemed it couldn’t get worse, we learned his father had suggested a pact between the two of them that would mean if one hurt himself, the other would as well. How much more could this boy take? The separation left him constantly wondering whether his father had followed through with their plan. Was he dead or alive?

Sometimes I think our boys have the greatest struggle at Blue Monarch. They are surrounded by women, so we work very hard to introduce strong, good men into their lives through our mentors, tutors, and volunteers. But let’s face it. No one replaces Dad, even when he is the boogie man.  

Sadly, Lucas’ story is not unique. Quite often our boys struggle with their dads being in and out of jail. That seems to be a common trigger for them, and their behavior reflects the uncertainty and pain they feel. They seem to absorb the news in a different way from our girls.  

As grim as this seems, however, we have seen great healing with our boys, which is nothing less than miraculous. I remember one boy in particular, who constantly tried to run away when he and his mother moved in. He was angry with everyone, including us, because he couldn’t see his father who was in and out of jail like a revolving door - and it was easy to blame Blue Monarch for everything.

I was driving out one day after work when I found this boy running away again. I stopped and talked with him and cleverly found a project for him to do that diverted his attention. His mother eventually joined in the activity with him. My plan seemed to work pretty well, and I was pleased with my brilliant maneuver. They enjoyed working together to get something accomplished, which also allowed him to vent some of his frustration. As he and his mother walked back to the house hand in hand, he turned to me and said, “Don’t think I don’t know what you just did.” Couldn’t get much past him. He had grown up way before his time.

That troubled boy turned into an amazing young man, though. He visited us recently and as he and I stood outside admiring our amazing campus, he said, “You know, I wish I had spent more time appreciating this beautiful place when I lived here. And I should have acted nicer on the bus.” Then after a long pause, he said, “I guess that’s my way of saying I’m sorry I didn’t always act the way I should have.” 

This young man’s father is still in and out of jail, but he is no longer haunted by the boogie man. He prays for his father and wants the best for him, but he is still able to thrive and enjoy life despite the disappointments. He holds himself to a higher standard and doesn’t allow his father to bring him down, even though I’m sure the love for his dad is still there.

As long as we continue to serve little boys, I’m sure the challenge with struggling fathers will still be a part of our lives. But I am grateful to say, with time and lots of hard work, our boys eventually learn from the boogie man instead of becoming one. 

That's what I call a powerful, answered prayer ... and it's the same one we say for Lucas. 

Lord, please guide us as we serve the boys in our care.  Let them reach for your hand and know you as Father.  Amen

  

 

Someone Give the Pink Panther a Break

I am not sure when she officially crossed over, but there was a definite point when my Great Aunt Lula gave herself permission to say whatever was on her mind – regardless of how offensive it might be.  For instance, it was not unusual for her to look at a kindhearted visitor after only a few minutes and say, “Okay, it’s time for you to leave now.”  Or to call someone, “Big Fat So-and-So” within earshot.  A few times this lack of filter made her say things completely inappropriate, some I wish I could forget.  However, I found her very entertaining, and I enjoyed her company.

One time I decided to visit Aunt Lula at her place in Florida.  Her “vacation home.”  That sounds pretty impressive, but it was actually an old, rusted, single wide trailer on a dead-end street among other mobile homes from the same era, occupied by widows, widowers, and couples around her age.  The lots were large and everyone on the street had thriving fruit trees, mostly orange.     

The ceiling in Aunt Lula’s trailer seemed especially low, the light was dim, the hallway was tight, and ants ran rampant across the kitchen counter, despite the dish of raw cucumber that was rumored to keep them away.  She was particularly fond of canned Sweet Sue chicken and dumplings with canned cranberry sauce, which was a far cry from the local seafood I assumed we would enjoy during my Florida visit.

 

As soon as I arrived, Aunt Lula took me on a marathon down one side of the street and up the other side the next day.  I met every single neighbor, except one, and visited for a while until it was time to go to the next lot and repeat the same thing.  (We did this routine all over again in reverse at the end of my visit.)  The people on the street had created a close community and it was clear they enjoyed reconnecting every year as they and their trailers grew old together.

 

It also became clear that we were going to repeat the same conversation at every stop.  There were two major items to discuss.  One.  Even though everyone had beautiful orange trees of their own, they were convinced someone else’s oranges were better so they bought oranges from one another despite the fact they had plenty.  So, at each home we either bought or sold a commodity no one needed.  As far as I could tell, everyone was simply breaking even.    

 

Two.  Every single person was appalled and disgusted that Aunt Lula’s neighbor across the street was sneaking over and stealing her next-door neighbor’s oranges while they were out of town.  (He was the one I didn’t get to meet.)  Aunt Lula and her friends were completely outraged and wanted the dirty thief caught.  The man was the focus of a vicious feeding frenzy that gained momentum with every conversation and Aunt Lula’s close connection to the situation made her a celebrity of sorts.  Her friends were itching to hear the latest details, analyze her evidence, and hear her unfiltered opinions.  The daily, senseless exchange of product and currency kept the topic alive.  

 

I had serious concerns about getting out of the tight, back bedroom in the event of a fire, so I chose to sleep on the screened-in porch.  Aunt Lula was delighted because this meant I might be able to catch the thief red-handed.  If so, I was instructed to wake her up immediately.  Gotcha.  She didn’t describe what we would do after that.  

 

It wasn’t peaceful sleep.  There was the Florida heat and humidity and especially the streetlight, not to mention the stickiness of the oilcloth sofa.  So, I was still wide awake at midnight when I spotted the dark silhouette of an elderly man carefully tiptoe across the street like the Pink Panther and begin stuffing oranges into a big bag.  But here’s the thing.  He only got the ones that had already fallen onto the ground and were going to rot before the owners got back anyway.  Seriously.  Was there really any harm in that?

 

I found myself quietly cheering him on as the scene continued to unfold in front of my eyes.  “You go, man!”  I decided to keep this little discovery to myself, and I immediately formed an unspoken bond with the Pink Panther, who appeared a couple more times before I left.  I sympathized with the guy on some level because it seemed the punishment of becoming such a despised target among his neighbors, and being the topic of every conversation, was out of proportion to the crime.  

 

People often ask me what it’s like with so many women living in community with one another at Blue Monarch.  One can only imagine the mixture of personalities and mood swings.  It can sometimes get intense.  In fact, let’s throw their kids into the mix and you’d better duck.

 

Occasionally we will have a woman who just can’t help becoming a target.  She will charge into an already established community and set herself apart by all the ways she feels superior.  “Well, at least I didn’t let my drug use affect my parenting.”  (Naturally, someone will immediately point out she doesn’t have custody of her children.)  Or “My drug of choice wasn’t as bad as yours.”  Step back.  

 

So, yes, it is common that we have some who do not get along because these kinds of comments can be electric.  That’s not to say anyone gets violent, because we don’t tolerate that, but sometimes it takes a while for a new resident to develop some humility, look at herself honestly, and take ownership of the choices she made.    

 

Until then, it is our responsibility to make certain this woman does not become the victim of a nasty feeding frenzy out of control.  We remind her peers that they do not know all the trauma, wounds, disappointments, and loss that may have caused their neighbor to act in a way that was hurtful or offensive.  In other words, “She came to Blue Monarch for healing – just like you did.  Remember some of the things you did and said when you first got here?”  Once they connect on that level, they often become the best of friends, encouraging one other throughout the rest of their recovery journeys together.  The lasting sisterhood that develops at Blue Monarch is a beautiful thing to watch.

 

Unfortunately, this ugly seduction of a feeding frenzy can be a temptation for all of us.  Just think of how many times this has happened in other settings like the workplace or even church.  It becomes intoxicating and irresistible to engage in daily rhetoric about one person’s indiscretions, faults, or even untrue accusations.  Updates can become an addiction that must be fed daily.  It’s really no different from the times we occasionally have a child get off the bus after taking the brunt of cruel bullying.  The tears will break your heart and the hurt shows on their faces.  Adults, unfortunately, can inflict the same kind of pain on one another. 

  

I can't help but notice that no one on Aunt Lula's street took any kind of action other than to criticize and pontificate.  Was the man stealing oranges in the middle of the night because he needed food and was embarrassed?  Or was he just a spiteful old man who loved the thrill of taking something that didn't belong to him?  We will never know.  No one bothered to find out because it was the sport that they enjoyed more than resolution or even justice.

The practice of extending grace is something we try to teach at Blue Monarch as just one little component of recovery and it is tangible when that concept finally sinks in.  Conversations become gentler and friendships become richer when they gain the strength to say, “You know what?  I’m not going to participate in that, so leave me out.”  

 

Just think.  When our residents leave with the tool of grace in their belts, they become the kind of neighbors who might offer the Pink Panther a kind word and an orange (a good one from down the street, of course) instead of feeding their own unhealthy behavior at his expense.  Even better – they teach their children to do the same.

 

And that’s the family you want to live next door.

 

Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.  Ephesians 4:29

"Blah, blah, blah, whatever. Amen."

 “I’m going to the hospital to reclaim what is rightfully ours.  Please pray.”  It was 6:54 on a Friday morning and this is what I texted to our leadership team.  I remember thinking that morning that whenever I feel compelled to do something I don’t really want to do, it’s usually the Lord leading me.  

We had heard the devastating news the night before that Tara, one of our Blue Monarch graduates, had been found unresponsive in her bedroom at her parent’s house and had not been conscious since then.  There was concern that she had gone way too long without oxygen, and she was in the intensive care unit at a hospital two and a half hours away.  I wasn’t anxious to see Tara in this condition, but I felt God was telling me to get dressed and head that way.

It was just the week before that we saw horrific photographs of Tara's car completely destroyed from a drug related accident.  It was a miracle that she and her son were not killed or at least severely injured.  Would this be the wakeup call Tara needed?
  
The whole drive to the hospital, I listened to praise and worship music in my car and prayed out loud that God would give us a beautiful miracle that day.  He could – and he would.
 
Tara’s parents were gracious to immediately invite me into Tara’s area in the ICU and it was a shock to see her lying in the bed hooked to what seemed like a hundred wires and tubes.  She still had a black eye from the car accident, which made that event much more real.  With tears uncontrollably streaming from my eyes, I put one hand on Tara’s forehead, the other on her shoulder, and prayed my heart out for supernatural healing for her body.  I fully expected to see her eyes open any moment.  He could – and he would.
 
As the day wore on, we all experienced waves of fond memories between tsunamis of grief as we took turns holding Tara’s hands.  Her sweet mother uncovered Tara’s foot to show me her middle toe that was shorter than the others, something they teased her about through the years.  Tara had just gotten a pedicure a couple of days before, which seemed like a good sign that she did not have plans to harm herself – a fleeting thought we often have in situations like this when there is still so much that we don’t know or understand.  
 
I watched Tara’s mother gently stroke her foot, which I imagined she also did when her daughter was a newborn, as so many mothers do.  While I looked at Tara’s foot, my mind went back to some of the last conversations we had.  “Tara, you cannot have one foot in your old life and the other in your new life.  It will never work!  It never does!”  I gave her examples of others who had tried to do the same and none of those stories turned out well.  In fact, one of my examples died shortly after Tara left Blue Monarch.
 
Truth is, it isn’t exactly an equal tug of war.  The Old Life won’t settle for just a foot.  It will pull and pull until it gobbles up the entire body.  On the other side is Jesus, gently holding out his hand.  Because he graciously gives us free will, he doesn’t force us to take his hand.  He holds it out until we grab ahold of it and then he will help pull the rest of us out of the darkness.  At that point, the Old Life doesn’t stand a chance.     
 
Hours went by and during moments of silence, we probably all had conversation balloons over our heads that were full of “what if’s.”  It’s hard to resist the thoughts of what we should have done that might have made a difference.  
 
Tara began to take on some of the characteristics I remembered from the day my father died and it didn’t look hopeful, but we continued to pray.  He could – but it didn’t look like he was going to.  As this reality began to settle in, I gradually developed anger on top of my grief.  
 
Through the curtain I could see the doctor making his way down the hallway to report the results from the final test and the expression on his face made words unnecessary.  Knowing what was coming felt like that brief second before the roller coaster drops a hundred feet headfirst.
 
The raw grief of a mother and the tears of a stepfather who loved Tara more than many of the biological fathers I have seen, cut like a knife.  I wanted to take their pain and run out the door with it so they couldn’t feel it any longer.  My own tears were a mixture of overwhelming grief and profound anger.  Why did God let this happen?!  I was so mad.
 
I drove the whole way home in a silent car.  Even music was unbearable.  That night when I went to bed, I surprised myself by saying out loud, “Blah, blah, blah, whatever.  Amen.”  There.  Take that.  Goodnight. 
 
The next day, as I tried to process this waste of a beautiful life, the loss of a mother who learned to love her brilliant child, Jakobe, while at Blue Monarch, who got tears in her eyes when he ran in from daycare calling her “Mommy” for the first time, the one who was so amazing and smart that we even hired her for a position at Blue Monarch, the bright young woman so full of hope and promise – remarkably, I began to hear Jesus speak to me through all the noise.  
 
He reminded me of how the police had searched Tara’s room and found no drugs and how the test results at the hospital remarkably showed no drugs in her system.  I recalled her mother proudly describing how Tara took a friend with her to church the Sunday after her accident and how excited she was to share her faith with someone else.  Apparently, that accident really was a wakeup call after all.  
 
Then I realized, I was on the wrong mission all along.  I thought I was going to the hospital to reclaim what was rightfully ours.  But the truth is, she did not belong to us.  She never did.  She didn’t even belong to her sweet mother and father.  She belonged to Jesus – and after her “Old Life” came close to taking her completely, Jesus reclaimed what was rightfully his and now she is safely with him, full of joy and totally healed.  
 
So, how can we best honor Tara now?  I think we share with everyone we can, what she would probably say today if she could.  With those beautiful dark eyes, and those perfectly shaped brows, in that soft voice of hers, I believe she would say, “Take Jesus’ hand and grab on with all you’ve got.  Keep BOTH feet firmly planted in his direction –because ALL of you belongs to him.  And don’t ever forget that.” 
 
Thankfully, Tara had time to teach this to her son, Jakobe, which will impact him the rest of his life – so in many ways, I guess you could say, “God could – and he did.”

“Same Song, Second Verse...”

There was a popular phrase I heard as a child that went like this: “Same song, second verse, could get better, but it’s gonna get worse.” This little diddy has been running through my head a lot lately – but it seems more accurate to say, “Same song, second verse, could get better and guess what, it did.” And yeah, I realize it doesn’t rhyme.

I feel like I’ve had Christmas early this year because every time I turn around, I receive a surprising gift that took almost twenty years to make.

For instance, one day I received a volunteer application in my email. It came with an unexpected note. “Many, many years ago, I was one of the young children that lived in the Blue Monarch home with my mother and two siblings. I have memories of the fun things we got the chance to experience while being there.” She went on to describe how she is a mother, herself, now and wanted to participate in our pen pal program so she and her son could write letters together.  

When I saw the name, I immediately remembered her as a young girl and began digging in an old box to find a note she wrote to me in 2006 when she lived at Blue Monarch. I had saved it all these years because it was so special to me. "My mom is learning to be a good mom."  

Not long after this day, I got a call from Aly, who lived here as a four-year-old. I remember a day when Aly was with me at the café I still owned at the time. There was a painter working on a new addition and his pants were revealing a little too much when he bent over. Even as a four-year-old Aly was eager to set him straight. “Hey Mister, your pants are falling down!” She yelled this across the room, and he ignored her, but she didn’t give up. “Hey Mister, do you KNOW your pants are falling down?” (The question we all want to ask but never do.)    

Aly is now a college student at Berea College in Kentucky, and she was interested in doing an internship at Blue Monarch this summer. Are you kidding me? Of course! She is majoring in Family and Children Services and Psychology – and what better place to study all of that. I couldn’t wait until her first day and naturally, the first item on our list was to go through old pictures of the days she lived here with her mother, also in 2006. 

Then a couple of weeks later I got a high school graduation invitation from a beautiful young lady with long blond hair. My word, could it be? Yes, she was this precious baby all grown up. Memories of her in a highchair at the kitchen table immediately came to mind. I thought back on her time at Blue Monarch in

2004 and vividly remembered the day her big brother was reunited with their mother after a painfully long separation. The mom was so worried her son would not remember her, but he jumped into her arms as if they were simply picking up where they left off. That was my first experience to witness the powerful bond between mother and child that even years apart could not erase. I have seen this happen hundreds of times since then.

And many of our supporters are familiar with Trenton. He is often referred to as the “Christmas Miracle Baby” and was the very first Blue Monarch baby. He nearly died at birth and was just inches away from death. But prayer dramatically saved him, and it has been a pleasure watching him grow up. He is a constant reminder of the power of prayer. Unfortunately, he missed rehearsal for graduation and was not allowed to participate in the ceremony, so on very short notice, we threw him a surprise graduation party at Blue Monarch, which may have been more fun in the long run. After all, he was the single most important person at our event and around here he is a celebrity. It was fun seeing his sisters, Whitney and Brittany, who also lived here with their mother as children in 2003. Brittany even brought a toddler of her own to our party who looked just like her when she lived here.  

So, when I think of these amazing young adults whose mothers were so courageous to bring them to Blue Monarch as babies and toddlers, there is something significant they appear to have in common. They have exciting futures ahead of them and do not seem to be struggling with the same challenges their mothers faced at their ages. Perhaps they learned from watching their mothers’ journeys and didn’t want to make the same mistakes. Maybe their mothers became healthier parents, encouraging their kids to make better choices.  

But I like to think there was also something special about their time at Blue Monarch as young children that made a tremendous difference. Regardless, they seem to be drawn back to us, so there is apparently something comforting about returning home, which is what we wanted all along.   

“Same song, second verse, could get better and guess what, it did.” As I look at this photo of our babies with the very first Blue Monarch baby, especially Arionna who is gazing at Trenton as if she understands the significance of the moment, I have a feeling the third verse is being written even as we speak. I don't know about you, but I cannot wait to hear it.

We will not hide them from their children; we will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord, his power, and the wonders he had done. Psalm 78:4  

If you have never heard the story of the Christmas Miracle Baby, you can check it out here:  http://susanatblue.blogspot.com/2014/12/ 

The Unexpected Detour

Her toddler was not sleeping at night and this mom was struggling. Allison (not her real name) was exhausted, overwhelmed, and felt defeated. Nothing unusual for a typical mom, but for one already feeling insecure about her parenting skills and having lost custody of another child because of her personal choices, this took a normal frustration to a whole new level. She felt like a parenting failure and this aggravation only confirmed her convictions.

Our team discussed a few options to help Allison’s little boy sleep and I handed her a bottle of lavender spray I had on my desk that had been given to me as a gift. “Here. See if this will also help.”  

 

I was a little disappointed by her reaction, which was not in proportion to the sacrifice I had just made. I really liked the lavender spray and enjoyed using it in my office, but she seemed noticeably indifferent and even a little hesitant to take it.

 

Little did I know, this mom had been hiding an ugly secret. She was a severe alcoholic and knew she would be at risk of drinking the lavender spray, simply for the tiny bit of alcohol in the bottle. We were also unaware she had been drinking hand sanitizer to get a buzz. Yes, hand sanitizer. We typically don’t keep liquid sanitizer around for that very reason, but she had found some left over from a recent event and had sneaked a few bottles back from trips off campus. (Apparently the burning sensation going down the throat is a close substitute for the real thing, and the numbing it provides is worth the disgusting taste.)  

 

When these indiscretions were finally revealed, they explained a lot. For months we had been struggling with this mom to make progress and despite all our efforts, we still felt we were working harder at her recovery than she was. Truth was, we were.  

 

After multiple chances, Allison left us with few options. It was frustrating because we all saw her potential and we adored her little boy, but no matter how much we tried, she was determined to remain stuck right where she was. We just continued circling the same tree.  

 

Our staff had a lengthy meeting and finally made the painful decision to make room for someone more desperate for an opportunity. After all, we had a responsibility to honor the journeys of all the women who were putting 100% into their own recovery. It was imperative that we held others to the same standard. But - it did not mean we had to like it. We decided to meet with Allison the following morning to let her know our decision and we all went home with heavy hearts.

 

The next morning, I was hurriedly walking through my bedroom about to leave for work, when a scene much like a movie unexpectedly started playing in my head. In vivid color and great detail, I saw a family of three facing a casket that held the body of a blond headed woman. Their backs were to me and blocked the woman's face. Where did that come from? Her husband looked to be in his early forties, he was tall and thin with neatly cut dark hair. He was comforting their teenage daughter whose head was tucked under his arm as she wept. To the left of the girl was her brother who seemed to be about ten years old. He stood like a soldier, very stoic, staring at his mother in the casket with his arms by his side, hands clinched into white knuckled fists. 

The grief was overwhelming and I could feel this family's emotions as if they were my own. Even when I tried to shift my thoughts to something else, I couldn't. The movie in my head continued to play as the father attempted to comfort his two children while he was clearly devastated by his own loss.

 

I was still puzzled by this scene when God spoke to my heart, “If you discharge Allison today, this mother will be killed by a drunk driver." Wow.

All the way to work I pictured this family in my mind. It was so detailed, I was convinced I would recognize them if I saw them on the streets, and I suspected they lived in a town about an hour away where Allison would be returning if she left our campus. It was tempting to find them just to validate the powerful images.

 

As I walked into my office, our staff members were already preparing for our dreadful meeting with Allison. I said, “Can we call a family meeting instead with all our residents and staff?”  

 

The atmosphere was tense because Allison's peers suspected she was leaving for all the obvious reasons, but they were puzzled by the group meeting since this was something we would typically handle in private. They were also a little weary from trying to help her in their own ways. Allison was tearful and even trembling. She knew she had pushed her limits and was dreading the bad news.  

 

“I wanted to meet with everyone instead of meeting with Allison privately, because I feel the entire community needs to know what has happened. As you know, we have struggled with Allison for months and she refuses to make any progress. We keep landing right back where we started. I know you are frustrated with her, too, for not being more serious about her recovery when she has so much at stake.” Everyone nodded.

 

Allison continued to cry and tremble. I was anxious to put her out of her misery.

 

“But Allison is not leaving today and I want you all to know why, because she ordinarily would be, considering the circumstances.” Allison nearly collapsed on the sofa and was a bundle of tears and disbelief before I could even explain the reason. She took a noticeable deep breath.  

 

I continued by telling our residents and staff what had happened earlier that morning and that I was going to listen to God and not discharge Allison that day. I couldn’t make any promises if Allison continued to be uncooperative, but for today, she was not leaving. There were tears everywhere I looked. No one could believe the inevitable had shifted so dramatically.

 

Later that day, Allison came into my office. I expected her to express how grateful she was for another chance, but she also shared a story that clearly had a profound impact on her.  

 

With tears streaming down her face, she said, “Miss Susan, last night I prayed my heart out that God would speak to you somehow and convince you to give me another chance. So, when you told your story this morning, I couldn’t believe it. God heard me! I am so thankful!” She wept tears of true gratitude and disbelief.  

 

Well, I am happy to report this event has been a game changer. Allison is a completely different person. She is genuinely happy with a smile that never ends. She is digging into her issues with our counselor, instead of holding back and refusing to talk about her true feelings. She has faced the shame she carried about her secret relapses and has confessed all the embarrassing details to her peers. She has let go of constantly comparing herself to others, which has always been such a powerful stumbling block. She is happy to do her chores rather than grumbling behind our backs and in many ways she is becoming an effective leader. She is enjoying being a mother in a way she has never known before now, and her relationship with her precious child has visibly grown.

One day recently I asked Allison if she was still tempted to drink hand sanitizer. She immediately said, "No, but I haven't really been around it either." 

Then she paused. "Well, I guess I have been around it at the store...and the doctor's office..." A huge smile spread across her face as she realized she no longer looked for it, and was no longer tempted by it. In fact, she seems to finally be free from that terrible temptation. Just look at that!   

 

But there's more. From what Allison tells me, her toddler is sleeping much better, which comes as no surprise. Looks like he finally has the mama he was trying to find all along - and we're pretty happy to have found her, too.  

Lord, thank you for guiding our steps even when they take us in a different direction to unexpected places. You always know the path that is best. Amen    

Steps to Nowhere

If there had been such a thing as online reviews back then, I don’t think this outfitter could have made it. A travel agent with good intentions booked me for a trail ride in the Tetons and I couldn’t have been more excited. I loved traveling alone and this was going to be an amazing adventure. Camping in the wilderness, riding horses all day, coming back to a hearty meal cooked over a fire - what could be better?

 

The rugged cowboy in charge was more authentic than John Wayne, himself. He was a big guy, had a thick handlebar mustache that completely covered his lips and hung to the bottom of his chin. Everything about him was weathered - his face, his cowboy hat, and his dusty, leather boots. Customer service was not his thing and he rarely spoke unless it was an occasional grunt that his crew seemed to understand. Speaking of his crew, our first morning got delayed because he had to bail them out of jail for public drunkenness. Apparently, this was a weekly routine.

 

Our group was quite diverse. The ones that stood out the most were a newly married couple who thought this was going to be an amazing honeymoon. Neither had ever ridden a horse, they were terribly unprepared for the extreme changes in temperature or the many hours in a saddle, and by the end of the first day the poor girl was in tears. She wore shorts for an eight-hour ride and came back with saddle sores and blisters all over her skinny little legs. They didn’t leave the campsite again until we left for good. That marriage was off to a rough start. 

It didn't take long to see that the master cowboy got a thrill from scaring folks. Each day brought adventures that bordered on sadistic because they were so dangerous. I love a thrill and was accustomed to hours on horseback, but this was ridiculous. One day we rode to the top of a steep mountain covered in nothing but snow and loose slate. The horses had to lean over at a 45-degree angle and scramble to keep their feet on the ground. They might as well have been trying to skate sideways on marbles.

Another day we went down a ravine that was so steep, the horses literally scooted on their butts with their front legs straight out trying to navigate the boulders and rocky crevices. I tried to convince myself that my horse knew what he was doing because he did this trip every week, but he began trembling like he was scared to death. I didn’t realize at the time it was because he had been rented for the week and was totally unprepared to risk his life for a stranger on his back.  

 

When we finally got to the bottom of this dangerous stretch, I reached up and grabbed the massive cowboy by the collar and said, “This was not in the brochure!” to which he had no response. I was ever so thankful the little newlyweds were not with us that day. This man apparently got some kind of sick pleasure out of seeing people in distress. Since we rode each day for eight hours, I could only imagine how long it would take to go back and get help if anyone got hurt. After all, it wasn’t like we had cell service or even cell phones for that matter. 

 

It was no wonder Mr. Cowboy’s wife left him. Word had it he was mad at her one day, so he backed his horse trailer to the backdoor of the Piggly Wiggly she managed and turned his horses loose in the produce department to graze on all the vegetables. But she got him back, alright. Apparently when he got home later that night, she had hauled off their trailer and all he found were the concrete steps to nowhere. 

 

There were a few highlights to appreciate from this adventure - such as the incredible wildflowers that appeared in the most unexpected places like little surprises from God, the spectacular views from mountains that were too high for even vegetation to grow, and especially the occasional moose sighting. But I was happy to pack up and leave at the end of the week.

 

The trail back to the pickup place was extremely narrow, barely wide enough for the width of a horse. It was hazardous because the mountain was straight up one side and straight down the other. There were four pack burros that were strung together carrying all our gear. They could barely fit within the space of the small trail because their saddle bags on either side were as wide as their bodies.  

 

All of a sudden, one of the pack burros lost his footing, slipped off the side of the trail, and began falling down the steep embankment. It was about a twenty-to-thirty-foot drop-off but because the burro was tied to three others, its fall progressed in slow motion. Naturally, since they were connected, all four eventually tumbled down the incline like dominoes. They were a tangled mess, and my first thought was that we were going to end this treacherous trip by watching them shoot innocent animals. I couldn’t imagine how they might possibly survive such a fall without life threatening broken bones and cuts.  

 

As we watched from an aerial view, some of the crew quickly scrambled down the steep embankment on foot to cut them loose while the rest of us held our breath in horror. The burros were a huge knot of legs, hooves, and body parts that were hard to distinguish as they struggled to untangle themselves. They left a trail of pots and pans and personal belongings in their wake. Stuff was strewn everywhere.  

 

Much to my surprise, once the burros were cut loose from each other, they righted themselves and immediately began eating grass as if nothing ever happened. Amazingly, none were seriously injured, thank God, and they apparently survived without permanent trauma since they were so eager to simply return to the basics. Now I just eat grass.

 

Late the other night I heard from a former resident who was in yet another crisis, and this experience immediately came to my mind. I finally realized it was because she and her friends remind me of this string of burros that were yoked together in such a way that one could not fall without taking the others, too.  

 

For years, this group of women have refused to permanently separate from each other. When one falls, they all fall. They don’t just stumble. They sink deep. They make poor choices that turn into near death experiences - and they do it together. 

 

However, when someone cuts them loose, they don’t look up and try to figure out a way to get back on track. They just simply return to the basics like those burros and pick up where they left off before the latest catastrophe.  Now I just eat grass. 

 

Once in a blue moon this group will recognize how toxic they are for each other and go their separate ways. It is during these times they thrive, seek fulfilling jobs, heal relationships with family members, and find reasons to be excited about life. They get reacquainted with God as if he is a brand-new idea and are eager to sing his praises. But eventually, one will slip off the trail. She will drag the others with her because none are willing to let go of the worn out baggage that causes them to be drawn to each other in the first place. It's a vicious cycle.  

 

The wheel of recovery at Blue Monarch has many spokes and this is one of them. In fact, we have begun focusing even more on the pitfalls of co-dependency since it can be such a trigger for setbacks. We encourage our residents to choose their friends wisely. “Set the bar really high! Don’t get yoked to people who will drag you down. Choose friends who represent who you want to be - not who you hate to be. You don’t have to be tied to unhealthy people to feel whole.”  

 

In other words, we are grooming trail blazers - women who are strong and confident in who God made them, not fearful to step off in a fresh direction. In fact, I have news for the one who is known for finding sadistic pleasure in the distress of others. When you come looking for these courageous women, you will find no one at home and steps to nowhere - because they will have reached for the One who breaks their yokes and sets them free. And that, by the way, is not a brand-new idea.   

 

In my anguish I cried to the Lord, and he answered by setting me free. Psalm 118:5

 

The Sweet Sound of a Growl

When this adorable little girl arrived at Blue Monarch with her mom and siblings, I couldn't help but think of Nell, the young woman played by Jodie Foster in a movie by the same name.  Nell had developed a strange language of her own, which was a combination of her deceased mother's distorted speech following a stroke, and a secret language she shared with her twin who had died decades earlier.  She lived a life of isolation and had not been exposed to anything different.

This young girl at Blue Monarch, let's call her "Sadie," would rush into a room and aggressively lunge at random individuals, scrunch up her face, and basically growl.  Yes, growl.  It wasn't a mean growl.  It was more of an "I don't know how to express myself, so Grrrrrrrrr!"  She rarely spoke, but when she did, her words were totally unrecognizable.  Her family members were the only ones who understood her unique language, much like Nell.  It must have been so frustrating to see people glancing at each other with puzzled expressions instead of responding to what she was saying.

Naturally, the first time I witnessed this, my instinct was to protect Sadie from kids at school who might be cruel to her.  I couldn't bear the thought of other children making fun of her odd form of communication.  We needed to get her into speech therapy right away!

Sadie was interesting to observe, and I often thought she would make a rich character in a good, Southern novel.  She was fascinating.  It was obvious she was drawn to others, but like a suspicious puppy, she jumped back just in time if anyone reached for her.  She was good at judging just the right distance to avoid being touched.  It was a mystery how she determined which ones to approach and which ones to ignore.  There was really no category in between.

As part of our recovery process, the courageous women of Blue Monarch deliver their "Readiness Statements" to their peers and our staff.  This is a powerful, often very emotional, and even painful account of the difficult journey they traveled, which landed them in a place like Blue Monarch. We have discovered this exercise brings great freedom. They express their desires to do something drastically different, and they identify the individuals they wish to hold them accountable.  The stories can be horrific and even shocking.  I have yet to hear one that is not heartbreaking.  I often wonder how they cheated death despite all the close calls.  It's a miracle, actually.  That's the only explanation I can come up with.  

But these stories are also when I fall in love with their children and begin to see them in a whole new light.  When we hear the experiences their little ones endured - and survived - we suddenly understand their behavior.  It completely makes sense.  The screaming immediately becomes less annoying, the crying becomes more meaningful, and their constant need for attention is totally understandable.  It's as if a veil is lifted, and the child transforms into a tiny person who desperately needs our help instead of a loud, unruly kid out of control.

When I heard Sadie's mother describe her personal journey, I completely understood why she cried non-stop for the first two weeks at Blue Monarch, and why her beautiful daughter only growled at others.  It suddenly made all kinds of sense.  I could see why Sadie either never learned to talk or refused to talk by choice.  No wonder.  In fact, I found myself cheering her on.  "You go girl!  You talk when you are good and ready!"

Sadie did begin working with a speech therapist, and in the meantime, she and her family settled into their new lives at Blue Monarch.  She loved our pets and farm animals.  She developed friendships with the other children at Blue Monarch.  We focused on Sadie's recovery as much as we did her mom's and she thrived with everything our robust children's program had to offer.  Sadie was a happy child and knew she was in a good place.  Her brother even pulled me aside one afternoon to tell me, "Miss Susan, you know what I love most about Blue Monarch?  I know we are safe!"  Sadie seemed to know that as well.

It took almost a year, but one day I suddenly realized Sadie had broken through many of the barriers she faced when she first arrived.  Sadie had just gotten home from school when she ran into my office with a million questions. "What's this?  What's this?"  She was a little old for those type questions, but I was happy to answer every single one.  She jumped into my lap, gave me a hug, looked out the window at the house we were building for more families and said, "Look!  That's our new house!"

I realized in that moment that I understood her speech completely and it was not because she and I had become family.  It was because Sadie was becoming a new creation - just like her mom.  If you ask me, that calls for a victory cry - like a big fat "Grrrrrrr!"  

Now that I think about it...perhaps that's what it was all along.  

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!  2 Corinthians 5:17