Prayer and God v the professional v medication

The pretext was a recent conversation with a friend. 

A prayer warrior is of great strength. 

It happened in the early days of my divorce. 

I was in my car.  The kids said, “Mommy sleeps with Mr. Roberts”.

The Garcia Family tended to my kids because I was emotionally distraught and overwhelmed.

I was in my car balling. 

I called Joyce Davis, a prayer warrior, and asked her to pray with me. 

She came to our scantly furnished home.

We sat and prayed,  and spent time together.  God worked.

A convicted felon was averted. 

A prayer warrior responded during a time of crisis, 

This was a crisis support service. 

That was an emergency response person.

I had purposed in my mind to buy a rifle.

I had purposed in my mind to exact revenge. 

I say this only because recently there was a crisis in the midst of a crisis.

My kids since November stated they wanted to see Grandpa. 

The Lord provided an opportunity to see grandpa.

It occurred this month. 

While we were driving up, the nursing home was trying to communicate with me on an emergency basis. 

Grandpa was dying and very sick. 

We left North Carolina the second day my mom’s was hospitalized.  It looks like both were afflicted with the same bad illness that was “going around” killing youth and the elderly. 

My moms ended up being quarantined in her apartment for an additional three days. 

Prior to all this, I received news a friend of mine tried to commit suicide. 

I emailed two pastors for help. 

No pastor responded. 

A prayer warrior did respond.  The prayer warrior responded quickly.

While visiting with my dad in New York, I kept checking my email.  I knew the pastors would respond.  They have experience I thought.  They have numbers and names at their finger tips.  They have on-call deacons and deaconesses.  Not so.  No response was received.  I checked my email whenever I could. 

While distraught in NY because of my father’s health, I thought about my friend. 

Help and support came from a different direction. 

I must say this, we rely on our “professionals”.  We rely on those “medications”.  We forget prayer and God.  We are above the medications and professionals. 

I hate to rely on medications.  Doing so is taking at face value the words of those whom made those medications.  They say, this medication will take care of the voices in your head.  They will take care of the delusions and hallucinations.  Meanwhile, you read the fine print on the side effects.  The side effects are delusions and hallucinations and may cause you to hear voices. 

I remember in New York, one church hosted a free prayer line.  It was manned.  I remember in NY a portion of the church was open for 24 hour prayer and fellowship, on weekends.  The churches had 24 hour response.  Pastors, assistant pastors, deacons, etc.  Some churches in NC have those types of services. 

Remember the high suicide rates among psychiatrist and psychologist, the trained professionals.

How do we know the medications, in this opioid addicted society, do not cause and exasperate the very symptoms we complain of?

That is why I sought a prayer warrior for my friend.  Someone to touch and agree for support since I had to leave town. 

Do not underestimate God or the power of prayer. I received no support from the pastors.  Wow.

Thanks be to God.  He always provides.  

To everything there is a place and time.  If medications and professional help works for you, then chose that.  As for me and my house, I choose God.  

After A New York Minute A Talk

Everything is a depression factor in these days. 

I do not understand. 

If you do not respond to my text, I am depressed.

If you do not respond to my Facebook post, I am depressed.

No email response, I am depressed. 

It was refreshing these past few days.  I was up in New York. 

It was the non-depressed females.  They do not have or use Facebook on the Regular. 

The have flip phones and no smart phones. 

They are self-assured.  They have self-esteem. 

No pills or medication to keep them running.

They are sane.  They do not need a man to define them. 

It was refreshing. 

It was depressing.  A man with a wife.  Yes, he cannot come out to play.

Yes, he cannot look after his parent.  He is married now.  Married like I was.

Married like I was means having someone bar you from your family. 

I sat down with my daughter.  I pointed out a few things.  I said, “them four were and are my best friends”.  The fifth, him, was a hanging buddie; we were besties.  Surrounded by four females as best friends. 

No drinking.  No drugs.  No Sexual Immorality.  I talked with my daughter.  These were and are my friends.  If this is what and whom I chose to hang with, what does that make me? 

I pointed out the fact my brother had most of his best friends as mechanics.  They were not alcoholics or drug users, etc.  We did not go to the titty bars. No crack, no coke,  

She started to name her friends and their characteristics,  She tried to identify those like mine. 

We lead by example.  The friends we keep can and do represent us.  I asked her, if they tell you I lived a reckless lifestyle, can they explain the friends I kept and keep?  She looked as if she understood. 

That was reinforced by eating at White Castles in Newark, NJ.  Raquisha walked in.  She was high as a kite.  She was pretty.  She was loud.  She was ghetto.  She had her friend for sale.  I asked her, my daughter, do I keep friends like that?  She said and understood “no”.  I hope she learns and takes it to heart. 

That is my prayer.  We lead by example. 

4th 5th and 6th Grades

My Memories of those Grades

Gosh, it was fearful

We were segregated, we were off to our own.

In special education, the mobility impaired.

Kevin rocking away but super intelligent.

Kim, the cutie, with missing limbs and fingers, best of friends, black and pretty.

It was 4^th, 5^th, and 6^th grades.

In Kindergarten, it was MaryLu, Leondra, and a whole host of friends.

Always segregated and taught on our level. 

In 4^th, Fifth, and Sixth, the fear set in.  They came to our class for an hour at a time.

That was integration; that was mainstreaming.  We did not know what to do.  How to talk to them.  So, we just focused on the tasks.  It was one period I remember, it was Art.  We were equal in art. 

We had all the materials we needed.  All we had to do was hold back the fear.  They would be gone soon. 

We were happy in our group.  Karen was my girl.  We did the typical kid thing on the bus.  We passed the notes.  We were happy.  We were not afraid when it was just us. 

We brought toys to school.  And, I got my favorite car stolen.  The Yellow Corvette.  Down the Hallways it went during break time.  I lost the remote but it would go. 

I am not sure what happened.  The headbangers were in a different class.  But now a days, it seems like the headbangers are in the regular classes with others.  That is a no no. 

We were the physically impaired, but not mentally.  We could learn.  It took us a while to write.  Herman was the best runner.  He could hardly hear.  He was kool.  Lisa B. was the second girl I tried to chase.  Lisa R. was the High School one. 

Once we moved from school, as much as we wanted to, we lost touch.  There were no play dates.  No Handicapped night outs or sleep overs.  My brothers had the sleep overs.  No pampers needed to be changed there. 

I remember in Kindergarten, Harold beat the hamburgers out of me.  He just changed me, and I pooped.  I had a royal accident.  He thought I did it on purpose. 

Pete, he was the mastermind.  In high school, we cut class.  We had the key to the teachers bathroom.  We had a psycho English teacher.  She was new age.  We sat in a circle and hummed.  So we cut class.  We were in the bathroom the whole period.  How does that happen.  Pete helped us, the aide that did not say a word. 

We came out for shop.  Cripples with saws.  That was awesome.  We learned, but now I think about the legal hazard and liability.  Would they allow such in 2018?  I made stuff with my hands.  I was proud.  So did Norman.  The guy in the wheelchair.  The guy with the crooked arms. 

There is a dumb kids regret.  We touched her boobies.  We tormented her.  She hated us, rightfully so.  Something I prohibit my kids from doing.  NO BULLYING OR HARRASSING.  It was in Flushing Meadow Park, the last incident.  For that I am sorry.  For the things to Norman, I am sorry.  Cripples can be terrors too.  To Larry I am sorry.  This was part of High School and Post College. 

Then, there was the token cripple.  The white cripple.  The loved child.  Jerry’s Kid.  He was Cris R.  A family of means. He made it far.  They always need a token child.  The able bodied to prove they were human and had compassion.  Only one cripple allowed though.  That still holds true in 2018. 

I miss my love.  Wanted her when Karen left.  Yes, we were devious in our disability.  Disability does not negate the devious, just we can blame it on our disability and often get away with it.  “Oh, that poor cripple, he is just acting out.”  That was Elementary School and Part of High School and Part of Post College. 

We were scared.  Finally, they left the room.  We could then laugh, play, and learn together.  That was our life. 

Yes I know all about special education.  Yes I know all about mainstreaming.  Do not try to teach me.  I been there and done that. 

Back HOME for the Holidays

A Divorce Thing XMAS Tradition Recaptured

It has been about five years;

During the divorce, the collateral was Christmas at home.

No more Christmases for five years.

We spend every Xmas during this period at Grandma’s, empty or alone, or at relatives houses (Church too).

Never was it spent at home. The HOME had been abandoned, it was BROKEN. 

This year, the first in years, that we spent cooking at home.

A cook in training.  My daughter acquiring skills. 

Now, they are home.  They TORN-UP their rooms.  That is how they want to spend XMAS eve.

Moving furniture, cleaning, “The stuff they been wanting to do FOREVER [forever, forever]”.

Not how I envisioned Xmas eve, but it is family.    

My daughter is prepping the kitchen to cook the dinner.  That is the training.  At 18 years of age, Lord Will, she will be able to cook her own meals.  Once 18, do not let the door hit you on the way out.

You have the skills, you were taught, you are done.  I did my job.  Time for me to go out in the field again. 

I told them, once they are 18, Lord Will, they will be lucky if they even find me in the state.

So, you ask, What are we doing x-mas?

Answer, we are actually in personal family time, something we have not done in years. 

Thank you all for the invitation.  We will spend time at home.  We will see you all in the New Year for sure.  Special House to House visits then.  We need our time alone.  Thanks. 

Una cosa divorcio XMAS Tradición recapturado

Hace aproximadamente cinco años;

Durante el divorcio, la garantía (lo que no tenia mas) era Navidad en casa.

No más Navidades durante cinco años.

Pasamos cada navidad durante este período en la casa de abuela, vacío o solos, o en casas de familiares (o iglesia).

Jamás se ha pasado en casa. La casa había sido abandonada, estaba roto, era un lugar abandonado.

Este año, la primera en años en la que pasamos cocinar en casa.

Un cocinero en formación. Mi hija, la adquisición de habilidades, la estoy ensenado como concinar.

Ahora, están en casa. Ellos desgarrado de sus habitaciones (los cuartos no se pueden entrar, están limpiando, eso es lo que ellos dicent). Es decir (el deseo delos) cómo quieren gastar víspera de Navidad.

Mover muebles, limpieza, "Las cosas han sido querer hacer Forever [siempre, siempre]".

No cómo imaginaba víspera de Navidad, pero es la familia.

Mi hija estas preparando la cocina para preparar la cena. Que es la capacitación. A los 18 años de edad, Señor será su voluntad, ella será capaz de cocinar sus propias comidas. 18 Una vez, no deje que la puerta le pegó a la salida.

Usted tiene las habilidades, se le enseñó, ha terminado. He hecho mi trabajo. Tiempo para mí para salir al campo de nuevo.

Les dije que, una vez que son 18, Señor permite, que será afortunado aunque no me encontrarán en el estado.

Así, cuando me preguntas, ¿qué estamos haciendo X-mas?

Respuesta, realmente estamos en el tiempo de la familia personal, algo que no hemos hecho en años.

Gracias a todos por la invitaciónes. Vamos a pasar un tiempo en la casa. Nos veremos todos en el nuevo año para asegurarse. Especial de visitas casa por casa. Necesitamos nuestro tiempo a solas. Gracias.