Whelp, I've worked to take care of my body and get fit since I made a promise to my dying Grandpa in 2008. I’ve come a long way with this body of mine. I’ve used her and pushed her to do things I didn’t know she could do and have built muscle and endurance and made her well. But, just like the remnants of my former life as a drug addict still haunt me sometimes, there are remnants in my body of my poor health and wellness decision that I cannot shake. Some body damage from excessive weight gain can't be undone without help. I’ve asked trainers to fix me and they confirm that the “leftover” skin won’t go away on it’s own, or even with the most dedicated workout and nutrition regime.
A tummy tuck is the only solution for me. I've been cleared by my primary care practitioner for one but my insurance won’t cover the reconstructive surgery because my skin doesn’t hang low enough. They say it’s not medically necessary. Maybe not, but for me it is, if not medically necessary, at least psychologically necessary. I hate looking at my pouch, I hate that I can’t do anything about it. I hate having my panties fall down below my fat flap. I hate running and having my fat flap jiggle out of my workout pants. I feel like I’ve honestly done everything I can do to get rid of it and it just won’t go away… so… I am resigned. It is a tummy tuck.
Maybe it’s cheating but it’s the only way I’m going to get the flat stomach my work ethic dictates I should have. What I’ve got now is a false representation of the work I’ve done. I’ve spoken to may people and heard that this is a most painful procedure, but I was undeterred. I’ve looked for a doctor who was both highly recommended and affordable and found Dr. Jonov. I did the consult and I got my flat tummy price: $8,200!! Ouch! It’s pretty much an insurmountable expense... but not entirely impossible. Last year I decided to work extra part-time jobs to make my dream come true. I've given up time & activity with friends long before covid’s isolation rules kicked in to save money. I've dropped frivolous expenses to "save up" for this surgery for a long time. It's been scheduled and re-scheduled due to family health concerns and covid, but this week it happened and I can show these pictures now without shame because this pocket of fat I've referred to as "my best friend flab" for the last dozen years is finally GONE!!!! From what I understand, about three pounds of skin and fat were cut out, my abs were tied back together, my skin was stretched and I will have a flat stomach from here on out.

I’m not exactly sure what I’ll look like after all the recovery, swelling, and healing is done, but my fat fanny pack gone!! And I have absolutely NO debt to show for this frivolous surgery! I do have a significant amount of pain that has made me question my decision to do this a number of times over the last few days. I do have a big HUGE thank you to my super awesome hubs for all the support to do this!!  His help has been amazing… turns out Chicken Farmers can be great nurses too!! I’m grateful for all of my friends who have checked in and even prayed for me. I can't wait for the healing and swelling reduction and to get see what my new, flat belly actually looks like! I honestly feel like I earned this as much by paying for it as I did in the last 12 years working out for it (and, no, I won't quit exercising now that I got what I wanted).

My word to the young... get fit before permanent damage is done!! And a word to the well-seasoned like me... Just do it!! Even with this discomfort I’m having now, I feel like it'll be so worth it to have a body that actually represents the work I've done to fix some of the mistakes of my youth!

On May 14th 1804 a Corps of Discoverers set out on an overwhelming expedition to chart and map the newly acquired western United States of America and see if there was a singular water route from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean. We know this band of merry men primarily by the two main voyagers, Lewis & Clark.

These men, well, actually President Thomas Jefferson and explorer Meriwether Lewis, had their plan in place and assembled a crew of able bodied men to join and assist them. Along the way Lewis and Clark got up close and personal with, the flora, fauna, geography and the Natives of the land, they talked to foreigners who had found their way to hunt and live in the land. They used a volley of interpreters to communicate with the Natives and were diligent in mapping and identifying the land they explored. My exploration of sex and Jesus will intentionally parallel their epic journey. A mapping, a searching, an asking and discovering of what’s out there. I’ll observe and immerse myself into the lay of the land. I’ll take celestial calculations, I’ll collect specimens, I’ll measure the peaks and valleys, the length of the rivers and heights of the mountains and all the miles from here, my St. Louis, to there, the Pacific Ocean. Just as many spaces and places within the territory they traveled through are still largely unpeopled, undeveloped and unexplored, my trek will, of course not be exhaustive. I have no idea what lies before me, I imagine I’ll marvel and wonder and discover things that take my breath away. I’m sure I’ll brave dangerous rapids and shiver through snow and rain and probably have to unload my boats and maybe trudge because the way was quite unexpectedly impassable. And at the end of the journey, if I don’t have any answers, at least I’ll have a better map of how sexuality relates to Christian spirituality.

The journey, as all good journeys do, will start at the beginning. Lewis and Clark’s journey started years before the 1804 embarking. Jefferson and Lewis dreamed of the exploration for years as I have dreamed of and prepared for this one. Lewis invited Clark along well after the dreaming and planning was afoot. There was training and teaching and prepping and building and packing. I have planned and prepared for this journey. I’ve used the The One Year Chronological Bible in the New Living Translation, published by Tyndale as my jumping off point. I admit this is not my favorite translation of the Bible but I had a lofty idea of having the whole thing read through again in a year and its daily sections were a great motivator. This biblical translation has been generously supplemented with clarifying readings from my favorite translations; the old NIV, ESV and NKJ. I’ve sprinkled in translation clarification from studylight.org, and looked at the good King James version of the Bible itself because it has my respect even if its English is outdated. From this beginning point (the Bible in chronological order) I’ve done my best to document and note each sexual, sexualized, or intimate interaction so that they can be classified, explored and weighed against God’s biblical commands, the church’s historical and popular teachings and modern society. Like Lewis and Clark were focused on finding a water route from the Missouri to the Pacific, I’m fixed on sex and sexuality, but understand that gender, feminism, misogyny, birth and birth control and similar strands of exploration will likely surface along the way. I’m ok with that, I’m just going to see where the river and the exploration takes me.

Each chapter will be separated into three sections; His, mine, and ours. MINE, of course, will be my own unique take on the sexual subject at hand, shaped and formed from the early, untreated sexual abuse I experienced, my teen and young adult sexual explorations and the culture shock I stepped into when I got “saved,” and my current notions and ideas, largely influenced by my study on the subject. I will admit up front, this section may just be a cathartic exploration, good only for me, and possibly most of the books metaphorical analogies but hey… this is a journey of discovery, so it works for me, and if anyone doesn’t want my own opinions, it’ll be easy to identify and skip over.

Ours will be what “we” think, where “we” includes a presentation of thoughts, ideas and opinions of the Corps of discovers. This is where YOU come in, if you so choose! I will present topics and questions and will gladly welcome your feedback. I will also be consulting with the others I mentioned before: Natives, foreigners and fellow sojourners, or in real life: the experts in the field, those from different cultures and others who have written or spoken on the subject at hand, sex and sexuality. I will explore what “we” say and have said about sex. What is, if there is such a thing, as normal or acceptable sex. What is deviant and what is cultural? Are there common beliefs “we” all agree on? How do we react to the topics at hand.

The final say on each subject will be HIS. God gets the final say. This section will be my best effort at scouring the Bible, taking the measurements, mapping the territory and doing my best to see, hear, smell, taste, touch, feel and know God’s heart on any sexual matter. I am no fool, I know it’s impossible, but I will do my best to honor God and the Word and present the God’s honest truth about sex and sexuality with as much fear, respect, integrity and honor as I can. I will also endeavor to provide global church perspectives on the sexual topic addressed in each chapter and present the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the God’s honest truth according to the Bible and generally agreed upon sexual rules within the historical and modern “church” where the church is described as the body of believers who claim to be followers of Christ and subscribe to the Apostle’s Creed, irrespective of denomination or nationality.

The plan is to research, record, explore and dissect the Bible, to find out what questions arise from my personal Biblical study and to ask others what they want to know, or have always wondered about in order to to assemble a list of questions to investigate.

This is the journey I’m embarking on, a great expanse of known and unknown territory filled with story, legend, folklore and preconceived notions. I am excited to begin. I have built my boat, I have packed my bags, I have assembled my crew and venture on into a great adventure! Come with me if you will!

From this setting off point I'll be honest. I have NO idea what I'm doing. I've never written non-fiction like this and it's proving to be a challenge. I have so many cares, concerns and responsibilities in life that always seem to jump, push or sneak in line ahead of my writing. I ask for your patience with me as I trek along, but definitely welcome you to keep me accountable!

Today a little girl was sexually molested in front of my eyes and I couldn’t stop it. I did what I do in traumatic situations and froze… stone cold still, inept, weak, worthless. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t make it go away and neither could the people hosting the {insert a Washington State government program here} informational video meeting for seconds, or was it minutes? It doesn’t matter anymore, her little face and victimization has haunted me for hours now, and yet I can’t even remember the color of her eyes, but I know her hair was brown. The only time I’ve ever wished for the dementia my grandmother has is now. Please God can I never remember this? Can I never see her again. But I can’t unsee her, like I can’t unsee the other things I’ve seen that make me want to fit and faithfully keep kids safe. I can’t make it go away, not the memory of what I saw, not her violated image now seared in my mind. It is still there playing over and over again, he is evil, pure evil and he ought to rot in hell. I am glad there is a hell and I am so angry, so violently angry with the God I serve for allowing this. Why God why? And she is still out there. And all the questions and tears and sorrow will still not save her or brutalize him the way he deserves.

I did what I know to do, after breath came back, rapid heart beats exploded in my chest, I was alive even if I was ruined. Time to run, but run to where? I was not in danger, it is a little girl I do not know and cannot run to save that is in danger. Time to fight, but fight who, he held the camera below his face and though I try to remember any thing distinguishing, there is nothing but his brutality and her innocence ravaged. I immediately contacted my chain of command and reminded myself of all the good men out there. Yes, that’s what I did and have spent the afternoon doing. Finding my heroes, men that can fight and do protect and will save children. Men like Tim Ballard, founder of O.U.R (Operation Underground Railroad), Ashton Kutcher, co-founder of Thorn, Travis Norwood, foster father extraordinaire and author who has murdered evil men in story in such a satisfyingly brilliant way. I remember good men, I focus on them and pray for them and for more of them, brave, courageous men who will stand up against sexual exploitation and speak out against this evil. I must hope for and believe in good men because every time I hear of another victim, or man who has sexually abused or exploited someone I think they are all like that. I believe for a moment that all men are sexual deviants and evil. But they are not. They cannot be. There are heroes, there are protectors, there are good guys and Captain America will always be my favorite hero, because he is purely good, with no if, ands or buts about it, but I am OK with heroes having their moment of shame and awakening that fires them up to rage against the evil in the world too. I need to believe in redemption, in forgiveness, in good men and heroes and in big, strong arms where little girls can be safe.

I need to believe we can find her and rescue her. I need to believe she will be saved swiftly but at least before she’s much older and used to being exploited on camera. By then she’ll be a somewhat more mature age, and her victimization may not appear so blatantly pedophilic and repulsive. By then men who might jump at the chance to beat the vile devil that molested her at the age she is in the video, would more likely get aroused watching her violation, and tell themselves she was doing it because she likes it. I hope you think of the little girl if you’re tempted to watch. I hope you’d rather protect and defend than be party to the depravity that got us here, because no one starts with kiddy porn. It starts with “You know she wanted it” and “She doesn’t matter.” But she does matter. And she must be saved, she just must! I have made my report to The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and I will believe that Thorn or other good guys and gals will find him and rescue her and good will win in the end. This I must believe!

It’s February why am I still chanting, “New Year, New Decade!?”

It’s no secret that I’m a huge fan of the New Year tradition of resolutions, goal setting and looking forward; to achieve more, to repair what’s weak, to get better. It’s fun and this year is especially exciting because it’s not only a New Year but a New Decade!!! Statistics tell us that by now, actually by January 12th, most people have given up on those New Year Resolutions…

Not me, I’m still chiseling out what all of mine are!

This year, as I have for the last few years, I focused on a word. The initial word came to me suddenly sometime in late November or December and I knew in that instant it was my word, not only for the year, but for the decade.

LEGACY.

Yes, LEGACY. So fitting for this time in my life and for this decade of my life. What other decade will I likely say good-bye to my last remaining grandparents (but I do think my Grandma Billie has a fighting chance of making it into her centennial years). And what other decade will I likely say hello to most of my grandchildren (although I have begun that journey already with Marlee and Noah).

LEGACY.

BUT… just a word for a decade would never do, so I morphed it, turned it into an acronym of four awesome and powerful words to live this year and decade by, this decade I will roar: LOVE!

LOVE (because always may I be known for my love, be better at how I love, and may I grow in love): LEGACY - OBLITERATE - VISUALIZE - EXPLORE.

Here’s my LEGACY VISION ← see what I did there?!

The biggest personal legacy goal is to love my gramma Lucy well as she walks her final years on this earth and with dementia. I have an unexplainable dream to be here for her and take care of her. Our family has had a horrible experience with the assisted living facility she’s been at for the last two years and I cannot see putting her in another one. This also makes me think strongly about my other grandma, Billie. The question is: have I loved her well enough? I have trusted a family I haven’t been blessed to know as well as I know my Stivala side to take care of her, but now my heart wonders… am I loving her well enough? So, for the sake of love and legacy, I will attend to my last surviving grandparents, Billie and Lucy.

Next are my grandchildren. I have two now and they are such a wonderful blessing in my life! I am humbled to know them and have the opportunity to be an active participant in their lives. I also enjoy being able to support their mama (and dad) as they parent them beyond their preschool years into the later years of childhood. I look forward to some of my other babies having babies (in good time) and hopefully having the same opportunity to be a real and active grandparent in their lives as well.

Of course my children are high up there on my “legacy” list too. Have I shared with them all I have to share or is there a new way for us to relate and enjoy life together as parent and adult children? Obviously my very blended family is dynamic and my relationships with each of my five children is as unique as they are themselves, but I don’t want it to end because all of them will now be adults. I want to strengthen, deepen and grow our bonds. To this end I want to partner with my husband to help him achieve his legacy dream of getting his girl to all 50 states, which he will on her 18th birthday! What an amazing feat. What a cool legacy of travel (and EXPLORATION… see how it fits with the over theme) he’s given to her that she appreciates now, and I feel certain will come to treasure even more as she grows into womanhood.

Then there’s my parents… yeah… my parents. That’s probably where the OBLITERATE can also wind into the acronym. There’s so much family dynamic between us, both my father, mother and step-parents. I’d like to love them well by addressing and OBLITERATING my own personal resentments that I’ve held far too long, to EXPLORE what this new decade can mean for all of us and to identify their legacy as it relates to me and my children. This will probably prove to be the most challenging, but, I will endeavor to love them well.

And what of the rest of the humans on the planet? Can I expect, hope or VISUALIZE actually making an impact in my little valley let alone THE world at large? What a large and lofty thought! I do not know if I’ll ever be able to affect the world, but if so, I hope I am known for loving well, for living and writing in such as way as to inspire and elicit raw, honest emotion, for keeping kids safe and for revealing the soul saving truth of Jesus Christ!


Finally my personal legacy goals, those nagging tasks, those “someday” projects and dreamy writing goals I’ve always wanted to achieve but have yet to realize will have their day! As far as the “someday” projects go: this year I aim to organize and catalog ALL the past decades of photos we have in print and digital form and give them space and honor in our life and home. And, as we’re realizing our landlording dreams and are actually building an estate for our heirs I also plan to make a Dave Ramsey “Legacy Box” where our family can find all our legacy documents when our time comes. It will be a monumental undertaking, but well worth it, I think, to build my family legacy! And for my writing: My passion, my desire to share my heart and stories with the world in words will continue. I will build a written legacy of both fiction and non-fiction work that will remain even when I leave this world. I confess I dream of hitting it big someday, and will always hope and wait for it. Until then, I will press on toward the goal, that I might receive the prize, which will be to give the world all the words and stories that are in my heart to share and hear those long sought after words from my Father in heaven, “Well done good and faithful servant. You have been faithful with a few tings, I will put you in charge of many things.”

So there’s the “L” in my decade of LOVE, next up … hear me roar as I OBLITERATE debt and resentment!

Once upon a time, while on a lonely wilderness hike, a sojourner came upon a band of merry souls (or dwarfs, or whatever fanciful person-like creature comes to mind and suits the story). They were a joyful and proud lot and danced around a sacred fire. They heartily welcomed the stranger in to listen to their tales of the eternal fire, stoked long ago by their very hands. It burned with warmth and fury. The fire kept them, sustained them and guided them with its light. This fire was indeed warm and seemed friendly, so long the sojourner stayed listening to their tales of the fire. The embers waxed and waned red, gold and sometimes even a glorious blue while they shared their stories of the bygone days of the fire. Then there was a stirring, a waking, and everyone knew it was time again to stoke the fire, to keep it burning. While the sojourner was permitted to watch the gathering, the preparation, the cutting of branches and falling of trees, they were not permitted to actually stoke the fire. It was a sacred right and no matter how merry the gathering, and inviting the stories, the lore and legend wouldn’t permit a stranger’s participation.

The stoking began! Wood and wonder crashed into the red-hot fire ring from all permitted hands, from all sides, with whoops and hollers of utter satisfaction! The flames rose high into the night, fiery flakes fell around the stranger, and the people, or creatures, or whatever they were danced and swayed in the ecstasy of the stoking. It was grand and glorious monstrosity of heat and sacredness, and the interloper wanted so badly to be one of them, but was at least grateful for the warmth and the invitation to sit in and watch the magnificent procession. The men roared, the women cheered, and somewhere deep, down in the depths of the dirt, a delicious drumming of delight rumbled underfoot blending into the melee, as if even the earth itself approved of their fire and festival.

Then one of the revelers came to the weary sojourner with all kindness and sincerity in an attempt to somehow include the stranger into the stoking. The warmth and smoke of the fire enveloped the reveler and the stranger, mesmerized by the sights, sounds and smells agreed, quickly, without a moment’s hesitation, to participate. The stranger could not by rite stoke the fire, but they all insisted wholeheartedly that there was space for the stranger to participate in the celebration. If the stranger loved the band enough and chose to remain in the group there was a simple, albeit painful role that the stranger could join in. All the sojourner had to do, to stay with the merry men (or women or dwarfs, or whatever fanciful person-like creature comes to mind and suits the story) was insert a hand into the fire for a brief moment, long enough to let the flames lick at bare flesh and season the smoke with the flavor of the pain. The pain, the stranger was told, would only last a moment, and certainly there were others who participated in order to belong. Many souls willingly inserted their hands into the fire and their scents melded and mingled with the burning wood.

The stranger wondered how the others endured the burns, and asked if the fire hurt them as badly. They all carefully, thoughtfully, one might even say lovingly inspected the sojourner’s wounds. They compared it to other revelers, consulted with each other and concluded that the injury was minimal. The sojourner loved them for their care and concern and trusted their assessment. The pain afforded the stranger admission into the group, and the group was so, so good and welcoming and fun that the draw to be with them far outweighed the pain. The stranger stayed, the blisters did eventually scab over, the scars were reminders, as much as anything else, of the great stoking and eternal flames. The healing was slow but came in time so the stranger stayed with them, around the fire, watching and waiting for the next stoking.

As time drew near for another stoking, and always and ever with this band there would be a stoking, for the fire could never die, the sojourner knew this time what to do to participate. The stranger loved the band of revelers very much and enjoyed their company so much more than lonely wilderness travels and so foolishly hoped that maybe this time it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Maybe the scars from before had somehow strengthened or shielded the skin. Maybe the revelers had another way for sensitive souls to participate, or a magical elixir that could keep the burns from blistering, maybe the burning didn’t have to be so bad. The gathering began, the stoking was near and the stranger’s anxiety rose; but the wilderness was cold so flesh was again plunged into the fire as the men roared and women cheered and the earth resounded in triumph.

The blisters this time festered and infection set in deep. Not everyone had this trouble with the fire, and the stranger’s sensitivity perplexed everyone. Some arms passed through like a hand over a candle flame without so much as even singe mark of black, they were perfectly content to play their part in the procession. Others licked their wounds but recovered quickly, or at least seemed to. Not so much for the strange sojourner, the pain was devastating and was causing quite an uproar within the once merry band. The revelry, comradery and company couldn’t quite sooth the stranger’ pain and dimmed the glory of the stoking. The healing scars that time didn’t remind anyone of a glorious tradition nor help to honor those who kept the flame alive with the stoking, they only reminded everyone of the awkward, awful pain of the stranger. The stranger, aware of the bands efforts at inclusion, looked long at the scars and pondered the fire, the wilderness, the sacred ritual and all those sorts of philosophical musings that occur in the midst of pain and confusion.

They stoked again, the sojourner burned again but that time with pain fresh and furious, the sojourner retreated knowing the new festering blisters, over too many scars were the last that could be endured. The pain was too great but the stranger has come to truly love the group, and yet couldn’t continue to burn. So the stranger sat at the edge of the camp, on the precipice of a decision, exposed and vulnerable and utterly alone, knowing without a doubt that something must change.

And that is the story of the stoking and the stranger.