Crutchprints in the Sand

From the Ground Up

I was challenged in February to think creatively about my personal journey and capture that in a selfie. I’m not a very abstract thinker but a few days before the deadline, I walked out my front door and right in front of me was the most starkly green, out of place, ugly weed I’ve ever seen. Not only did I not understand how it got there or how it was even alive in the middle of February. I moved on with my day, but my mind kept coming back to that ugly foliage until I decided annihilation was the only recourse. Right as I plunged my fingers as deep as I could in the dirt to get all of the roots, I had a thought: This is what my journey is like.

Most of us know that the bible begins with a garden, but did you know it also ends with one? There isn’t much that happens to us that we cannot find a parable for in the allegory of a garden, and I like to ruminate that God did this intentionally. He started with the garden of Eden, a place where he wanted there to be relationship (with himself and others), fruitful living, and abundance. This is all lost, we learn, after sin enters the world. But God never gives up, all through history his hand is present and strategically arranging countries, people, journeys, and even our own lives as he toils towards the second Eden.

When I pulled the weed out of the dirt that cold and gray, February afternoon, I didn’t get all of the roots. Ugh, that means it will come back again, I thought. Weeds always seem to pop up, surprising us, even when we already know they will come back. We will weed our gardens and flowerbeds then go about the merriment of life and somehow are still surprised that suddenly there are weeds all throughout the garden again. It is a continual job for one who gardens, and one that varies from garden to garden.

Some gardens embrace what another garden would consider a weed. Milkweed, Purslane, Morning Glories, Dandelions, Chickweed, Creeping Charlie, and other plants that are beautiful in a meadow and belong there, are considered weeds in my flower and vegetable gardens. We, as gardens, are unique in our purpose; we are each knit together by our creator in a unique way. The plants in my garden are not necessarily in yours, and vice versa. Some doubts and fears and thoughts spring up like weeds in my garden but those very same thoughts may not plague yours. It is important, therefore, for me to know my own garden and what I am growing. I must know where I am planted, recognize the plants I want to keep in all stages, and recognize weeds before they take hold. Our gardens have plants that are annuals (must be replanted annually) and we have perennials (plants that come back on their own each year), which ones do we want to keep?

When we pull weeds out of our gardens, they always look so fresh, neat, and manicured. Flowers begin to thrive and new seeds can take root in the space provided. Free of weeds, plants push forward into the sunlight, striving to burst forth joyful blooms. The beauty and hope that accompanies a garden always inspires a gardener to nourish it lovingly with fertilizer and plenty of water. The care we invest in our gardens require hours, days, weeks, months, and at times years of dedication and commitment. Yet if you speak to someone that loves gardening the whole process, to them, is a delightful one. There is no start or finish to a garden, only cycles. Gardeners love the harvest, relish the planting, enjoy splitting and moving plants, and pruning existing ones. They enjoy seeing the earth turn cold and brown with unique textures knowing that the rebirth each spring is a miracle to behold.

You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.
Isaiah 58:11(b)

But how many of us spend the same amount of dedication and commitment to address our lives as if we are a garden? Maybe God gave us gardens to remind us that we must be tended constantly in order to grow under his green thumb? Do we ensure that we maintain proper lighting, enrichment in soil, and nourishing water? Are we careful to rid our gardens of the weeds popping on a continual basis? Do we diligently manage the boundaries of our garden and keep away toxic things and animals that will destroy it? Do we invest the time in our own self-care that we need to properly flourish?

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows.
Luke 12:6-7

For many, weeds spring up in the form of thought patterns and fear. Those fears and thoughts when watered alongside our flowers will grow stronger and eventually choke out the good plants that we want to keep. It is important to recognize weeds of fear in our garden because they motivate our behaviors, impact our relationships, and suck up all the nutrients that we need. Shameful thoughts of never being enough, never having enough, not being worth enough are also weeds. The Gardener of our lives ensured long ago that we will always have enough and that we are always worth enough.

No matter how many times a flower fails to bloom, we don’t ever blame the flower, do we? Instead, we question other factors: where is it planted, is there enough light, is it being overshadowed, does it get enough water, etc. Yet, when we fail to bloom or when we make mistakes, instead of seeking the wisdom of the Gardener to determine what factors are at play we often heap condemnation on ourselves and beat ourselves down into the soil, wilting and giving up. We dismiss all possibilities of change or growth and collapse or berate ourselves ruthlessly as failures. Other times, weeds of temptation rise up and threaten to surround us/control the way we grow. Weeds, no matter what form they come in constrict our growth and eventually suffocate us.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.
Ecclesiastes 3:11

When winter arrives it is then time to die to old ways, to be pruned for strength, and to embrace a new way. How often do we perceive our hard times as failure rather than success? All gardens that are successful, that are loved by the Gardener, and that thrive go through seasons. They are pruned, sometimes harshly, and then packed with pine needles or another insulating cover, and allowed to rest for the duration of winter. But in spite of the lack of visits, the Gardener has not forgotten the garden! Most of the time, the Gardener sits only on the other side of the window pane, watching longingly and planning for spring. Planning the guiding changes to be made in order for another fruitful harvest, pleased the garden is hunkered down and gaining strength and endurance during the winter months.

He who walks with the wise grows wise, but a companion of fools suffers harms.” & “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.
Proverbs 13:20; 27:17

Roughly, the concept of companion planting is that certain plants, when planted closeby, help each other thrive, while other combinations thwart each other. So we must always consider those planted around us and with us. We have plants that are annuals, there for a season, and plants that are perennials which stay permanently. How do the relationships in life spur us on to bloom better each year? Do we have relationships that are annuals yet we keep trying to make them perennials, fighting against the Gardener’s intent? The very first year that my husband and I planted a vegetable garden we planted the cucumbers and the cantaloupes side-by side. It made sense to me, for all the melons to be in one section of the garden. When harvest came, my husband brought in the cucumbers and I excitedly pulled out my cutting board to chop our first homegrown salad. But when I sliced into the first cucumber, it was orange! The second, and third were the same. I tasted, and the center was sweet like a cantaloupe in spite of clearly being a cucumber on the outside. I called my husband, baffled. We walked together to the cantaloupes in the garden, picked one, and to our amazement found it the cantaloupe was a cucumber inside! I had never heard anything like this but a few older farmers chuckled at our naivety, explaining the concept of cross-pollination and told us not to put them together again. (For the record the cantaloupe made a wonderful cucumber salad.) Who are we cross pollinating with, and is that a good or bad thing?

For years I had a problem with thistle weed in my gardens. As I filled my feeders one day I noticed the label on the bag listed thistle seeds among others. I switched to sunflower-only bird seed and while we still found some thistles (I think we never got all the roots!), they have cut back dramatically and I have many pleasant volunteer sunflowers that spring up randomly each year. You see, the birds will scavenge from our feeders and then excrete the seeds in various places. Some of those seeds grow. In this experience I learned it is the job of the Gardener to not only maintain the garden but to consider the aspects of the environment as well! The culture of where our gardens reside is a rural area, farming area, lots of wind, lots of birds, lots of wildlife. As such, I treat my gardens and prepare differently than my friend in a very crowded neighborhood with a small lot. In fact, some of the ‘invasive’ plants she has brought me will not grow here at all in the harsh elements. So not only is it wise to look at what we have going on inside of our garden but we should be informed about what is going on outside of it? How can we help, act in the best interest of, and encourage others with the beauty of our garden? Can our blooms help others? Can the wisdom of the Gardener be shared or a source of hope for others just starting?

There is always work to be done in a garden. And when the garden is complete, well, it will never be complete. There will always be changes and work with each season. So let’s embrace our work and our journey, let’s appreciate the famine and dance in the too-heavy spring rains. Let’s enjoy the toil and sweat on our brow as we pull the weeds, and let’s treasure the hot sunshine that makes us grow. May we let go of relationships that were meant only to be planted as annuals, while taking care to insulate the perennials that will winter alongside us long term. And lastly, may the fresh-cut flowers of our gardens be harvested in abundance. As our flower vases rest on our tables, may the joy we experience come not solely from the display but from working with and for the Gardener.

The last chapter of the bible opens with a most poetic paragraph. This paragraph inspires hope and breeds reassurance that we will again see the garden flourish without struggle along with relationship, fruitful living, and abundance. I find myself returning to this passage over and over throughout my life. In good times and bad, it is reassuring to know that the cycle of my garden will never end in Christ.

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. 5 There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever.
Revelation 22:1-5

Spring is right around the corner here in Pennsylvania. The snowdrops are finished, the crocuses are in full bloom, and the daffodils are beginning to litter the landscape with their cheerful faces. I believe my perception of life, gardening, and my personal journey will never be the same again. Having met the challenge, I think I will print this selfie with my weed as a reminder.

The Case for a Classic Ending

“A classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.”
Mark Twain

In our current popular culture of music, literature, and even film, there is a demand for satisfaction and I daresay there seems to be unspoken demands for only happy endings. Movies seem to have all loose ends tied up and all the characters are happy or else critics will growl about no forthcoming sequel. Books that do not end on a high note are considered a waste of time, or worse, poorly written. Even songs seem to be losing the essence of timelessness and are only interpretive in the context of this specific time. At the end of each song, book, or film we seek to know that things not only work out, but that the protagonist receives exactly what he or she desires.

The overall tone from random personal writing sampling reflects the way publishers are advising writers to keep sentences short and avoid flowery language or their books won’t sell. In depth descriptions are bygone, and using lots of action and little inner-dialogue is considered key to success. Opening a book with backstory is also frowned upon; we must hold the readers’ attention or they will put the book down. Endings leave nothing to fate but always contain a feeling of satisfaction for the reader because we can’t leave a thing to imagination or an unsettled mind. We must keep our audience engaged for this is what the consumer demands, writers are told.

I understand that one of the key components of a classic book is the book’s ability to afford continuity. One may read a classic book in any time era, any circumstance, any number of times, and still encounter relevance. A reader feels enriched after reading a classic and classics nearly always contain challenging moral dilemmas and unsettling paradoxes. There is something else I notice about classic books: There is not an inherent focus on delivering a happy ending. Stories in classic books are written in a way that allows reality to develop within the pages of the story and consequential fallouts or misfortunes visit the characters regularly.

Think of Little Women, Great Expectations, Wuthering Heights, Of Mice and Men, 1984, Frankenstein, Call of the Wild, Last of the Mohicans. All fabulous classic books that do not strive to present a perfect world, happy ending, or even complete satisfaction for the protagonist. While there are some modern books with these qualities, they are fewer than once upon a time. I believe it is still possible to bring reader satisfaction and enrichment through an unhappy ending or an ending that does not tie up all loose ends, and these classic book examples are presented as proof of that. I propose that, like the rest of the world, it is time for us Americans to embrace reality and move away from ideals and seeking instant gratification in every sect of life for several reasons.

The structure of creating entertainment to reflect immediate audience satisfaction is completely predictable and uniform, a.k.a., boring. (Think Christian fiction movies – nearly all start with a very bad person. The very bad person gets saved then severely backslides. The now converted very bad person has some sort of enlightenment (usually via catastrophe), repents, and lives happily ever after.) The problem with placing constant fulfillment at the feet of consumers in such selfish utopian ideological endings is that it encourages the audience to compare and contrast personal reality. If our characters find gob-smacking, knocked-off-their-feet love, we begin to expect that in real life and become disappointed when a fiance proposes marriage in a parking lot instead of on a luxury yacht. Reality dictates that a utopian ideology projected as normalcy cannot stand but will breed unwholesome expectations and discontentment. We learn to process the ups and downs of life through other people and through things we surround ourselves with like entertainment. We see how others handle the ups and downs of life and based on what we see we define “normal” and “happiness”. When a protagonist gets what he/she desires every single time, when characters do not die unexpectedly, when reality is not reflected, then we define perfection as normal. How then, do we learn to embrace our misfortunes or process them in real life when we consider invincibility the norm?

Besides being incredibly boring, and casting an unrealistic ideal, when all threads are tightly woven by the end of a story or song there is no room for imagination or active interpretation. There is nothing to contemplate, critically consider, or even discuss if we already know the answers. Perhaps this is one reason binge-watching is so popular (heaven forbid we not know what happens next!). Technology provides much good for our world, but having information readily available stunts our reliance on analytical skills and relational interaction/conversation. When I went to Ireland last year and was separated from the instant gratification of my cell phone for 17 days there was a noticeable enhancement of my analytical skills, social skills (well there was no asking Google!), and even my senses. My experiences were enriching and enabled me to interact with technology differently as a result. I no longer look up everything immediately on my phone, I take time to ponder and enjoy the process of contemplation. The same is true for stories and songs, contemplating and pondering the characters, author intentions, and dialogue is a process that is lost when that information is spoon-fed within the closing lines.

Last but certainly not least, I argue that action-packed, descriptive-less, all knowing, sunny endings do not always encourage us to rely on God. Only a hundred years ago our culture consistently faced many threats that science had no explanation or cure for. Looming threats of danger are present in many classic novels and reminds the audience that fortune’s wheel may turn at any moment and one must rely on God’s sovereignty through the good and the bad. When we, an audience, are the sovereign eye (due to our all-knowing spoon-fed endings) in a plotline where is there room for God to manifest?

I have found lately that films do not hold my attention; by the three-quarter mark the ending is spelled out. When choosing music I am driven back to the days when most lyrical sets could be contemplated and discussed with friends as if digging for treasure, and I am prone to seek out historical fiction books heavily based in reality. I’ve had enough of trying to force the ideology of flawless existence on the reality of my life. Instead, I choose to embrace real life and real adventure under God’s sovereign care. Contemplation, observation, and analysis – near strangers in recent years – have once again become dear friends that I welcome and appreciate more than ever. For the sake of future generations and the frailty of technology and even our electric grid, I hope you do as well.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Changes in seasons, particularly winter months, can be a catalyst for trauma symptoms to resurface or even for survivors to feel like they are regressing suddenly. The appearance of regression will often bring a survivor down and discourage them to stop their journey or counseling altogether due to depression or simply giving up for a time.

This is all very normal when seasons change. Whenever there is trauma, there is a season of weather as well. Sometimes it was fall, sometimes winter, etc. But when a survivor sees the seasonal reminders around the time when the trauma occurred, it often triggers memories and symptoms both in the body and the mind which manifests in unique ways. It doesn’t help that sunlight in the winter months is deficient, there is no real activity for much of the cold-ridden country, and there is not much to look forward to during those quiet months.

Furthering this perfect storm brewing under the surface is the fact that the holidays are near and those are triggering and trauma-inducing times for many survivors as well. When there are triggers, those parts that are usually in the background sometimes come forward, which makes everything feel “different” or “off” to a survivor.

All of this is quite normal, often unbeknownst to the survivor who begins a very real struggle to function on a daily basis. In spite of what you may feel, it is during the time that trauma symptoms manifest that is an ideal opportunity to process and look at some of the layers beneath the surface. It is a great time to listen to the little ones (parts) and allow them an opportunity to share their story.

Most of the time being aware of the seasonal pattern during the winter months and the often-accompanying trauma symptoms helps a survivor to wisely identify and recognize the temporal position they are in. This acknowledgement both encourages and empowers the internal system to hold on and stabilize.

Whether you are a survivor or a support person, it is important to stay tuned to the behaviors and self-care opportunities during this time of “holding on:”

Be sure that physical needs are being met such as diet, rest, hygiene, and especially exercise/activity.
Watch for isolating behaviors and limit them when possible during these months.
Look for signs that you or your loved one need to seek professional help.
Find a healthy activity or something for the little ones (parts) to look forward to during this time.

Remember: You are human. You are brave. Keep your self awareness on alert, and have self compassion for yourself when you are experiencing a difficult time.

Public Whispers, Relations, and Funerals

*This article is not an attempt to disrespect, dishonor, or otherwise offend the loved ones of deceased, or the deceased. This is strictly a story of humor. I believe that as believers there is life with and through Jesus Christ and that allows me the strength to look objectively at an event that I do not perceive to be an end, but rather a beginning.*

When a local Quaker Tom died, I entered the Quaker Meeting House for his service. I sat on the wooden bench, and waited for the service to begin. It was summer and without air conditioning in the old historic building. I waited for the service to begin, trying not to judge the tardiness, and kept looking for some clue as to when it would start. No one seemed perturbed by the late preacher and my eyes only met glares of disapproval directed towards me. They better save that anger for the preacher, I thought. After waiting a little over an hour in silence, a man stood, thanked us for coming, and everyone stood to leave. I couldn’t believe that the preacher never showed! Navigating the stone steps out of the meeting house I asked out loud to no one in particular, “What happened there? I was waiting for it to start and then it was over.” Someone responded, “It is over. Quakers don’t talk. They sit in silence until the spirit moves them to share or split.” I felt silly for not remembering that Quaker’s do not talk in their services. The silence was the service! As I thought about it later, I was sad no one shared about Tom’s life or shared a single memory out loud. My family, however, tends to take things to the opposite extreme.

Joe was a Pagan (a local motorcycle gang but not in a cool Sons of Anarchy way). We were related through my father in one way or another but I never pegged it down. Now that I think of it, his mother’s name was Peg. Anyway, the day we buried Joe was sunny and cold. We stood under the white cemetery tent while a classic rock tune played vaguely from a portable radio and was competing with the wind in our ears. Then something caught my attention. That was the sound of a soda can, I thought. I looked around and to my mortification found the person delivering the typical boring funeral dialect, was now distributing a six pack of light beer to any willing recipient! He summed this distribution up by masterfully declaring, “Joe, this here Bud’s for you!” Confused about who got a beer and who didn’t, and why there wasn’t enough for everyone, I was further set back to see him take a sip (more like several gulps) of the beer before pouring out the remainder on the casket and wiping tears from his eyes in conclusion. I was standing in the back overlooking this scene, shocked and disbelieving so obviously that I earned a discreet jab in my side from my father. I couldn’t process what had just happened! Was it some Pagan communion ritual? And where did the other five beers go? I never found out. Since that day I never hear the song There’s a Tear in my Beer without thinking of Joe and his crying compadres.

Soon after this we had another funeral where a relation with Alzheimer’s passed and my father left the heartwarming public words: “I only wish I knew half of what he forgot.” At that funeral, when it was my turn to pass and view the body I saw a woman taking advantage of the occasion to take family photos. She not only was taking photos of the deceased in the coffin but threw in a few selfies (before they were called that) to capture the coffin arrangement in the background of her frowning/grief face. Inquiring, I was raptly informed (as if I were the one lacking common decency) that she was performing “genealogical research.” I backed off, but I still haven’t seen any of those images on Ancestry.com, just saying.

One of the most memorable funerals to me was Uncle Ben’s. He was in his 90’s and a very healthy, sane man; he was also the oldest member of our family when he died. I crept into the funeral home with my husband that morning where we were greeted by my great uncle, Larry, who was in his 80’s. Uncle Larry took me under his wing and started immediately pushing me past the rows of chairs and people, straight towards the casket. As mentioned, I am an amputee and I was walking on a brand new prosthetic leg which meant I wasn’t exactly sturdy-in-step. The constant pushing in my back started to make the fake knee buckle under my weight which inflicted tormenting images of toppling into the casket face-first, or falling backwards and taking the coffin down with me on my anxious mind.

Using his public whisper, at no less than 8 decibels, Uncle Larry began to fill me in on all the family gossip. He was completely unaware of, well, everyone being aware of every single word he spoke. Any effort I made to thwart him merely provoked him to speak louder. Agitated at me for this, he visibly shifted his focus to the body in the casket. Apparently, there is this thing about death that older people are obsessed with called closure. They believe that in order to achieve closure, and have peace with the loss, it is necessary to physically touch the body to experience the empty shell. Now let’s pause and be very clear: I don’t need closure, didn’t need closure, will never need closure. I have never touched a dead person or dead mammal and I had no intention of doing so that day. None. The truth is, I’m petrified of dead things in an out-of-control, spasmic, immature sort of way.

Uncle Larry decided I needed closure. I resisted. As we stood there in a stalemate, Uncle Larry started applying pressure to my back and gesturing towards the casket. My noncompliance caused him to start public whispering directions for me to touch Uncle Ben’s cold and lifeless body. I dug my heels in, whispering back my refusal. I didn’t want to offend the family, but I also wasn’t about to participate in any form of closure. Uncle Larry pushed me harder, taking it up a notch from his public whisper level to low voice level to make sure I understood that he wanted me to get closure. I felt eyes on me from the whole room and I felt myself turning red, but I also knew if God himself were pushing me at that moment I would not touch that dead body. I locked my real knee (and prayed the fake one would hold), shaking my head defiantly. There is no way in hell I am going to end up being pushed into this casket and end up rolling around with a dead man, I thought. Ignoring all of my words and extremely clear body language, Uncle Larry resorted to pulling my arm which I yanked back nearly demolishing a nearby floral arrangement. This rapid escalation caused me to begin frantically searching the room for a distraction ploy. I found one rather quickly at the other end of the coffin. You probably guessed it, a photo-shoot with a disposable camera. Selfies with a body, genealogical research, whatever you want to call it. Again!

At this point I closed my eyes and bowed my head in resigned defeat to Uncle Larry. It was clear that I was going to bailar con el muerte – dance with the dead – one way or another, when suddenly the rescuing hand of God appeared in the form of a relation. As Uncle Larry introduced me and explained the intricacies of how I was related to the old man in front of me, I lost track after at least five paternal removals. Smiling and politely shaking his (very alive) hand, Uncle Larry and I turned to find another approaching relation and repeat encounter. I had never met these people, and for some reason this upset Uncle Larry more than my refusal for closure. Uncle Larry contained his annoyance well, but when the third relation that I didn’t know approached for introduction, he (still annoyed at my disregard of dancing with the dead) got angry and abandoned his low voice for normal voice. “THESE YOUNG PEOPLE TODAY – You, YES YOU, DARLING! – HAVE NO RELATIONS WITH YOUR RELATIONS! You know nothing of where you come from or where you’re…you’re clueless! It’s a d*** shame, you see, you’ve no business…” But I stopped him right there losing my sense of propriety. “Listen,” I said, “as far as relations go – if I can legally have ‘relations’ with a relation, we really aren’t relations!” Proud of my own cleverness, I nodded at said relation, and walked away.

Actually, I didn’t walk away as much as cautiously proceeded on my fake leg five feet to the other end of the casket. Selfie lady was gone then and I greeted a legitimate relation. She tried to tell me something quietly. At this point I should mention that in addition to being an amputee, afraid of dead things, and wearing a new fake leg, I’m also hard of hearing. I didn’t understand her, so she repeated herself a few times. I tried to read her lips but I really had no idea what she was saying. The various sets of peculiar eyes characteristic of our family, stared at me from around the room because I was still in front of the room and casket. I felt the pressure on me, the judgment of those eyes, and after a few repeats I just took a random stab at what I thought she said. “You had SEX? Oh, ok, good!” I exclaimed in my own (apparently inherited) public whisper. It wasn’t my greatest moment, I realize. Mortified by my announcement, she dismissively shooed me away from her and I found out later she was saying, “I have GUESTS.” Two relations she had never met, likely more than five times removed, showed up on her doorstep the night before the funeral expecting to be put up for their stay. FYI – Guests and sex look pretty similar to a lip-reader, so while I felt guilty for starting such a horrible rumor we did laugh it off later. Much, much later.

The clock hadn’t even struck 11 a.m. at this point and with all of this drama I was convinced that the Quakers might be onto something with silent services. With my husband in tow, I made a beeline for the exit. I didn’t break a limping stride or even glance towards the calls and beckons of cousin relations. Then, just as I reached the door, my parents arrived. Decked out in a bow-tie tuxedo, top-hat, and an extravagantly sequined skirt with a fur shawl, they sauntered on scene like it were just another dinner party. When we finally got outside and shut the door behind us, I paused in shock to look at my husband. He grinned, “You sure we shouldn’t stay for lunch?”

Another memorable time, held at the same location, was a funeral for Ernie. Ernie was Catholic, so I wasn’t too sure what he was doing at a funeral home and not at the Catholic church, as if he had any say in the matter. He was Puerto Rican like my grandfather, so not a direct relation but pert near (at least closer than five times removed and besides, I had actually met him). As soon as my foot hit the parking lot, I remembered something: Ernie’s brother, a full twenty-five years older than me, showed up on my doorstep one sunny afternoon a few years before this with a random marriage proposal.

Transported back to that day I remembered answering the doorbell, and stepping out onto the porch of my apartment. I propped my crutch in the door to keep from locking myself out, and glanced at the three buildings facing me and this man old enough to be my father. Immediately, he got down on one knee. I thought he was tying his shoelaces. He stated his intention but I was sure I heard incorrectly, being hard of hearing and all. Finally, the whole thing bloody came down crashing and burning after he refused to seize any one of several chances to backpedal. Even my inquiry into the whereabouts of his common law wife that had stabbed him with a butcher knife didn’t deter him. Now, nearly four years later in the parking lot, I swallowed the lump of awkwardness and steped through the door with my Nan.

The mortician, Ed, greeted us. It’s a small town and he does most funerals here. I always think that Ed should give me a pointer or two for healthy living due to his hands-on experience with all my deceased relations. Whenever I see him, I wonder what he will if I ask him. While that strange thought hovers like a comic balloon it inevitably morphs into another: If I shake Ed’s hand is that like touching a dead body, albeit third generation? Those balloons casued me to stutter about and dramatically avoid Ed’s handshake. Rudeness was collateral damage in my war to avoid the third generation dead-man touch.

The room for Ernie’s funeral was completely silent and everyone turned to face forward again after observing my awkward entry. You could hear a pin drop if you were hard of hearing, which I was, and it reminded me of the Quakers. Nan took the lead by marching to the casket where we stood staring at the body. I would like to report that I respectfully held this silent moment in memory of Ernie but the the truth is, the only thing I could think about was Uncle Ben’s funeral and my survival of nearly being caught on disposable camara falling into the casket by the selfie-photographer-geneological-researcher.

Alas, my grandmother was satisfied and moved on to pay respect to the family. The brother – the now-even-older proposer – latched on to me and started sobbing. New balloons formed above my head: Is he sobbing for Ernie or a lost fairy tale with me? Where is the common law wife? Does she have a knife? Has he been touching the body and is now touching me? Confused, stunned, and frankly more scared of the dead’s cooties than the common law wife’s knife, I pulled away and sat with Nan.

Men entered the funeral room shaking hands, hugging, and kissing both cheeks like mafia dons. They did seem a little scary with their pinstripe suits, slicked hair, and shined shoes. Yet mere feet away my 4’9” Nan sat with her public whisper gossipping about their weight, flaws, and relational connections. (Puerto Rico’s an island, we’re all relations.) A few rows in front of us, I noticed a woman nodding her head to affirm or deny Nan’s comments. Thinking it was funny, I pointed this out to Nan, but it was not funny when Nan foghorned, “That nosy B**!”. I’ll stop there.

The most recent memorial went by without a hitch, mostly because there was no body present, I suppose. The minister didn’t seem to like our family very much but I couldn’t tell if it was due to public whispers, selfies, or general hillbilly elegy. It was for a man in his 80’s that had been convinced women were created to serve men and Aryan bloodline was best. Ironically, the minister and military funeral honors were presented by women, one of which was African American. Ah, the sweet rain of justice. He wasn’t a bad guy, or even completely racist, just a product of his time and as his service attested, times change. When he was alive, he would hop on his four-wheeler and deliver cabbage to my door each fall and turnips each spring and express excitement at anything in a mason jar. He would hug me saying, “I love you honey…but it’s a damn shame Jack didn’t have any boys…To carry on the family line, you see, you are all girls…and, well…[flips hand over and back again.” Now, fall and spring have passed since he’s been gone and no cabbage or turnips show up on my door, no four-wheeler visits, no reminders of being born the wrong gender and thus failing a line preceding MacBeth. Uncle Larry left me some laughs and tears. And the thing is, I find myself missing him. It makes me appreciate the way each moment of life and each interaction contributes to what we leave behind.

I suppose none of us is perfect, and we are made up of the quirks we possess. Pieced together like tattered quilts, we each have a story to leave at our wake. How odd will my funeral will be, with fake legs, crutches, and my real leg already buried? Will my fake legs and crutches be displayed like I’ve seen motorcycle cuts, beer cans, photos, hats, gloves, jackets, purses, and bibles? I don’t know what will happen when I die, but I leave charge for remaining family to follow up with stories. Regardless of the way it happens, I think I prefer a funeral with my relations, public whispering about closure over a funeral that ends before anyone even realizes it started, any day.

The Best You’ll Ever Have – In Crutches

In 2005 it was decided that I would be thereafter limited to using crutches for most mobility and function. I was referred by a fellow amputee friend to check out Thomas Fetterman’s crutches, and several prosthetists confirmed they were the best that money could buy. My mom helped measure me for a custom fit of titanium “gorilla” crutches and purchased them for me as a gift.

I never thought much more about this until 2020, when on a kayaking trip I nearly lost my crutches downriver! I immediately came home to order a spare pair, and took my measurements again. In spite of the fifteen year difference, the company maintained records of my original measurements and noted that these were not the same as I submitted on my new order. Impressed to say the least, they did not disappoint further and helped me to resolve the difference in measurement and included much needed advice about my existing pair.

These crutches are truly the most amazing investment and worth every dime spent. Yes, I’m still using the exact same pair of crutches that my mom purchased for me in 2005. If you know anything about crutches, you are likely rereading that last sentence to make sure you saw it right. Yes, the welding is intact and I am using the exact same pair bought in 2005.

Below: 2005 a few months after receiving my crutches; 2020 pictured with the exact same pair.

Before Thomas Fetterman’s titanium forearm crutches I was discarding about one pair of aluminum crutches each month. They would snap, bend, and even break out from underneath of me. My lifestyle is active and I needed something that could take the bangs, falls, drops, heavy bags, constant movement, and accidental crunching underfoot when laid on the ground. I love the ocean, so they needed to withstand salt. I love to swim, they needed to withstand the showers at the gym and the kayaking. They have been strapped onto bikes, horses, motorcycles, go-carts, jeeps, scooters, fishing boats, and I’m sure much more – they even float! Furthermore, my doctor warned me about the breakdown in my shoulders and arms over time on crutches. These are titanium, extremely lightweight, and now when I pickup a pair of aluminum crutches I am astounded at the heaviness!

In the end, I cannot recommend these enough and would like to show you my own cost comparison of time used: 15 years x 12 months/yr = 180 months.

Thomas Fetterman Titanium Forearm Crutches: Initial one-time Cost approx. $1,145 + ($127 x 15) yrs of replacement hand grips and tips = $3,064 for 15 years or $204 per year. *Also includes 10 year guarantee.

Prescription issued Aluminum Crutches: Approx. $150 pr x 180 mos = $27,000 over 15 years or $1,800 per year. Granted, insurance would cover some of the aluminum crutches but currently my insurance will cover the amount after I pay the first $3,000/yr which means these crutches would be 100% out of pocket cost to me.

I’ll let you resolve the savings in your head on this one. If you or a loved one will be permanently using crutches, take a moment to check out Thomas Fetterman titanium crutches.

*Please remember when considering these recommendations for yourself or a loved one:

a) Ashly is an amputee at nearly the hip level of her right leg;
b) Ashly is on crutches or in a scooter 100% of the time;
c) Ashly has been an amputee for thirty years;
d) Ashly is still young and active in her thirties;
e) The crutches that Ashly uses are forearm crutches;
f) What works for Ashy may not work for you;
g) Ashly receives no incentives, gifts, or compensation for reviews, advice, or mention of any product or company in these features.

*Product, person, and organization endorsements and reviews are not compensated, neither are they to be interpreted or considered as professional, legal, or medical advice. Neither Crutchprints.com nor Ashly Ash has interests, holdings, political affiliations or other ties with persons, corporations, or other entities referenced. Neither Crutchprints.com nor Ashly Ash has received free product(s), sample(s), or compensation(s), or service(s) for postings unless otherwise disclosed.
**All recommendations and advice that are posted on Crutchprints.com will be based strictly on personal experience and opinion and should not be taken or interpreted as legal or medical advisement under any circumstances.

Can Family & Friends Suffer from Secondary Trauma?

Secondary traumatic stress is a risk when we support and engage wholeheartedly with a trauma survivor. More recently, secondary traumatic stress has come to the front as an issue separate from burnout, and it should be addressed.

While burnout is a state of physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion caused by long-term involvement in emotionally demanding situations, secondary trauma often occurs when there is interaction between the supporter and survivor and the supporter becomes traumatized. Secondary traumatic stress is often used interchangeably or referred to as “vicarious trauma.”

There are many indicators of secondary traumatic stress including but not limited to: anger, sadness, prolonged grief, anxiety, depression, headaches, stomachaches, fatigue, constipation, cynicism, mood swings, isolationism, avoidance and lack of motivation.

If you are supporting a survivor of severe trauma and feel a number of these symptoms, confirm your suspicion of secondary traumatic stress, we urge you to check in with your own needs and make self-care a priority.

Leaving secondary traumatic stress undealt with can bring an entourage of other problems both physically and psychologically. It is important to take care of yourself when you are supporting a survivor of trauma or trauma-based mind control. Remember the childhood song, “I’m a little Teapot”? Well, your teapot must be full before you can sing “tip me over and pour me out!”

Steps to Take….Mentally

Take time or schedule time daily to process, self-reflect, journal, read unrelated books or practice a hobby, spend time with friends/family/support network, talk to someone about the stress you are under, and find things that make you laugh.

Steps to Take….Physically

Eat healthy and regularly exercise. Don’t put your physical health on the back burner because it will impact your mental well-being and window of tolerance. If you can set aside specific time to “disconnect” and rest, check in with yourself and see what it is your body needs including but not limited to sleep and nutrition.

Steps to Take….with Your Lifestyle

Take breaks throughout the day, make quiet time to complete tasks, set limits on the number of intense emotional contacts you support, and learn to say “no” when you need to. Boundaries are not designed to keep others out of our lives, they are designed to keep us contained and not run all over like Jell-O.

On the Hunt – Job Seeking and Resume Tips

I’ve stumbled across many challenges in the modern business world when searching for a job that is a good fit and utilizes my qualifications while considering my disability. In a competitive job market, education seems to be one of the immediate factors in determining the odds of consideration. With lots of applicants and the increasing workload on employees, time is of essence when considering applicants.

Aside from education, I believe a proper resume and self-presentation bears considerable persuasion on prospective employers. Resume standards are changing constantly, I have found most recently in aiding a few in their job search that the format and structure of a resume must suit the audience. As a result, we created two resumes for my each candidate. One reflecting traditional and the other reflecting modern formatting.

And let’s be honest, folks, discrimination exists still in many parts of this country. Yes, the ADA has fought hard for equal treatment when we have a disability. But yes, there are still a million ways that companies can and do work around this. I have done interviews where I was rejected only to be told later that it was because “you will make our employer’s health insurance costs increase” or “it’s just too great a liability to employ some people.” I’ve been written up for not following the proper business code of holding the handrail on stairs (which caused me quite a headache fighting this and proving I cannot use crutches and handrails at the same time, and oh yeah, why isn’t there an elevator in that building?), and written up for being scared of falling in the snow and therefore asking to leave work early. But there are things that you can do when being hired that will at least prevent some of the discrimination up front.

You control the interview process and it is always wise to submit resumes online when possible and seek for video-conference interviews to “save time” for everyone. Phone interviews work as well, but the main point here is taking the bull by the horns and insisting that your resume and qualifications be judged on just those things, not your disability. Moving on from this, I have other practical skills to share as well!

Self-identifying skills and qualifications is difficult for most people. Understanding and using the correct terminology, skill descriptions, keywords, and trends of the company or market for which you are applying is no longer an option but a necessity. If there is a specific company that you wish to apply for, research them. Pay particular attention to the values, mission, and vision statements of the company. There are keywords in these statements that will help you tailor your resume and interview process. Business size, history, age, culture, and marketing are other areas to research. Again, consider the audience when creating your resume to show you have the skills and pay attention to details. Hiring managers recognize when a candidate has researched and reflected that in their resume, and often this is valued to demonstrate commitment and work ethic.

In the interview stage the question is not, “will I receive a job offer?” (in most cases), but “will employment here enrich my life and the company’s objectives?” Enter an interview prepared with questions of your own, you are also interviewing the company! Other things that help in interviews: professionalism and disposition go a long way and real life experience is valuable. In a recent case-in-point of assisting the job search of others, the hiring manager told the candidate that they now seek out experience more than education in that particular field work after a few near-disasters where educated employees had none of the experience that was critical to safety. So be confident and highlight your experience!

I recommend seeking a friend or associate that knows a bit about the business world but not necessarily your field of expertise to consult with. A reliable person like this can go over your resume, ask you questions, and improve your list of hard and soft skills in a presentable way. If this person does not know the specifics of your expertise, the questions that they ask will highlight skills that are second-nature to you but not others. This is a way to gain valuable insight and evaluation before submitting your resume and with it the first impression.

My Grandfather shortly after coming to the States

Lastly, but certainly not least, is the ability to remain flexible and willing to do what it takes. “Get your foot in the door,” so to speak, by considering a minor position from which you can display your skills and transition to the job you want the most later. My Grandfather came to the States from Puerto Rico at a time when racism ruled and no one wanted to hire him. My mom remembers him walking from shop door to shop door in the rain, doing whatever jobs people would give him for an hour or a day, determined to make his way and feed his family without assistance. Because of the look in my mom’s as she would remember this, I will always remember my Grandfather’s words, “There IS a job… but you have to get up out the chair and go try.”

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Exploring the Issue: Private Foster Home Breakdown and Retention

When we went through the rigorous process to become a licensed private foster home, there was so much we didn’t know. Furthermore, there was so much we weren’t told. Things like 25% of foster homes close within the first 2.5-3.8 months. By one year another 25% close. All in all, 75% of foster homes are closed before the 2 year mark.

Why is that? Why is there an incredible amount of resources invested in the recruiting, vetting, training, and licensing process of foster homes but nearly none in retaining them? We would still be foster parents, I believe, has the system worked with us even a little bit. Instead everything was set up to fail not only the child but us as well.

This paper intends to explore that issues a little more fully and will open your eyes to what foster parents across America are saying. The document is an Adobe PDF file, viewable on most computers and phones, and under 7 (double-spaced) pages. Take a moment to explore this social issue with me…

private-foster-home-breakdown-and-retention Download

Crutch and cane holders

One thing that I hate more than anything is having to lay my crutches on the ground in a public place. Who wants to have their crutch handles on the dirty ground, put their hands on the dirty handles, then rub their face by accident, or eat something? Furthermore, people are constantly tripping and falling, stepping on, or knocking away my crutches because they do not see them or forget where they are laying. When I use my scooter they are one more thing in my hands as I jostle between holding my purse, driving the scooter, and managing two crutches on top of whatever else I have going on like a kid riding on my lap or needing to open/close doors.

upload via cloudHQ
upload via cloudHQ

I recently discovered these things, and while I am told they are presently in most hardware stores I found mine online. They are flexible and bendable, they are slip resistant, and they can be molded and attached to whatever length or shape required. It doesn’t matter how thick or thin of a cane or crutch, it doesn’t matter how high or low you need them to be. After hours of trying to invent some sort of portable crutch-holder my whole family was amazed to find such a simple solution under $10!

You can purchase or read more about these here.

Things I have successfully attached to…

Chairs
Tables
Window Sills
Sofa Arm
Side/End Tables
Piano
Church Pews
Bathroom Sinks
Kitchen Counters
Public Restroom (Toilet paper dispenser, hook over door)
Stadium Cup Holder (To keep handles off ground)
Scooter chair
Poolside (Made ‘V’ formation to prop them handles up)
They twist and bend – there is no end to the possibilities!

*Please remember:

a) Ashly is an amputee at nearly the hip level of her right leg,
b) she is on crutches or in a scooter 100% of the time,
c) Ashly has been an amputee for thirty years,
d) Ashly is still young and active in her thirties,
e) the crutches that Ashly uses are forearm crutches,
f) What works for Ashy may not work for you!
g) Ashly receives no incentives, gifts, or compensation for reviews, advice, or mention of any product or company in these features.

**Product, person, and organization endorsements and reviews are not compensated, neither are they to be interpreted or considered as professional, legal, or medical advice. Neither Crutchprints.com nor Ashly Ash has interests, holdings, political affiliations or other ties with persons, corporations, or other entities referenced. Neither Crutchprints.com nor Ashly Ash has received free product(s), sample(s), or compensation(s), or service(s) for postings unless otherwise disclosed

**All recommendations and advice that are posted on crutchprints.com will be based strictly on personal experience and opinion and should not be taken or interpreted as legal or medical advisement under any circumstances.