Teddy's Law Tuesday

http://teddyslaw.org/our-mission/http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2013/02/for-teddys.html   http://missmolliesmusings.blogspot.com/2013/02/more-on-teddy.html 
A repost:
I had wanted to write a fun piece on my memories of Patriots Day in New England, when I lived in cold New Hampshire thirty years ago. That drawn out spring as they celebrated the 18th of April for the "shot heard around the world." Spring that dragged, but those hearty New Englanders had the Boston Marathon, taking a holiday.
You know what happened yesterday at the Boston Marathon. It is all over the place. A tragedy marring a wonderful celebration of freedom. Children killed. A coward bombing a public event.
Amidst all the posts for Boston, I noticed one about the mother of Teddy Foltz and her boyfriend. The attorneys are petitioning for separate trials. I'm sad for Boston, but every time I see Teddy's name or face, tears well up in my eyes. As I wrote before, the system failed this little boy. Two school districts and several times he went to the hospital for various maladies, like frostbite on his feet, no one further investigated these incidences.
The terror and abuse have no more revelations when I read about the pending trial. It shocks and sickens me. I cry. We lose children every day to abuse and killing. If they are not physically killed like Teddy, they are murdered in their souls. If they grow up, they are likely to be monsters to children in their lives. No statistics here, so site me on that.
The children lost at Sandy Hook and in Boston, yesterday, are tragic losses, indeed. I am in no way downplaying their deaths. I think, though, they had happy lives with parents who loved them. If you saw them, you would no more feel sorry for them or fear for their lives the day before the tragedy than any other child from stable homes.
We have to look beyond and see the Teddy's and his twin brothers. We have to look beyond the smiles that children seem to have naturally, even when the life they have behind close doors is horrible. Children are forgiving. They love their abusers or the enablers to the abusers, because they have no other compass. Children love their families.
Just as now, we have to be on the alert of suspicious characters in public events, we need to have radar up for the every day abusers. Pray for teachers, public health workers, other adults and yourself, that diligence in getting to the bottom of  the evidence of abuse, neglect and stories of cover up. We need to pray for noses for the facts, not letting go, like a dog with a bone.
 

Another Quiet Story of Triumph

A repeat from three years ago:

Yes, I'm stealing again. Quiet is from Joe Zentis,http://sharonherald.com/archive/x1448059323http://sharonherald.com/archive/x1448059323 who writes Lives of Quiet Inspiration for the Sharon Herald and has published a book with these local stories of people who have overcome obstacles.
I love meeting people, but I love more getting to know them. This man lives in middle class neighborhood, classically dressed and talks of his son owning a steel mill company, near where I live. He worked there after retiring. At first glance, peace, comfort and privilege rule in his home. I find he nursed his wife from C.O.P.D. (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) until she died four years ago, a largeness of  loss in his voice. He possesses  pride of his two children and the grandchildren, successful in  their lives, one has recorded a CD already at age nineteen.
A few days later we talk again. I discover more. His father drank and ran around. Probably one of those men with another family or two somewhere.  The man was beaten as child and witnessed a lot of violence. When he was four, he and his mother had to move South for safety and security, leaving the other children in the North. Even at such a young age, he felt uprooted.
He made a vow as a young man that when he married, he would not be that kind of husband or father. He and his wife kept a quiet home, with regular meals, praying and going to church, getting their two children through college. He didn't succumb to the injustice of his life. He determined to make life better for his children.
How often we think that back in the last century the times were easier, people were better and abuse didn't happen. But as always, I think we have those rose colored glasses that color our perception. My mom felt the belt. A teacher ripped the shirt of my uncle trying to discipline him in school. Their mother left the family in 1936.
My friend Ginny's father and aunt were abandoned by their father when just very small children. Their stories could overwhelm us, death a constant companion, mothers and fathers dying young, infant siblings buried in far away cemeteries. Hunger gnawing at many.
The ones I know overcame these obstacles.  Sometimes demons followed them, but they fought them. Others gave in to the demons, I'm sure, just like today. Paul in the New Testament states we are over-comers, more than conquerors in Jesus. Let us be inspired, first by Jesus and then by the triumph of the human spirit that comes from above.
 

The Fence

I finished reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil a few days ago. I also watched the movie, just before I finished the book. I am slow in getting to popular items at times. But this is also the twentieth anniversary of the novel, so in a way, I was trending again. I had watched a little bit of the movie in Presby hospital when my mother was there many years ago. I had wanted to read the book because Mom said at the time it was good. I don't know if I would have appreciated it, then.
The book reads like a novel, although, John Berendt wrote nonfiction about the city of Savannah, Georgia and the people he met. Most of it is true. He changed some of it. I watched an interview of him. He wrote it so he could see if he could write a book. Up till then he only penned magazine articles.
The movie showed it more than the book, but people tell a writer stories. And they asked about the book he would write. They knew it would become a movie and they all wanted to be in it. Some were. The defense lawyer played the judge. Jerry, the hair dresser, played a small part as himself. Emma Kelly played the piano. And the Lady Chablis, who made the story, delighted. 
As happens when people discover a writer, along with telling their own stories, they pitch ideas for books.  I wish I had a dollar for every time I hear at work, "You should write about this place." Uh, HIPPA. But this is a shout out to all my supporters at work. The brother who faithfully visits his baby brother three to four times a week, asking about my progress, encouraging me not to quit. The ladies who have read my novels and love them, reminding me of my mother, always loving what I do. The co-workers I could ghost write their stories as they say, "If I wrote a book." The daughter at the dining room shouting, "Hey, Jessica, how's it going?" Jessica as in Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote, is her reference.
I stand in awe at the well wishes of those I meet. I have published two novels. I feel humble more than proud. I walk that fence of wanting to be read but not being recognized. I still love roaming the book store with my books on the shelf, but seeking bargains. The customers don't know I'm an author. I stroll through the mall, observing people for fiction ideas.
I am content in this part of the journey. I sit at home, lap top to type

in my stories, cats on both sides of me, sometimes inching their way to the keyboard, the window opened for outside noise and air, and the dog laying on the porch, observing the world, waiting for that walk. To make this a job, I should probably go somewhere to write, but I love my couch with my animals. Maybe if I did do this only, I would need to go somewhere to write. But I go to my fan club almost every day, where I hear, "My nurse writes novels."

Wordless Wednesday

From my walks this week at Buhl Farm Park

Teddy's Law Tuesday

http://teddyslaw.org/our-mission/http://www.vindy.com/news/2013/jun/20/teddys-abuser-admits-his-guilt/
http://sharonherald.com/local/x437172957/Death-spurs-woman-into-action 
From a post at the beginning of my campaign to help the Teddy's of the world, the children abused next door:
With heavy heart I post today. I review the Teddy case, although, I hardly forget it. I see his brown smiling eyes and wonder at the pain he must have felt. The verbal abuse escalating to physical and sexual abuse till he was murdered. The shame he may have felt at keeping quiet by maybe trying to be a better man in front of his younger twin brothers. The indifferent mother allowed such terror to happen to her sons.
She shed tears from the moment she entered the court room. Where were they before she was caught? Her ex-boyfriend, instead, showed no emotion. Did he think that made him seem manly?
The sentencing is next week. The debate as to what he should get, fifteen years to life to forty one years to life, played in the comments.The worldly part of me says, "Fry him." I look at that reaction with a horror, too. Why do I think I'm better? We all have a dark side to us. I'm reminded in my spirit- All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.
I want to do something. I have felt guilty as well. Do I miss seeing abuse? I'm not in situations where I see many children. I wonder in a case like this so close to home, what can I do?
A young woman, closer to the situation than I, was interviewed in the Sharon Herald. She stated she would start a fund, a charity. I e-mailed her that I would help in any way I could and linked her to my articles I had written about Teddy. I never heard back from her.
I will use this blog and whatever platform given to me to raise awareness. But like my rant about raising cancer awareness, is that enough? Can I just post little sayings on Facebook or write here and make a difference? Again, I look at my life. Where do I see children to sound an alarm? Should I volunteer in the school? What do I do personally to help?
The system failed Teddy. He left two school districts because the abuse became noticeable. Neighbors did call and children services couldn't find anything to stick. The police were only called once. His death brought police back on the case, where evidence hidden soon rose to the surface with Zaryl Bush's DNA mixed in with Teddy's blood.
Praying is never a waste of time. I pray for abused children. I pray God will show me how I can make a dent. If only like cancer awareness, my words can get my readers to observe with a greater intensity the children in their life, maybe that is a step. God didn't put this heavy on my heart to feel badly in my cozy little world. Doors will open. I will see the Teddy's and help. I'm not sure how right now. I can't keep quiet.
The second link has a web site to read about signs/symptoms of child abuse.

Life Changes Quickly When You're Twenty

Sun relentless, dry heat, swamp coolers and air conditioners the only relief met me my second visit to California, to Ridgecrest, the desert two over from Death. The normal ways of cooling in western Pennsylvania or the East with humidity, thirty degrees cooler than the 120 in the desert, provided nothing. Swimming in ninety four degree water, conjured taking a bath under a sun lamp left on too long. Driving at night with the windows down with a slightly less hot breeze for ice cream didn't live up to the image of Twin Kiss in my earlier days.
Yet, I loved it. I was with my sister, Diane and newborn Gabrielle, playing with three year old Michelle. It still was summer and we did go to cooler places, like the ocean, on the weekend. I played house, especially the few days Gabrielle recovered from a staph infection in the hospital.
One of those evenings after a long lazy summer day of playing hard before nine am and reading, watching morning shows, napping and preparing supper, a phone call broke into my vacation. Dad, soft spoken, really hard to hear, repeated those dreaded words, "Mom has cancer. They aren't sure where, yet. Surgery to remove a tumor on her side tomorrow."
Crash. I left Mom in bed a few weeks earlier. As she lifted a pot of baked beans from the oven on the Fourth of July, she couldn't stand back up. Dad helped her to bed and she wouldn't go to the doctor, because she had an appointment in two weeks. So we waited on her, mostly Dad. She spent two weeks after my arrival in California at the Farrell Hospital until the tests showed some kind of cancer. Off to the Youngstown Osteopathic Hospital for better surgeons. The phone call.
Diane and I woke early to call about the surgery. Dad's voice, barely a whisper, we strained on the extensions to listen and try to make out what he said. Something about her rump, he mumbled. I realize now, my soft-spoken dad imagined the love of his life would die, as we all did when we heard the word Cancer. I never comprehended how much my dad loved, depended on my mom's love and worried about a life without her, until much later in life. We all depended on him, never realizing he needed to get his strength from someone, too.
Dad, our rock and pillar of the family, encouraged me to remain in California. He only was sitting around the hospital after work. A week later, as soon as the biopsy from the left chest wall tumor reported the source was her thyroid, she had that organ removed. The surgeon cried on Mom's chest , when she spoke after the surgery. I guess he was close to her vocal cords. That act endeared him to her.
I continued my stay with Diane. My flight home bumped to first class because of the air traffic controllers strike, as white wine flowed freely and I partook. The tipsiness vanished as soon as my dad greeted me with his arm around me, telling me about Mom. The fancy of a twenty year old, newly engaged, entering her senior year of nursing school, fled as life became hospitals, caring for a sick mom, and my first real bout with depression. Mom talked of death often, one time wondering if my brother had any guns.
"I'm ready to die, Mollie," she plainly informed me.
"I'm not ready for you to die," I cried back.
One night after a particularly long day, we returned late from the hospital. A few minutes later, at ten thirty, a nurse called. Dad only said, "Yeah." Then to me, "I have to go back to the hospital. You go to bed."
I didn't hear anything all night. I continued my routine of going to school the next morning. After class I pulled my instructors aside and told them what I was going through. They advised me to take the year off.
"Oh, I couldn't do that. My mom would think I was giving up and she would, too. No, I will get through this year and get married as planned, because that will give her hope."
I did, too. Twenty, my life changed so much. Then at twenty one, it changed as I had planned. My mother, did recover and walk again after two years. Ten years ago, as she struggled again with health issues, I told her, "Mom, you're a cancer survivor of twenty three years," she wore that like a badge.
Life is full of changes, but at twenty they seem so quick. Like Mike and Morgan in Last Free Exit, half their life, their dad is gone. At eighteen, that is a long time, as long as double that when you are older. We must realize this for our young people we know.

Good-Bye to Jacob, the Schemer

I have to relax. I feel time slips covertly and if I don't accomplish tasks, I lose the moment. The battle will be over and I have lost. Yet, so many times, the choices I make benefit the ideas I'm working. This is more than time management.
I have so many ideas, thoughts and demands. Years ago, the thought dominated my life that Christian girls had to be nice, in other words, religious. I suppose boys got the same idea in church. Be good, follow rules and always think of others above self took precedence over what Jesus really wants. As I study the Gospels more and more, I see Jesus with His face set like flint to go to Jerusalem.
We can't gloss over the cross. Jesus couldn't and didn't. His focus from His birth was always the sacrifice. The sin had to be forgiven for relationship with creation, us, me. He could have stayed in one place, healing, teaching, sending. Jesus had to follow the plan set before time for all time.
In this writing journey, I focus on the goal. I want to sustain myself to be able to have more time to write and research. I also am learning to lean into God and trust His plan and timing. I continually work at writing, but I left the scheming. Or at least I try.
I identify with Jacob of the Old Testament patriarchs probably the most. He started out a deceiver, grabbing the brother's heel at birth. How much of our personalities are developed by our birth stories? I know as youngest, I was considered cute. Yet, being with teenagers, I didn't have all my whims met. I had to get my face washed before going out for ice cream. So I learned, good things come, but there is always a price to pay. I can't get by on cuteness and tears.
With my writing at times, I scheme and plan on what can happen so I can meet my goal. Changing jobs to provide more time to write was one plan. Every so often, I think of changing jobs, but I come back to the plan. I set my face like flint, to write. I want to write. I need to write. I feel I am in God's plan. I should not let anything distract me from the goal of being a writer.
Yet, I relax, too, at what happens each day. A slight change of plan for the day, can lead to some information needed for a story. I often felt that with home health, too. I'd find myself delayed for the time set for a visit and discover, the patient had that call from a long lost relative when I should have arrived. I learned to relax.
This attitude creates a life on a tight rope of sorts. I do need plans. Yet, flexibility and being open to opportunities fit into this life. I need to keep my eyes on the goal of writing. I won't give up, but I hope to not spend hours scheming. It always comes back to seat time of writing.