Barn I saw every day on my way home from work.

Broken, yes it does have broken boards and it's not young, fresh and beautiful like it used to be. However, this farmer still finds he can use this barn even with its broken parts.

Aren't we all broken in some way? It's not just a condition for the more seasoned of us. Even young people experience brokenness, hurt and pain. I believe it's a human condition. We walk around in our own little worlds and feel that we are the only ones that feel this way. Some experience this brokenness so intensely that it stops them from trying to do something for fear of more hurt and pain. Others, regardless of the pain forge on and succeed.

My brokenness began early in my childhood. I have never sucked my thumb and cried, "It was all my parents fault". The fact is, I felt unloved and invisible. This feeling lasted for years. I was born the middle daughter of three girls. I grew up in the country in a Christian middle class home with working blue collar parents. I never went hungry or without clothes. Our dirty little secret was my dad drank on the weekends and holidays. When he drank he got very mean and abusive to my mother. I dreaded weekends and holidays. No one was invited to our home during these times. So many secrets within our walls. My memory holds terrifying flashes of events of our life and fear of him. Yet, I loved and needed him.

Writing in diaries began in grade school for my own solace. Sometimes I wrote to escape the turmoil in my life, writing was my only anchor. Sometimes, the pen and paper caught the tears I could not share, the dreams I did not dare dream, the words I was too afraid to speak. Often, my words conveyed my joy for the simple things of life. Hope for a better tomorrow lay wrapped in pages of diaries stored in a shoe box in the top of a closet. I still find writing to be my outlet, my voice, my solace.

My dad quit drinking in his fifties and became a different man. I finally forgave him when I was thirty years old. Yet, my feelings of worthlessness held me captive for years past my thirtieth birthday.

Now , at sixty-six, I know; I'm not going to climb Mt. Everest, my old knees are too bad. But, I can walk up the little hill not far from my home and enjoy the peace of the woods all around me. I might not write the great novel. I probably won't be rich or famous (but hey, that never was one of my goals anyway).


For me, it's all about attitude. My attitude determines everything. I can "roll with the punches" of life OR I can "roll over and give up". Well, I'm here to tell you..... I'm a fighter. I refuse to give up. Sure, life can be hard and sometimes "you just can't seem to get a break". But you know what? I AM still here, still struggling, still sometimes succeeding. Hopefully, still useful. I know there are people depending on me. I also know that I am not invisible or unloved.

And you know when I get to Heaven and I look my daddy in his beautiful face. I will give him the biggest hug and tell him again how much I love him.