Thanksgiving celebrations have grown in our home over the years.

When I was a single mom, I opened my home to single friends, a beloved widow from church, and whoever didn’t have a place to go. It really exemplified the spirit of Thanksgiving. We didn’t have much, but we were grateful for friends and fellowship.

When I remarried over a decade ago, our family of four turned into a family of seven. The adult kids did their own thing, and our celebration was earnest, but small.

Now, as the kids are grown, married, and having kids, the family table is growing.

My son and daughter in love have added her family to ours – her parents are dear friends that have grown into family. Her brothers and a wife are adding to the mix of blurred family lines.

This year, we had to decide how to seat everyone in the most inclusive, loving way we could. We have expanded well beyond our eight seat formal dining room.

This year, we will probably put that table, as well as the family kitchen table, into the living room. This way, all the kids, wives, in-laws and outlaws can be near each other, breaking bread and making memories.

Next year, I predict we will adding a children’s table, as our grandchildren will number five grandsons by that time!

God willing, we will all be together to celebrate our blessings.

We are blessed indeed!

The month I dread is here.

Every year I tell myself it’s no big deal, this too shall pass…and I know it will. December will be here before I know it.

Then the calendar page turns, and it’s November, and I square my shoulders and prepare myself for it…or at least try to.

Back when I was 17 and in love, I recklessly raced into November, not knowing that on November 5, I would find out I was pregnant. I had a negative pregnancy test in October- on this November day, I was told I was 16-18 weeks pregnant. To say I was shocked is a vast understatement.

November 9 was my first love’s birthday – he was turning 16. That day brought us lectures on why I should have an abortion. I listened, head down and so alone in my convictions, for two straight hours. I refer to it as the “aren’t you glad I didn’t suck you into a sink anniversary ” when I call my firstborn on that date every year now. While I am so, so glad I stuck by my guns, it was a tough chapter in my life.

Little did I know the heartache to come. Just four years later, alone at work in a convenience store, I would get the devastating news that shattered my world – on November 26, my first love-the father of our son-was killed in a car accident. I literally collapsed, and strangers attended to me until I could leave work and go home, to make plans to fly home for the funeral.

Thanksgiving that year was just two days earlier, and it was the last conversation I would have with him. The last words we exchanged as we got off the phone were “I love you.”

After he passed, I had a long and very close relationship with his mother. She was like another mom to me – we spoke often, and I visited when I could. Early in 2010 she called to tell me she had small cell breast cancer. On November 19, she passed away. I was in Walt Disney World when I got the news. We came back immediately, and once again I flew home for a devastating funeral I wasn’t at all prepared for.

November 22, 2013, my beloved Tia closed her eyes for the last time. She had fought hard against a rare cancer, until God took her home, laying in the arms of her beloved husband, my uncle. She was sunshine and laughter, love and more love to me. She remains one of my very favorite people. There is a void she left behind when she left us, so young.

November now will also always remind me of the child I lost on April 3, 2013…a child that, if they had grown to term, would have been delivered in November. Instead, it’s just another loss in a month overladen with losses.

I have to be determined in November- determined not to let grief swallow me whole. I schedule workouts. I protect myself from extra stressors. I lean into God.

Sometimes it works, and I breathe easier on December 1, walking shakily forward into a month of celebration and hope.

Many times it doesn’t work, and my depression pulls me into a downward spiral that has me flailing for help.

November. Here you are again.

Here we go.

I’m frustrated today.

There is someone in my life that I love very much, but I’m helpless to help them.

They are under the control of a malignant narcissist.

The problem is they themselves don’t have the facilities to take of themselves, or the ability to make decisions.

This person is very loved, but in a place where they have no opportunities. They are constantly emotionally manipulated into staying away from those who love them, although it is their family.

We are trying to figure out how to handle the situation. There is no negotiating with the malignant narcissist.

We don’t want to cause more emotional trauma to our loved one, but the situation they are in is toxic.

It’s a rock and a hard place.

I’m seeking out help from people who advocate for those in our loved ones position. We want to help, not harm.

It’s hard to be the adult.

13 months ago, I left my job as a bedside nurse working 12 + hour days, and commuting 5-6 hours a week.

In June, I left the office job I had immediately transitioned into, to take time off and concentrate on becoming healthier.

Almost four months later, I am asked almost daily if I am bored.

Not at all.

I am learning how to be.

I’ve worked full time, a minimum of 40 hours a week, since I was 15 years old.

I loved being a nurse for the past 20 years!!

That chapter has closed, and it seems the door, for now at least, is firmly shut.

I’m okay with that.

I’m learning how to just be – without having to go and do. It’s a blessing.

I’ve been deep cleaning my house, taking out piles of accumulated stuff. The cobwebs are down, the windows are clean and open. With each room transformation, I breathe easier. Our house is a home.

I’ve been available to my family. I love being a wife, a mother, a grandmother. I’m most content being with my people, and I’m able to be with them a lot more.

I’ve been traveling – every month we have gone somewhere, and it continues through the end of the year, and into next year. We are seeing our family in states north of here, and it’s great to be able to do that.

I’m sleeping better, eating at normal times, reading more.

I don’t know what the next year will hold – but I know I’ll be holding two new grandsons by two of my sons and my daughters in love, and I know that is more than good enough for me.

For now, being is more than enough.

Ah, how I miss the days of civility, manners, and respect.

I’m not laying blame at any political party or media outlet. If you are participating in conversations online, in person, or over the phone, you should be civil.

We are all responsible for our behavior…and our example.

I’ve been attacked twice this week online.

The first time, I was responding to a post about thanksgiving stuffing. I had the nerve to suggest that in the South, we eat dressing!

What followed was a dressing down because of my scandalous, hateful comment. Sarcasm.

The second time, I had the nerve to give a testimony of an experience I had trying to adopt a kitten from a kill shelter. I was denied because I refused to guarantee I wouldn’t get my cat declawed, with the back story I had a cat that climbed the drapes and I had it declawed.

What was posted next described me as a monster. I was told I should never be trusted with an animal. And on and on.

Once upon a time, you could agree to disagree. No more.

Now, behind the mask of internet anonymity, people will post the most hateful attacks and comments towards people they have never met.

There is no civil debate. I learned a lot in debate class in high school many moons ago – we presented our case, and then our response, with no personal attacks, threats, or cussing.

I refuse to believe we can’t go back to being civil.

If I see a post I don’t like, I move on. If it offends me, I delete it. If it is hateful or promotes hate, I block the perpetrators.

As for me, I’m spending less time online, and will continue to whittle social media visits down.

In the real world, I will continue to smile and say hi to people I pass. I will seek to be a peacemaker.

I’ve got my political views. You’ve got yours. We both have the right to speak them, but can we agree to be civil, even if we can’t agree?

The kids are watching.

Eleven years ago, I entered the life of a wonderful child.

This child was obviously special from the moment I saw them. I could see that they needed an advocate – as a registered nurse, the subtleties of behavior and reactions that had been written off as “quirks” needed to be addressed so this child could reach their full potential, and thrive.

We took the child to a neuropsychologist, who spent several sessions confirming a diagnosis of autism, and he gave us an envelope with the plan of care for the school.

I was ecstatic – I wanted nothing but the best for this child.

However, another adult in the picture refused to let the neuropsychologist report be taken to the school. Their assessment of the child was polar opposite to our assessment and the teachers assessments, which were all in sync. This person didn’t want the child “labeled”. So despite the fact the school had the ability to help the child with an autistic specific plan, the school never got the data. The child fell by the wayside.

Now the child is an adult. They do not work. They do not drive. They don’t shower or brush their teeth or wear their retainer without much goading, because these things are assumed by the controlling adults, despite the fact that they have always been an issue.

We don’t have control over this wonderful individual. We had discussed with them about going to trade school, getting a job, and they were excited. They loved ritual jobs, and were adept at repetitive tasks.

Then the other adults in their life told them they could go to college, be a broadcaster- despite the fact they barely graduated high school after being held back a year, and they have Tourette’s. Not a recipe for college or broadcasting success.

I’m an advocate. I’m not in denial. I’ve been on the front lines for almost 11 years. I’ll always advocate for this child, now mine. I always will. I’ve loved them just as they are, and have tried to help them reach their potential with the capabilities they have.

But my hands are tied as long as the other adults won’t recognize or accept the child for who they are.

Several years ago, my in-laws moved from the family farm they built and lived on for decades, to a small, nondescript neighborhood in the Midwest.

It was emotionally rough on the whole family, but it was necessary. Little did anyone know at the time how necessary it would be.

Over the past few years, Mom had some memory loss issues. It started slow, but escalated quickly over the last two years. Accompanied by two bone breaking falls, a difficult decision had to be made. To keep Mom from hurting herself as she recovered from a broken hip, she was admitted into a nursing home.

She’s as strong as a horse, and still has the stubborn will that served her well as a registered nurse. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand where she is now, or why she can’t get up out of bed and go home.

We are up visiting from a state south of here- at least we are trying to visit her. My stalwart spouse, who has only been sick once in the nearly 12 years I’ve know him, has been sick almost since he stepped off the plane five days ago. It’s impossible and irresponsible for him to think about a visit in his condition, as much as it breaks his heart not to.

Instead, we stay with Dad and visit with the sisters, who visit Mom daily, in turn, to love on her and see she’s well cared for in the home down the road.

Mom, though, is everywhere here.

She’s in the chair I’m sitting in – it was her chair, a deep blue with no recliner. She wasn’t much for sitting around. This is the chair she sat in for a few minutes, a dog in her lap. She’s in the chair, and her dog – who misses her tangibly – is in my lap.

She’s in this house, newer to them though it may be. The decor was carefully placed by her hands, and the framed pictures of family are scattered everywhere, so they were always in her line of sight.

Remnants of her life are present throughout every room. Porcelain dolls, paintings of cardinals, churches, and figurines of German Shepherds are tucked everywhere. The beds are warmed by homemade quilts, and the end tables are daintily set with lace doilies.

Our conversations are filled with her. Dad will be mid-sentence when he will suddenly verbalize a memory as it passes through his mind’s eye. We gathered for a family meal, and talk went to all of our favorite dishes she made, culminating with a flip through a hand written recipe book to collect our favorite recipes to take home.

Mom is not here in this house right now, and she wasn’t in the car today as we drove through the windy countryside.

Her presence echoes through all of it. Always.

Dementia has taken her physical mind, but her love keeps her family loving her and laughing and remembering her as the mom, grandma, sister, and daughter she was – and the wonderful person she is.

I’m definitely feeling middle aged today.

I fear that my generation- generation x – will be the last generation that is largely self sufficient.

I am frustrated to no end by the victim mentality that is so pervasive in today’s culture.

Let me set a couple of thing straight before I put both feet on the soapbox. I have chronic pain. I have diabetes, severe arthritis in my back, and asthma.

I had a very rough 20’s – abusive relationships, both mental and physical. I was attacked and got away when I was 19. I was date raped when I was 30.

I have a chronically ill child. I lived several years in abject poverty.

I have a lot of sob stories. But…I refuse to let them define me!

When people would rather work for months or years to get disability than work to get a trade or make a decent wage, I’m disgusted.

My mindset is life’s a bitch and then you die – make the best of what you’ve been given. Some of my hard times are due to my poor choices. I own that. Some of them were due to the evil of others. I escaped from them.

I grew up respecting my elders. I learned to serve by watching others serve.

I did not grow up expecting a handout!

To see people in their 20’s and 30’s expecting handouts when they are able bodied is distressing.

I know there are people that genuinely face amazing hardships. I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about those who are ill because of their poor life choices, who continue to abuse their bodies with food or drugs or tobacco, then woe is them.

It’s not easy to be healthy in a world full of junk food and medicine – but the choice is yours.

I don’t understand anyone who chooses to be a victim.

Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get it together.

You don’t want to work? Too bad. You have to support yourself, and your family.

I cry for the coming generation, raised on the dole. With an expectation that government will pay for their lifestyle.

Not me. Not my kids. Not my family. Not because we are better, but because we choose not to be victims.

We overcome.

We had just gotten off a very cramped discount airline plane, spilling gratefully out of the fetid recycled air, into the echoey half empty terminal.

We had no particular place to go – we were taking a short vacation. Relaxing now with each stride toward the day ahead, we talked and smiled as we planned what we were going to eat next in a favorite town we were here to visit.

As we made our way through the terminal, we noticed a crowd was forming at the windows to our right. Wondering what they were looking at, we did what curious onlookers do, and we joined the hundreds of others moving slowly toward the large panels of glass.

Immediately I spotted the military honor guard, and I clasped my husband’s arm, pulling him to a stop.

The airline was beginning to unload a flag laden casket, and the crowd was still. People stood straighter. Talking ceased, and ball caps came off, held to the side.

I thought of the three generations of my family that had served and were serving in the military. My grandfather and my father had gone to war, and by the grace of God, came home. My son had deployed, and was now home, awaiting the birth of his second son.

As I watched the slow procession carrying this hero to his final destination on earth, tears ran down my face. I said a prayer for the family, the friends, the loved ones that were left behind. I said a prayer of gratitude for this one who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our country.

I am grateful to that one.

I am grateful for them all.

We are under hurricane warning.

It’s eerily calm outside. It’s an odd thing to know a category 3 hurricane is directly below us.

I watch the weather pages. We have water and food staples and flashlights and candles.

It’s an uneasy wait.

Then storm is forecast to turn east, sparing us from a direct hit.

I know from 18 years of living here that the storm will do what it wants.

The plants and porch furniture are now huddled on the screened back porch. We have the boards ready for the window if things deteriorate.

I’ve harassed my kids in the danger zone into leaving, and I am breathing a sign of relief to know they are safe. All my family is calling around to check on each other, before the power and cell phone losses come.

The news shows video of storm surge already flooding low lying areas, a good 24 hrs before landfall.

I’m grateful for the technology which tracks and predicts the storms.

I hate hurricanes, though. My nonchalance changed after Hurricane Ivan.

I’m nervous. We are prepared.

We wait.