Friends: can we have an honest and respectful talk here??
Okay...so I'm not trying to be homophobic here, but I read one of the books from that 7 page list of lgbtq books someone sent me that are in my kids 5th/6th grade library. I don’t care if they’re boy/boy or boy/girl, this stuff is totally inappropriate for 10 and 11 year old fifth and sixth graders. Our kids needed written consent to watch a sex Ed video in 5th grade. For that, the school reached out to parents and made it available for us to view before it was shown to our kids . I saw the sex ed video, it was tastefully done, educational and SUPER mild compared to the stuff in this book I have in the pictures below.... which is available, without parental consent, for any 5th or 6th grader to borrow from our middle school library. Again, 10 and 11 year old kids.
This book “one man guy” is a story of a 14 year old boy and a 17 year old who quickly end up in a sexual relationship. It’s recommended by librarians for 6th grade and up. I don’t have the heart to read every book on that 7 page list I was sent, this was enough for me.
Listen, the friends I have in the lgbtq community aren’t anything like this...I probably talk about sex more than they do! I think any reasonable person, lgbtq or not, might agree. We just don’t want kids to lose their innocence and start getting sexualized at a young age, it’s just immensely inappropriate. I mean, some parents might think it’s okay and permit this for your kids...but for the rest of us that don’t want our kids to lose their innocence at 10/11 years old...I mean, give us a heads up here. Isn’t the culture overtly sexualized enough? Do we really need kids picking up this kind of stuff in school to shape them ?
The sad reality is, many kids are sexually abused by older teenage kids , kids under 18. There’s a power dynamic where the older kid can take advantage of a younger one and that’s what this book attempts to make normal. Its wrong and irresponsible for us as adults to allow that. We’re their protectors.
I just got wind of this stuff before break. So far I’ve only spoken to my kids librarian and the guy who runs the department for the gh school district. They confirmed the books were there. They told me they serve different clients in the community. I know I can come across sounding like “Backwoods Betty” when I bring stuff like this up in our current culture. After we talked , we all went to break and I don’t think they’ve had a chance to read the book themselves yet.
I love the school, the principal is great, I’ll call him when my kids return to school to discuss this. I just want parents to be aware, this stuff is available to your kids.
And lastly, I know some people want so much to support lgbtq causes, I think sometimes people tend to lose their sense of what’s appropriate. There’s total immunity for all things lgbtq that we don’t find in heterosexual land. For example, the pride parades have floats with men in S&M bondage gear on spanking and grinding on each other...people bring their children to support them. Would this really be appropriate if it was your local 4th of July parade with men and women in bondage doing the same? Or this young Desmond boy, 11 years old, who loves being a drag queen. Last year, He was on stage dancing seductively as men threw dollar bills at him. He was invited on Ellen DeGeneres. His parents allow it and encourage it , and the public supports him. Would we be okay if an 11 year old girl was dancing seductively for a bunch of grown men who were throwing dollar bills at her? Why do we lose our brains when it comes to kids and inappropriate sexual stuff only when it’s lgbtq ?
Anyways, I’m not trying to pick on my lgbt friends, I love and respect you and you’re nothing like anything I’m describing here. Just wanted to have an honest discussion, between adults, for the kids sake!
Friday, January 24, 2020
Carolyn Warrior
Two years ago, my mom was laying on a hospice bed in my grandmothers house waiting to leave this earth. She wasn’t a believer. Right before my mom left the hospital to go into hospice, I had a phone call with my aunt where she forbid me to say the name “Jesus” while I was at my grandmothers house watching my mom die.
Out of respect, I obliged. I’d talked to my mom about Jesus the 10 years I’d had with her as a believer , she’d rejected Him out of fear of what people would think of her. She said she knew what happened to me was real, but she hated confrontation, and accepting Jesus in my Jewish family was absolute confrontation.
Two days before her death, I’d realized I needed help. I’d been staying with my mom 24/7, sleeping on the couch next to her bed for the entire week. She’d been up many nights needing different things so I was extremely exhausted. It didn’t help that I’d hit my head cleaning my garage a few weeks earlier and was dealing with a pretty severe concussion.
I asked my aunt for the number to the nurses service my family had used for my grandfather earlier that year. She called Sadie for me and asked them to send a nurse that very night.
At 8 pm, the doorbell rang. I answered and met Carolyn Warrior. She was a tall black woman in her late sixties. She was dressed like she just came from church. Very classy, very neat and elegant. Her demure reminded me of Mary Poppins.
I invited her in and showed her where to hang her coat. I noticed she was holding a large King James Bible in her hand.
“Are you a believer I asked”?
“Yes, I’m an evangelist” she replied.
This was the nurse sent from the service my aunt called to help me with my mom ...yes, my same aunt who forbid me from saying “Jesus” .
We walked into my moms room where my family was sitting. My moms hospice bed centered in the room with chairs and couches around her filled by my cousins , grandmother, aunt and uncle . I introduced Carolyn to the others and she sat down quietly in a corner chair. The rest of us started chatting with each other and Carolyn just sat quietly observing my mom.
Five minutes into our conversation, Carolyn stood up...went to my moms side, put her hands over my mom and started praying.
“In the name of Jesus,”
Carolyn Warrior proceeded to call angels, slay demons, in Jesus’ name . “Jesus this, Jesus that...Jesus Jesus Jesus”
Every other word that came out of Carolyn's mouth was “Jesus”.
For several minutes, this woman powerfully prayed Jesus over my mom as my family watched on completely stunned and in total silence, jaws to the floor.
I’d realized what God was doing at this point and just started weeping. My family left the room and Carolyn asked me to pray with her. We did. My mom who’d been in a nearly coma state for the prior 24-48 hours reached her hands up and held both mine and Carolyn's hands as we prayed for her. That was one of the last physical acts I remember my mom doing before she died 2 days later.
Carolyn explained that the call came out and she was immediately convicted that God wanted to send her and she didn’t know why. I told her I’d been there all week and was forbid from saying the name Jesus.
You see the entire time my mom was sick, I had to be strong for everyone. And God gave me supernatural strength. My mom started her hospice care the first day of Hanukah in 2017 and she died the last day of Hanukah. During that time, I sat by my moms side and heard over and over how hard this was on everyone. My aunt, my cousins, my grandma and uncle. My sister Lori had bailed 2 days into hospice care because it was too emotionally hard for her to be there. I didn’t have that choice, someone had to stay there with her at all times and my grandmother is 90 years old. They were all so grieved and upset, my grandpa had just died 2 months prior. I didn’t feel like I could fall apart, and no one seemed to recognize or care how difficult this was for me being that she was my mom and closest family member...the only family member who talked to me on a regular basis. So I stayed strong for everyone.
That was the week I was forbid to say His name out loud .
So when Carolyn Warrior told me she knew God was nudging her to go to this call, I wasn't surprised.
I couldn’t say the name Jesus without causing strife, but this 68 year old black woman could, and not one person had the nerve to stop her. When I told her I hadn’t been able to say the name Jesus over my mom on her death bed all week, the floodgates opened and I cried for a solid 10 minutes. Carolyn held me like a mother would hold her child. Thankyou God for her in that moment.
She told me when her own mother died, she was at a pay phone and that’s where she’d received the news. She fell to the ground and a blonde haired White woman came out of nowhere and held her as she sobbed uncontrollably...and then she was gone. Carolyn believed God sent her an angel to comfort her. That day, Carolyn was my angel sent from God.
God is with us, He’s Emmanuel (God with us!) in your best times He's there. In your worst times He’s there. It’s Christmas , for the love. Today is the day if you haven’t already ...it’s a good day to learn about this man born in Israel who came to bring you peace. He makes a way when there is no way. He’s the comforter, redeemer , creator of all things. Whatever you have wrapped under your Christmas tree, whatever gift you might receive from Hanukah Harry tomorrow or the next day...it just doesn’t compare. Jesus is THE gift, what He offers is free, it will change your life...take it. Merry Christmas...in Jesus’ name.
Out of respect, I obliged. I’d talked to my mom about Jesus the 10 years I’d had with her as a believer , she’d rejected Him out of fear of what people would think of her. She said she knew what happened to me was real, but she hated confrontation, and accepting Jesus in my Jewish family was absolute confrontation.
Two days before her death, I’d realized I needed help. I’d been staying with my mom 24/7, sleeping on the couch next to her bed for the entire week. She’d been up many nights needing different things so I was extremely exhausted. It didn’t help that I’d hit my head cleaning my garage a few weeks earlier and was dealing with a pretty severe concussion.
I asked my aunt for the number to the nurses service my family had used for my grandfather earlier that year. She called Sadie for me and asked them to send a nurse that very night.
At 8 pm, the doorbell rang. I answered and met Carolyn Warrior. She was a tall black woman in her late sixties. She was dressed like she just came from church. Very classy, very neat and elegant. Her demure reminded me of Mary Poppins.
I invited her in and showed her where to hang her coat. I noticed she was holding a large King James Bible in her hand.
“Are you a believer I asked”?
“Yes, I’m an evangelist” she replied.
This was the nurse sent from the service my aunt called to help me with my mom ...yes, my same aunt who forbid me from saying “Jesus” .
We walked into my moms room where my family was sitting. My moms hospice bed centered in the room with chairs and couches around her filled by my cousins , grandmother, aunt and uncle . I introduced Carolyn to the others and she sat down quietly in a corner chair. The rest of us started chatting with each other and Carolyn just sat quietly observing my mom.
Five minutes into our conversation, Carolyn stood up...went to my moms side, put her hands over my mom and started praying.
“In the name of Jesus,”
Carolyn Warrior proceeded to call angels, slay demons, in Jesus’ name . “Jesus this, Jesus that...Jesus Jesus Jesus”
Every other word that came out of Carolyn's mouth was “Jesus”.
For several minutes, this woman powerfully prayed Jesus over my mom as my family watched on completely stunned and in total silence, jaws to the floor.
I’d realized what God was doing at this point and just started weeping. My family left the room and Carolyn asked me to pray with her. We did. My mom who’d been in a nearly coma state for the prior 24-48 hours reached her hands up and held both mine and Carolyn's hands as we prayed for her. That was one of the last physical acts I remember my mom doing before she died 2 days later.
Carolyn explained that the call came out and she was immediately convicted that God wanted to send her and she didn’t know why. I told her I’d been there all week and was forbid from saying the name Jesus.
You see the entire time my mom was sick, I had to be strong for everyone. And God gave me supernatural strength. My mom started her hospice care the first day of Hanukah in 2017 and she died the last day of Hanukah. During that time, I sat by my moms side and heard over and over how hard this was on everyone. My aunt, my cousins, my grandma and uncle. My sister Lori had bailed 2 days into hospice care because it was too emotionally hard for her to be there. I didn’t have that choice, someone had to stay there with her at all times and my grandmother is 90 years old. They were all so grieved and upset, my grandpa had just died 2 months prior. I didn’t feel like I could fall apart, and no one seemed to recognize or care how difficult this was for me being that she was my mom and closest family member...the only family member who talked to me on a regular basis. So I stayed strong for everyone.
That was the week I was forbid to say His name out loud .
So when Carolyn Warrior told me she knew God was nudging her to go to this call, I wasn't surprised.
I couldn’t say the name Jesus without causing strife, but this 68 year old black woman could, and not one person had the nerve to stop her. When I told her I hadn’t been able to say the name Jesus over my mom on her death bed all week, the floodgates opened and I cried for a solid 10 minutes. Carolyn held me like a mother would hold her child. Thankyou God for her in that moment.
She told me when her own mother died, she was at a pay phone and that’s where she’d received the news. She fell to the ground and a blonde haired White woman came out of nowhere and held her as she sobbed uncontrollably...and then she was gone. Carolyn believed God sent her an angel to comfort her. That day, Carolyn was my angel sent from God.
God is with us, He’s Emmanuel (God with us!) in your best times He's there. In your worst times He’s there. It’s Christmas , for the love. Today is the day if you haven’t already ...it’s a good day to learn about this man born in Israel who came to bring you peace. He makes a way when there is no way. He’s the comforter, redeemer , creator of all things. Whatever you have wrapped under your Christmas tree, whatever gift you might receive from Hanukah Harry tomorrow or the next day...it just doesn’t compare. Jesus is THE gift, what He offers is free, it will change your life...take it. Merry Christmas...in Jesus’ name.
Who's your daddy?
I found out recently I'm forever the legal child of a man named Ron White . Ive never met Ron White, but according to the social security office I recently visited to finally update my card to my married name, he's my dad. He was listed on my birth certificate as being my dad because my mom was technically married to him when I was born. She told me once she couldn't locate him for a divorce, and my biological dads involvement was short lived...the hospital ruling was that the legal husband be listed on the birth certificate as the father in 1976. So Ron White legally became my dad forever. I thought we undid this when I was given the choice at the age of 10 to legally change my last name to Jacobs (after my grandparents), or Hart (after my biological dad Id just met). But no, at 43 years of age I just found out that in the eyes of US law...he's still my dad. I can only hope he has amassed a large fortune in this lifetime and somehow when he dies, some court, some where, will locate me using these legal records to tell me he never ended up on the birth certificate of any other kids he never knew and now I'm the only heir left to his multi million dollar estate. A girl can dream can't she?
My actual dad split when I was a newborn. My mom was left with a young baby and my 7 year old half sister Lori. She did what any reasonable young single mother would do...she took a roadtrip with a friend down south to visit her friends boyfriend who was an inmate at a Florida state penitentiary. While visiting, another inmate saw my mom, and declared:
"When I get out of here, Im going to find that woman!".
His term must have been coming to its expiration soon because he did just that not long after. His name was David Witkowski, and as far as I knew, as a three year old child, he was my dad. From what I learned later in life, yes he'd been to prison... BUT, he hadn't killed anyone or anything; he'd only shot a guy in the knee caps who owed him some money on a drug deal. So, we all lived happily ever after. Just kidding. Actually, despite his own vices and bend towards criminal activity, he was really good to me. And my mom, despite some choices she'd made in life, truly loved me and was doing the best she could with what she knew.
David was just a little polish guy with a big reputation on the streets of Detroit. He joined a motorcycle gang named "The Iron Mustangs". His nickname was "little Dave". They all had nicknames, and unfortunately for him, there was a "Big Dave" who outsized him in stature. What he lacked in size though, he made up for in intensity. People on the streets feared him. So I spent six years of my life ages 3-9 around a lot of tough guys with big hearts. While a lot of families would hang out and socialize at church and synagogue on weekends, our family socializing was the biker bars in Detroit . The gang was like a family to us. They'd buy me endless sodas and chips, give me quarters for the pinball machines and jute box, then tell me I was going to grow up one day to be a heartbreaker.
The Iron Mustangs owned a public race track for dirt bikes in Brighton Michigan called "Mustang Acres". I spent a lot weekends there with David and his biker family. The concession stands were free for me, being Little Davids" kid. I could explore the track grounds on my own, each junk food all day, watch the races from the trails. At the end of the night the public would disappear and the bikers would be left counting their cash from the days events; drinking, partying, and getting high in the lodge. Our life seemed normal to me, even though I noticed it was a bit different for my grandparents and cousins. Parties, rock n roll music, joints being passed, tough biker guys and their "old ladies" with feathered hair, day long charcoal barbeques, getting together at the beaches and parks and drive in movie theaters with a travelling partying family who stuck together. It wasn't conventional, but it also wasn't a terrible life for a little kid.
David used to take me on his drug runs around Detroit. I remember driving in the middle of these dismal winter days, always passing the old Wonder bread factory to our destination. Windows cracked to let his cigarette smoke escape, cold damp winter air filling the car as the toxic fumes were released. Motown music always playing on the radio. The house we ended up at always had a common denominator. It was always old, big, and in a neighborhood with a liquor store on the corner. If it was summer, I could stay outside and find some kids to talk to. Or I'd get some change and walk to the liquor store for a popsicle and a soda. If it was cold I had to stay inside. Now if it wasn't just a friendly sale and he had a bigger task at hand, like breaking up larger amounts of marijuana, or weighing out cocaine for distribution, he'd send me upstairs to an attic to explore and stay out of their way. If I close my eyes, I can still remember these old houses in Detroit, their distinct smell, the dusty attics, the kitchen linoleum floors peeling up at the corners, stacks of Hustler and playboy magazines stored in the attics they sent me to explore....of course to protect me from knowing what they were doing....but I always knew what they were doing.
David ran a landscape business and drove a cab part time. Maybe he was making an honest attempt at a life outside crime, or maybe he was just using those jobs as a front to funnel cash...Ill never know, I like to tell myself its the former.
When I was nine, my mom decided it was best to leave him. She had me pack up all my stuff in a large black plastic trash bag and we left in the middle of the night. My guess is she was worried about how he would react to her leaving because of his street reputation. So, we disappeared in the middle of the night like trashbag bandits and stayed at my aunts house until he moved out and a divorce was finalized. He continued to pick me up from time to time so we could hang out. As far as I knew, he was my dad and my parents were divorced. He died later that year after a short hospital stay. We never went to his funeral. I think he tried to reach out to my mom while he was hospitalized and she never responded. Im pretty sure she didn't realize he'd died until after the funeral. She always regretted missing his funeral.
When she found out he died, she took me to an old Mexican restaurant in Detroit to tell me. Best to just tell me the whole thing at once. You know, rip it off band aid style. So the conversation went something like this:
"David died... but he wasn't actually your dad anyways. You have a different dad, and his grandmother lives near here...would you like to visit her"?
So that's how you rip off a band aid….your dads dead, he actually wasn't your dad...you have a different dad...want to meet a new grandma?
"Holy smokes, Can I at least finish my taco salad?" I imagine I said
So off we went.... to visit a grandma from a dad I never knew existed.
Did I mention I was nine?
My actual dad answered the door. He was still struggling in life and living in the basement of his grandmothers house to our surprise. We'd shown up there expecting I'd meet my grandma. I'm pretty sure my mother about fainted when that front door opened. That's how I met Jeff Hart , my biological dad. The timing couldn't have been better for him. He was eager to get out of his grandmas basement and this was a good opportunity for him to do just that. So, he came and lived in our basement instead. And we lived happily ever after.
Just kidding.
He was a serious alcoholic and had other drug and personality issues and randomly made me the target of his misery.
We moved from my childhood home in Oak Park to a rented apartment located 30 minutes away in Farmington, Mi. New kid, new school, new life. I was grounded for a major portion of the following two years for anything you could imagine. "You missed a spot vacuuming", "you didn't set the table right", "you looked at me funny", "your attitude isn't right". "You argue too much". I think he was trying to catch up on l0 years he'd missed disciplining me. I spent a lot of days staring at the kids on the playground below outside my bedroom window. My mom felt awful about it, so she'd sneak me out of my room from time to time when he was out cold from drinking too much to get me out of the apartment. Luckily for me he drank a lot.
It all ended on my 11th birthday. It was July 1st, 1987 and I had my bags packed for 3 weeks of camp Tamarack. He just couldn't take a pause on reigning misery on me. My mom was so frustrated, she intervened..."Cant you be nice to her for one day on her birthday?" Then we walked out the door and she loaded me on a bus and sent me off for three weeks. When the bus returned to the JCC in West Bloomfield...my mom was there ready to take me home. But we drove to a different home... in another location, in another city, with another school, casually mentioning as we pulled into the driveway..."oh yeah, we don't live with your dad anymore".
I was fatherless from that time until I met Jesus as a 31 year old . He introduced me to his own Father :)
So who's my daddy? If you ask the Social Security administration they'll tell you its Ron White of California.
I disagree, I'm going with Jesus' Daddy.
Bonus!
As an added blessing, my Father in Heaven gave me my husband Jeff in 2011...who ironically has the same name as my biological dad. Jeff told me early on in our relationship he was in my life to show me how Jeffs are supposed to act :). More recently, when my mom passed away in 2017, I collected all these old photo albums of my early childhood...I saw old pictures of David Witkowski, and I realized.... that the man who raised me for 6 years, and treated me like his own daughter, eerily resembled my husband and stepdad to my own kids. God is amazing!
My actual dad split when I was a newborn. My mom was left with a young baby and my 7 year old half sister Lori. She did what any reasonable young single mother would do...she took a roadtrip with a friend down south to visit her friends boyfriend who was an inmate at a Florida state penitentiary. While visiting, another inmate saw my mom, and declared:
"When I get out of here, Im going to find that woman!".
His term must have been coming to its expiration soon because he did just that not long after. His name was David Witkowski, and as far as I knew, as a three year old child, he was my dad. From what I learned later in life, yes he'd been to prison... BUT, he hadn't killed anyone or anything; he'd only shot a guy in the knee caps who owed him some money on a drug deal. So, we all lived happily ever after. Just kidding. Actually, despite his own vices and bend towards criminal activity, he was really good to me. And my mom, despite some choices she'd made in life, truly loved me and was doing the best she could with what she knew.
David was just a little polish guy with a big reputation on the streets of Detroit. He joined a motorcycle gang named "The Iron Mustangs". His nickname was "little Dave". They all had nicknames, and unfortunately for him, there was a "Big Dave" who outsized him in stature. What he lacked in size though, he made up for in intensity. People on the streets feared him. So I spent six years of my life ages 3-9 around a lot of tough guys with big hearts. While a lot of families would hang out and socialize at church and synagogue on weekends, our family socializing was the biker bars in Detroit . The gang was like a family to us. They'd buy me endless sodas and chips, give me quarters for the pinball machines and jute box, then tell me I was going to grow up one day to be a heartbreaker.
The Iron Mustangs owned a public race track for dirt bikes in Brighton Michigan called "Mustang Acres". I spent a lot weekends there with David and his biker family. The concession stands were free for me, being Little Davids" kid. I could explore the track grounds on my own, each junk food all day, watch the races from the trails. At the end of the night the public would disappear and the bikers would be left counting their cash from the days events; drinking, partying, and getting high in the lodge. Our life seemed normal to me, even though I noticed it was a bit different for my grandparents and cousins. Parties, rock n roll music, joints being passed, tough biker guys and their "old ladies" with feathered hair, day long charcoal barbeques, getting together at the beaches and parks and drive in movie theaters with a travelling partying family who stuck together. It wasn't conventional, but it also wasn't a terrible life for a little kid.
David used to take me on his drug runs around Detroit. I remember driving in the middle of these dismal winter days, always passing the old Wonder bread factory to our destination. Windows cracked to let his cigarette smoke escape, cold damp winter air filling the car as the toxic fumes were released. Motown music always playing on the radio. The house we ended up at always had a common denominator. It was always old, big, and in a neighborhood with a liquor store on the corner. If it was summer, I could stay outside and find some kids to talk to. Or I'd get some change and walk to the liquor store for a popsicle and a soda. If it was cold I had to stay inside. Now if it wasn't just a friendly sale and he had a bigger task at hand, like breaking up larger amounts of marijuana, or weighing out cocaine for distribution, he'd send me upstairs to an attic to explore and stay out of their way. If I close my eyes, I can still remember these old houses in Detroit, their distinct smell, the dusty attics, the kitchen linoleum floors peeling up at the corners, stacks of Hustler and playboy magazines stored in the attics they sent me to explore....of course to protect me from knowing what they were doing....but I always knew what they were doing.
David ran a landscape business and drove a cab part time. Maybe he was making an honest attempt at a life outside crime, or maybe he was just using those jobs as a front to funnel cash...Ill never know, I like to tell myself its the former.
When I was nine, my mom decided it was best to leave him. She had me pack up all my stuff in a large black plastic trash bag and we left in the middle of the night. My guess is she was worried about how he would react to her leaving because of his street reputation. So, we disappeared in the middle of the night like trashbag bandits and stayed at my aunts house until he moved out and a divorce was finalized. He continued to pick me up from time to time so we could hang out. As far as I knew, he was my dad and my parents were divorced. He died later that year after a short hospital stay. We never went to his funeral. I think he tried to reach out to my mom while he was hospitalized and she never responded. Im pretty sure she didn't realize he'd died until after the funeral. She always regretted missing his funeral.
When she found out he died, she took me to an old Mexican restaurant in Detroit to tell me. Best to just tell me the whole thing at once. You know, rip it off band aid style. So the conversation went something like this:
"David died... but he wasn't actually your dad anyways. You have a different dad, and his grandmother lives near here...would you like to visit her"?
So that's how you rip off a band aid….your dads dead, he actually wasn't your dad...you have a different dad...want to meet a new grandma?
"Holy smokes, Can I at least finish my taco salad?" I imagine I said
So off we went.... to visit a grandma from a dad I never knew existed.
Did I mention I was nine?
My actual dad answered the door. He was still struggling in life and living in the basement of his grandmothers house to our surprise. We'd shown up there expecting I'd meet my grandma. I'm pretty sure my mother about fainted when that front door opened. That's how I met Jeff Hart , my biological dad. The timing couldn't have been better for him. He was eager to get out of his grandmas basement and this was a good opportunity for him to do just that. So, he came and lived in our basement instead. And we lived happily ever after.
Just kidding.
He was a serious alcoholic and had other drug and personality issues and randomly made me the target of his misery.
We moved from my childhood home in Oak Park to a rented apartment located 30 minutes away in Farmington, Mi. New kid, new school, new life. I was grounded for a major portion of the following two years for anything you could imagine. "You missed a spot vacuuming", "you didn't set the table right", "you looked at me funny", "your attitude isn't right". "You argue too much". I think he was trying to catch up on l0 years he'd missed disciplining me. I spent a lot of days staring at the kids on the playground below outside my bedroom window. My mom felt awful about it, so she'd sneak me out of my room from time to time when he was out cold from drinking too much to get me out of the apartment. Luckily for me he drank a lot.
It all ended on my 11th birthday. It was July 1st, 1987 and I had my bags packed for 3 weeks of camp Tamarack. He just couldn't take a pause on reigning misery on me. My mom was so frustrated, she intervened..."Cant you be nice to her for one day on her birthday?" Then we walked out the door and she loaded me on a bus and sent me off for three weeks. When the bus returned to the JCC in West Bloomfield...my mom was there ready to take me home. But we drove to a different home... in another location, in another city, with another school, casually mentioning as we pulled into the driveway..."oh yeah, we don't live with your dad anymore".
I was fatherless from that time until I met Jesus as a 31 year old . He introduced me to his own Father :)
So who's my daddy? If you ask the Social Security administration they'll tell you its Ron White of California.
I disagree, I'm going with Jesus' Daddy.
Bonus!
As an added blessing, my Father in Heaven gave me my husband Jeff in 2011...who ironically has the same name as my biological dad. Jeff told me early on in our relationship he was in my life to show me how Jeffs are supposed to act :). More recently, when my mom passed away in 2017, I collected all these old photo albums of my early childhood...I saw old pictures of David Witkowski, and I realized.... that the man who raised me for 6 years, and treated me like his own daughter, eerily resembled my husband and stepdad to my own kids. God is amazing!
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