tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33190459367267482392024-03-13T12:57:19.334-07:00Debbi's ShortsHere is the collection of my short stories that all started on our website...YankeeBurrowCreations.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-36176428214755677382013-04-17T07:00:00.002-07:002013-04-17T07:00:21.075-07:00Time for a New Life - the full story<br />
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<span style="color: red;">t's been a while since I shared a story, mostly because I had writers block. But a new story has been tickling the back of my brain for a few weeks, so today I start...</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Time for a New Life</span></b></div>
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<b>Chapter 1 - The beginning of the end</b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-st2XyQaw62k/UT33rshKBFI/AAAAAAAAEyo/E3vk62eAtpg/s1600/il_570xN.152305639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-st2XyQaw62k/UT33rshKBFI/AAAAAAAAEyo/E3vk62eAtpg/s320/il_570xN.152305639.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/49700577/butterfly-photo-sunlight-yellow-fly-fine?ref=sr_gallery_13&ga_search_query=sunlight&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=all&ga_facet=sunlight" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">butterfly photo</a></td></tr>
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Sitting here at my kitchen table, I watch the dust float in the air, caught shimmering in a beam of sunlight streaming through the window. Watching them, I wonder, how can such a sunny beautiful day be so full of sadness? I glance down at the letter in my hand, again, hoping against hope that this time it will say something different. But it doesn't. We're losing the house. Our house. The dream house that we planned, and designed, and worked so hard for, gone, just like that. I get up from the table, rinse my coffee cup and place it in the shiny stainless steel dishwasher, and turn to look at my kitchen. The granite counters, handmade cupboards, custom tile floor. So much work went into this kitchen, and I don't even cook. I hear the back door open, and watch my husband of 13 years walk in the house. I can tell by his face that the news was not good. "How did it go?" I ask him, but he just grunts and pushes past me and heads to his den.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/115269866/vintage-oak-mini-bar-4-mumm-vsop?ref=sr_gallery_8&ga_search_query=mini+bar&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=all" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">vintage mini bar</a></td></tr>
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I follow, just in time to see him pour himself a drink from his personal mini-bar he had added to his built in bookshelves. What a laugh, John doesn't even like to read, yet he filled the shelves with classics. Just to look like he fit in with the crowd at the office. I sit next to him on the leather sofa and hand him the letter. He just glances at it briefly, then lets it fall from his fingers. I reach for his hand, but he pulls away and tells me to leave him alone. Inside I'm screaming "I'm tired of being alone", but instead I just stay quiet, and leave the room. I go to my sitting room, and mindlessly turn on the television. Sitting in the bay window seat, I let my mind wander....and wonder, how did we ever get here? John and I don't talk, and the kids? Well, they just talk back. I feel tired. So tired. But I don't have time to feel sorry for myself, I heard the bus pull up in front of the house, and my children come running up the long driveway. Laughing and yelling. Time enough to worry about the house later, now it's time to worry about dinner.</div>
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<b>Chapter 2 - Packing up the memories</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Paper%20and%20Books/Albums/First%20Year%20Baby%20Bee%20Keepsake%20Predecorated%20Chipboard%20Mini%20Album%20MADE%20TO%20ORDER/?pid=20110514190545a0b92" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">baby brag book</a></td></tr>
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"Mommy, where are we going to live?" My youngest child, my little girl, still my little baby, so full of fear and uncertainty, asks me this question while helping me to put our family pictures into boxes. I don't know how to respond. I can't respond because I don't know where we will be at this time next month. I get up from the floor where I am surrounded by boxes, sorting and packing up my broken hopes and dreams. I grab my little girl up in my arms, move to my favorite spot, and plop down on the window seat and just hold her as she softly cries. Janie is only 5, she should be playing and laughing, but instead my sensitive little girl is frightened so I just sit and hold her, because that's all I can do.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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I hear John come in the back door, followed by our son Jacob. They are laughing and joking, talking about Jacob's baseball game. How can they joke and laugh today? I feel a rush of anger spring up in me, the heat rushing to my face as I try to push down the feelings.<br />"Sarah, where are you? You should have been there, Jacob was amazing. Yankees, here we come." John enters the room, and stops when he sees me, and sees the boxes all over the room. "What are you doing? I told you to stop packing. We are not moving. This is our house and they cannot take it away, not without a fight." John's yelling causes Janie to cry even harder. And I say nothing. Again. John storms from the room, and I hear him go to his study. I hear the bottles clink as he prepares a drink. During all this I'm watching Jacob, watching the smile leave his face, his shoulders slump as he turns and leaves the room. At only 12 years old, Jacob is losing his childhood too quickly. I tell Janie to go and find her sister, then I go into the study only to find John throwing back his drink. I cringe when I hear the glass shatter after John throws it against the wall. And my heart breaks even more when I see him start to cry. Finally. I walk to him, and softly touch his arm. He turns to me, holds me tight, and apologizes. For his anger. For losing his job. For not taking care of his family. And we both cry. But this time, we cry together.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Weddings/Cake%20Toppers/Custom%20Wedding%20Cake%20Topper%20%20Traditional/?pid=20110505145521b9238" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">cake topper</a></td></tr>
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<b>Chapter 3 - Where do we go from here?</b></div>
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"John, come quick!" I yelled for John as I came running into the house holding the mail. Another pile of bills and letters from collection agencies, but one envelope held my attention. The return address was a lawyers office, one I had never heard of before. One from our old home town. I had already read the letter on the walk into the house, and now I'm walking with a lighter step. "What is it? Is the house on fire? We should be so lucky." John jokes as he comes out of the bathroom. He frowns when he sees the pile of bills, and starts to turn away until I hand him the letter. He looks at it, then he starts to read it. I see his face go from confused to surprised, and then a smile spreads across his face. "Kids! Kids, come in here, quick." In runs Janie, followed by her big sister Anna, and then slowly, sullenly, in comes our oldest, Jacob. "What is it Dad? I was busy." Jacob growls. Seems like that is all he does now, growl and sit in his room, alone.</div>
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John just tells everyone to have a seat, we have great news for everyone. To my surprise, he hands me the letter and sits down with the kids. "Well, Mom? What is it? Is that an important letter? Do we get to keep the house? Did we win the lottery?" Janie is full of questions and starts to giggle. "Don't be stupid, just shut up." Janie's eyes fill with tears at Jacob's comment, but John just picks her up and holds her on his lap. So I read the letter...for the family.</div>
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"Dear Mrs. Wright,</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jaUs8YfgLQw/UVA32nuMrrI/AAAAAAAAE18/ZkvSTORmC3s/s1600/front1_0dcc503062012034602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jaUs8YfgLQw/UVA32nuMrrI/AAAAAAAAE18/ZkvSTORmC3s/s320/front1_0dcc503062012034602.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Art/Photography/NY888%20A%20View%20of%20Fletcher%20Blaisdell%20Farm%20Complex%20Hay%20Barn/?pid=20120603154602cc509" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">barn photo</a></td></tr>
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First let me extend to you my condolences on the loss of your grandmother last year. While you and I have never met, I visited your grandmother often while I was enrolled in the local university, and she was the most loving and amazing woman. After I graduated, I left town to start my law firm. Imagine my surprise when she contacted me two years ago and asked me to handle her estate. I assumed that she would have used your family lawyer, but she wanted the matter of the family farm handled separately from the rest of her estate. As per her request, I have sold off most of the farmland, but kept the homestead and the surrounding 3 acres, for you. She used to regal me with stories of the summers you would spend with her when you were just a child, picking berries and making pies, feeding the chickens, and learning to drive a tractor from your grandfather. She also shared with me the time you knocked down the barn door with that very same tractor. She wanted you to have this property. It has taken me all of this past year to clear up this part of her estate, but it is now ready for you. The house and barn and property is debt free and repaired and ready for you. The only requirement of this inheritance is that you live in this house for one year, after which you may sell it if you wish. You can contact me at this number at any time.</div>
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Sincerely,</div>
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Matthew James Smithe, Esq."</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mnjmsUE5Zhc/UVA45T6reBI/AAAAAAAAE2Q/d5ilVVboVsU/s1600/front1_c509a18062012050833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mnjmsUE5Zhc/UVA45T6reBI/AAAAAAAAE2Q/d5ilVVboVsU/s320/front1_c509a18062012050833.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Quilts/Baby/FARM%20ANIMALS%20PLAY%20QUILT/?pid=2012060121390838a0b" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">barn yard quilt</a></td></tr>
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"WHAT??? A FARM??? YOU WANT ME TO LIVE ON A FARM? YOU MUST BE NUTS. I WON'T GO!!!" Jacob jumps up from his seat and screams at us as he runs from the room. We can hear his bedroom door slam. John and I just look at each other and I try not to cry. Janie is quietly sobbing in her daddy's chest, then I feel a small hand in mine. Anna, quiet little Anna takes my hand and looks up at me. "Don't cry Mom, it's going to be ok. Jacob didn't really mean that. Once we move, he'll realize that God answered our prayers. We now have a place to live. We now have another home."</div>
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I kneel down and squeeze her tight. "You're right Anna. God has answered our prayers." I look up and find John just looking at me, and then he smiles. Janie smiles. And then I can feel a smile sneak up on me. And it feels good.</div>
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<b>chapter 4 - Moving Day</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Housewares/Frames/Jeweled%20Picture%20Frame%20Handcrafted%20Pearls%20Swarowsky%20Bling%20Photo%20Frame%20Oval%20room%20for%20picture%20%20/?pid=20121201091315c509a" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Jeweled Picture Frame</a></td></tr>
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It's here. It's finally here, moving day. John and I just spent the last week, moving the last of our boxes into the moving van. In those boxes was the remnants of the first 13 years of our lives. Some clothes, family photos, vacation souvenirs ..the rest is all gone. The big house, the cars, the boat, the furniture, the fancy clothes and expensive shoes. I should be sad, but instead I feel...relieved. While filing bankruptcy was hard, it was also a relief. The phone calls have stopped (of course, we had to turn in our very expensive smartphones and take a loss when we cancelled our cell phone plans), but the burden of wondering how we would continue is gone. A weight has been lifted. I can see it in John's face now, he's smiling and laughing again. Last night, we all camped out in the empty living room, talking about our future.</div>
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Early this morning we headed home. When we had left Caryville, Pennsylvania all those years ago, we never looked back. Oh, at first we made the required visits for family weddings, funerals, and reunions. But with our new, busy, upper class life, we just couldn't find the time anymore. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Art/Artists%20Prints/Print%20of%20Main%20Street%20in%20Davidson%20NC%20by%20Michael%20Joe%20Moore/?pid=2011070715535720dcc" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Main Street print</a></td></tr>
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Now we're back, full circle. Life is funny that way. Most of our families have either left the town, or passed away, so there was no one to tell that we were back. Driving down Main Street, the memories came rushing in. Nothing much has changed. The school that housed all the grades still stands, and City Hall still holds court in the center traffic circle. We saw the signs declaring the recent craft fair at the local fairgrounds. On the other side of town, we turned left and headed out of town, to our new home. It was hard to find...it had been so long...but finally, after many stops, and u-turns, we found the old wooden sign at the end of the long dirt road that would take us home. Jacob was quiet most of the drive, while the girls couldn't stop chattering in their excitement. When we pulled up in front of the old clapboard farmhouse with the big barn out back, I could see his frown. But when we all piled out of the moving van and stood in the slightly overgrown front yard, he couldn't stay quiet any longer. "I hate this place. It's old and and it smells out here. Where are the stores? The movie theater? Just WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO DO OUT HERE?" Jacob runs behind the house, but John holds me back when I start to follow him. "Sarah, let him go. He needs to come to terms with the new direction of our lives. He needs to make peace with himself." </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Edibles/Sauce/Homemade%20Spiced%20Vanilla%20Syrup/?pid=201301011859080b923" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Spiced Vanilla Syru</a>p</td></tr>
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Then behind us we heard the crunch of tires on the dirt, and turning we see about 10 cars and trucks pull up and park. People start getting out of their vehicles, and surround us. Men, women, old, young, they all came and shook our hands, introduced themselves. Some brought us canned fruit and vegetables. Some brought us cakes and cookies. And one older woman directed a young man carrying a large covered pan. "I'm Grannie Mae" she says, and with a gleam in her eye she continues, "the boss of this here town. I cornered that young man, the lawyer and got him to give me the keys to this place to bring to you. Well, we all wanted to check out the new family, so here we all are, ready for a good old country picnic. Your gramma was my best friend, so now I'll be yours." The smell of bbq pork and the sights of these wonderful strangers brought tears to our eyes. We knew now that this was where we needed to be....home again.</div>
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<br /><b style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">chapter 5 - One Year Later</b><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><b style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></b><span style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="color: #686868; float: left; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-right: 1em; padding: 4px; position: relative;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nFJds5eh7GY/UWrzxAxwvUI/AAAAAAAAE-8/kq_Vnc6LXSE/s1600/front1_a6f7526022013083141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nFJds5eh7GY/UWrzxAxwvUI/AAAAAAAAE-8/kq_Vnc6LXSE/s320/front1_a6f7526022013083141.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Woodworking/Furniture/Small%20rocking%20chair/?pid=201302262031414ca42" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">handmade rocking chair</a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Here I sit in my gramma's rocker on the front porch of our home. I'm holding a letter that I just received from Matthew James Smithe, Esq., the lawyer whose first letter changed our lives. It's hard to believe that it's been a full year since then. Our old life seems like it belonged to some other family, or perhaps a movie I once watched on television. The big house, the designer clothes, the scramble to stay on top of the bills, the backstabbing from the others in the country club. Today, there is just a small farmhouse, jeans and t-shirts, and a town full of people that are more then friends...they are family.</span><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">"Mom, we won! We're the county champions!" I hear my son yell as they pull up the driveway. It took many months, but with the help of new friends in school, Jacob has settled into his new life. His grades in school have gone up, and he's the captain of his baseball team. Jacob jumps out of the back of the truck and come running up the porch, as the rest of the players also get out of the truck. "Mom, it was great. It was the top of the 9th inning, and we were ahead so Dad let little Tommy take a turn in the outfield. The other team got the bases loaded, and with 2 strikes, their best batter stepped up. He hit a hard drive right up the middle, right to Tommy." With a laugh, Jacob continues his story, "with his eyes closed, Tommy just puts his arm up in the air and the ball dropped right into his glove. And that was it, game over, and we're the champs!" I hug my son and then he runs off to play with the rest of the boys. John comes up on the porch and takes a chair. "Sarah, what a day. What a good day." He bends down to kiss my head, and rubs my every growing belly where the newest Wright resides. Then he stretches out his legs, and promptly falls asleep, with a smile on his face. </span><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="color: #686868; float: right; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; margin-left: 1em; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GZnD3tBhvhQ/UWr1Z31ihLI/AAAAAAAAE_I/4I6PHVLsCfQ/s1600/front1_3820d11032013030826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GZnD3tBhvhQ/UWr1Z31ihLI/AAAAAAAAE_I/4I6PHVLsCfQ/s320/front1_3820d11032013030826.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Bath%20and%20Beauty/Soap/cupcake%20goats%20milk%20soaps/?pid=201303111508260dcc5" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">goat's milk soap</a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">John has worked hard this past year, fixing up the house, planting a garden, and then opening his own shop in town. It may not be what others would consider much, but John is once again very proud of himself. And happy to have time to spend with his family. The girls took to their new lives as if they had always lived on a farm. The first thing they did was bring home a puppy that a friend gave them. Then another puppy. Then we got some goats for milk and chickens for eggs. The girls help me make soap and cheese, to sell at our shop, and Jacob drives the tractor and helps with the garden. In fact, the very first time, he ran that tractor right into the barn door, just like I did when I was his age. I glance down at the letter I was writing to Mr. Smithe. The response to his letter reminding us that the one year condition of my grandmothers will has expired and offering his assistance in selling our property. I smile as I fold up the letter and slide it into an envelope. We have decided to stay here, home. The future is bright and full of possibilities.</span><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I hope this story reminds us all that our happiness does not come for the things in our lives or the amount in our bank account. Our happiness comes from good friends and loving family. And every little moment that makes up our lives...together.</span><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Please click on the links under the pictures to visit some wonderful handmade shops where you can purchase these items, or so many other wonderful handmade items.</span><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><b style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><i>Be blessed,</i></b><br style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;" /><b style="color: #686868; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><i>Debbi</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-51557124527479947142013-03-25T03:18:00.001-07:002013-03-25T03:18:48.059-07:00Time for a New Life - chapter 2<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Welcome back to Yankee Burrow Storytime. Last week we met John and Sarah when they received a letter from their bank. It was the type of letter no-one wants to see, but too many families today have received, they are losing their home. Join us as we watch this family make a new life.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red;">(oh, and in case you didn't know, this is a fictional story.)</span></div>
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<b>Chapter 2 - Packing up the memories</b></div>
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<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; padding: 4px; position: relative;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wD2Ymdzmwc8/UUhoferqyqI/AAAAAAAAE0Q/8JMFw0phYrw/s1600/front1_20dcc14052011112509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wD2Ymdzmwc8/UUhoferqyqI/AAAAAAAAE0Q/8JMFw0phYrw/s320/front1_20dcc14052011112509.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Paper%20and%20Books/Albums/First%20Year%20Baby%20Bee%20Keepsake%20Predecorated%20Chipboard%20Mini%20Album%20MADE%20TO%20ORDER/?pid=20110514190545a0b92" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">baby brag book</a></td></tr>
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"Mommy, where are we going to live?" My youngest child, my little girl, still my little baby, so full of fear and uncertainty, asks me this question while helping me to put our family pictures into boxes. I don't know how to respond. I can't respond because I don't know where we will be at this time next month. I get up from the floor where I am surrounded by boxes, sorting and packing up my broken hopes and dreams. I grab my little girl up in my arms, move to my favorite spot, and plop down on the window seat and just hold her as she softly cries. Janie is only 5, she should be playing and laughing, but instead my sensitive little girl is frightened so I just sit and hold her, because that's all I can do.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5xRH_gpg9fc/UUhpAui6nQI/AAAAAAAAE0Y/QUX9dmaRrjw/s1600/front1_20dcc02122012125141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5xRH_gpg9fc/UUhpAui6nQI/AAAAAAAAE0Y/QUX9dmaRrjw/s320/front1_20dcc02122012125141.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Jewelry/Necklaces/%20Personalized%20Baseball%20Necklace%20Sports%20Pendant%20Players%20Moms%20Team%20Gifts/?pid=2012111011310392382" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">baseball pendant</a></td></tr>
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I hear John come in the back door, followed by our son Jacob. They are laughing and joking, talking about Jacob's baseball game. How can they joke and laugh today? I feel a rush of anger spring up in me, the heat rushing to my face as I try to push down the feelings.</div>
"Sarah, where are you? You should have been there, Jacob was amazing. Yankees, here we come." John enters the room, and stops when he sees me, and sees the boxes all over the room. "What are you doing? I told you to stop packing. We are not moving. This is our house and they cannot take it away, not without a fight." John's yelling causes Janie to cry even harder. And I say nothing. Again. John storms from the room, and I hear him go to his study. I hear the bottles clink as he prepares a drink. During all this I'm watching Jacob, watching the smile leave his face, his shoulders slump as he turns and leaves the room. At only 12 years old, Jacob is losing his childhood too quickly. I tell Janie to go and find her sister, then I go into the study only to find John throwing back his drink. I cringe when I hear the glass shatter after John throws it against the wall. And my heart breaks even more when I see him start to cry. Finally. I walk to him, and softly touch his arm. He turns to me, holds me tight, and apologizes. For his anger. For losing his job. For not taking care of his family. And we both cry. But this time, we cry together.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 4px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5chRww_tAO4/UUhqI2NCC6I/AAAAAAAAE0g/VfaqND03SiE/s1600/front1_09a6f16052011023445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #d2b779; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5chRww_tAO4/UUhqI2NCC6I/AAAAAAAAE0g/VfaqND03SiE/s320/front1_09a6f16052011023445.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Weddings/Cake%20Toppers/Custom%20Wedding%20Cake%20Topper%20%20Traditional/?pid=20110505145521b9238" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">cake topper</a><br /><div style="color: #686868; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="color: red;">Come back and join me next week</span> <span style="color: red;">to see what's next for John and Sarah. And you can click on the links below the pictures to visit these great items available at <a href="http://www.handmadeartists.com/" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">HandmadeArtists.com</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><i>Be blessed,</i></b></div>
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<b><i>Debbi</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-25048297385463070052013-03-19T04:53:00.001-07:002013-03-19T05:15:01.244-07:00Time for A New Life - chapter 1<br />
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<span style="color: red;">It's been a while since I shared a story, mostly because I had writers block. But a new story has been tickling the back of my brain for a few weeks, so today I start...</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;">Time for a New Life</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b>Chapter 1 - The beginning of the end</b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-st2XyQaw62k/UT33rshKBFI/AAAAAAAAEyo/E3vk62eAtpg/s1600/il_570xN.152305639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-st2XyQaw62k/UT33rshKBFI/AAAAAAAAEyo/E3vk62eAtpg/s320/il_570xN.152305639.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/49700577/butterfly-photo-sunlight-yellow-fly-fine?ref=sr_gallery_13&ga_search_query=sunlight&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=all&ga_facet=sunlight" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">butterfly photo</a></td></tr>
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Sitting here at my kitchen table, I watch the dust float in the air, caught shimmering in a beam of sunlight streaming through the window. Watching them, I wonder, how can such a sunny beautiful day be so full of sadness? I glance down at the letter in my hand, again, hoping against hope that this time it will say something different. But it doesn't. We're losing the house. Our house. The dream house that we planned, and designed, and worked so hard for, gone, just like that. I get up from the table, rinse my coffee cup and place it in the shiny stainless steel dishwasher, and turn to look at my kitchen. The granite counters, handmade cupboards, custom tile floor. So much work went into this kitchen, and I don't even cook. I hear the back door open, and watch my husband of 13 years walk in the house. I can tell by his face that the news was not good. "How did it go?" I ask him, but he just grunts and pushes past me and heads to his den.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7GVE1jK_o3U/UT35pl2VXXI/AAAAAAAAEy4/0nLNJNgGGcc/s1600/il_570xN.396295737_5h57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #d2b779; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7GVE1jK_o3U/UT35pl2VXXI/AAAAAAAAEy4/0nLNJNgGGcc/s320/il_570xN.396295737_5h57.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/115269866/vintage-oak-mini-bar-4-mumm-vsop?ref=sr_gallery_8&ga_search_query=mini+bar&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_search_type=all" style="color: #d2b779; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">vintage mini bar</a></td></tr>
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I follow, just in time to see him pour himself a drink from his personal mini-bar he had added to his built in bookshelves. What a laugh, John doesn't even like to read, yet he filled the shelves with classics. Just to look like he fit in with the crowd at the office. I sit next to him on the leather sofa and hand him the letter. He just glances at it briefly, then lets it fall from his fingers. I reach for his hand, but he pulls away and tells me to leave him alone. Inside I'm screaming "I'm tired of being alone", but instead I just stay quiet, and leave the room. I go to my sitting room, and mindlessly turn on the television. Sitting in the bay window seat, I let my mind wander....and wonder, how did we ever get here? John and I don't talk, and the kids? Well, they just talk back. I feel tired. So tired. But I don't have time to feel sorry for myself, I heard the bus pull up in front of the house, and my children come running up the long driveway. Laughing and yelling. Time enough to worry about the house later, now it's time to worry about dinner.</div>
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<span style="color: red;">Just like before, stay tuned for a new chapter each week. And click on the links below the pictures to see the great items I found to include in my story. See you later...</span></div>
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<span style="color: red;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><i>Be blessed,</i></b></div>
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<b><i>Debbi</i></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-89772035055201175082012-10-22T04:56:00.000-07:002012-10-22T04:56:04.962-07:00The Power of Love - chapter 7 - the end?<div align="center">
<strong>The Power of Love - chapter 7 - the
end?</strong></div>
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<div align="center">
<span style="color: black;">a note from the
author.</span></div>
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<div align="center">
I've been sitting here for the past week trying to think of
how to end this journey for Faith, Hope, and Grace when I realized, there is no
end. Because that is how life is, ever changing with it's ebbs and flows, and
even when it ends in death, life still goes on, in our children, and their
children, and their children. And in eternity. Our pasts do not define our
future, the choices we make today do. And no matter how dark our lives seem
right now, there is always hope and a future. A spark of light if we just
choose to see it. So if you feel as if you're in the dark today, just stop,
close your eyes, take a breath, and then look around you for that spark of
light. Our Father is waiting there for you.</div>
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<strong><em>Be blessed,</em></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><em>Debbi</em></strong></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-57893589287866323722012-10-04T06:57:00.000-07:002012-10-04T06:57:06.751-07:00The Power of Love - chapter 6 - Grace is given<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: small;">Welcome back to YankeeBurrowCreations
Storytime. Grab a drink, pull up a chair, and let's see where my imagination
takes us today. When you're done reading, click on the picture links to see what
cool handmade items I found to accompany my story, that are also available for
purchase.</span></span></h3>
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-3340151072693685348" itemprop="description articleBody">
<div align="center">
<span style="color: red;"></span> </div>
<div align="center">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><span style="color: black;">The Power of Love - chapter 6 - Grace is
given</span></strong></span></div>
<div align="center">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ogZj7L5Y2uM/UG2ELKTvhdI/AAAAAAAABd8/PjvXDG_G3Z8/s1600/il_170x135_363474080_dlu8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_jnza4z="2" height="254" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ogZj7L5Y2uM/UG2ELKTvhdI/AAAAAAAABd8/PjvXDG_G3Z8/s320/il_170x135_363474080_dlu8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/106258210/crochet-blanket-afghan-modern-throw?ref=sr_gallery_9&ga_search_query=crochet+blanket&ga_order=most_relevant&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_ref=auto6&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank"><span style="color: #bf973f;">striped crochet blanket</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: red;"></span> <span style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: #444444;">Sitting still is not
something that I will ever get used to, but crocheting helps. I was taught how
to crochet while in rehab by a wonderful woman with a lot of patience. I would
get frustrated, and the shakes from the withdrawal symptoms made it difficult to
hold the hook, but she never gave up on me. I can see now that the day the
judge ordered me into rehab was the turning point in my life. But oh, it was
hard. The hardest time in my life. Even harder than watching my children stare
at me through the back window of the police car as they were taken from me
forever. Funny how I didn't pay any attention to them while they were with me,
but the emptiness I felt when they were gone was so painful. Not even the drugs
could make the pain go away. And I tried every drug imaginable until the day
someone found me almost dead in that flea bag of a hotel that us girls used for
our "business". After the doctors in the ER stabilized me, the police took me
to jail. And from there, the judge showed me mercy and sent me to Hope
House.</span></span><br /><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PKLFli_sL6w/UG2LZpkhV2I/AAAAAAAABe8/qoMn1ANd59E/s1600/front1_c509a11072011043701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_jnza4z="3" height="243" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PKLFli_sL6w/UG2LZpkhV2I/AAAAAAAABe8/qoMn1ANd59E/s320/front1_c509a11072011043701.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Housewares/Home%20Decor/Metal%20Flower%20Holder%20Made%20from%20Forks/?pid=20110711163701c509a" target="_blank"><span style="color: #bf973f;">fork man flower holder</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I remember my
first morning of sobriety at Hope House. I opened my eyes, and there on
my nightstand was a single rose. Just starting to open, and a note underneath
welcoming me to my new life. I was amazed. And touched. And for the first
time in 20 years, I felt hope. I quickly immersed myself in the 12 steps of
recovery, and in the day to day life at the house. I found myself surrounded by
people who didn't know me, but knew my life, and cared for me anyway. It was
through them that I met my higher power, my Father. Over time I grew stronger
and was able to find a job and an apartment, but I never left Hope House. I
became a counselor there and assisted in the programs of the church. Like the
food program. Serving the people who lived on the streets feed my soul, but I
never imagined that my past would find me there. Until the day I looked up and
saw Mara. My heart stopped, then raced so hard and fast I thought it would jump
right out of my chest. I knew her the moment I saw her. My baby girl, a
woman. And I recognized that look of pain and fear in her eyes. And I cried.
I cried for her, and for me, and for all the bad choices I made in my life. My
pastor saw my reaction to this woman, and pulled me aside, where I poured out
the whole story of my children. I had not told anybody here that I once had a
family of my own. It was such a relief to share this last part of my past.
Without a word, I watched as the pastor sat down and talked to Mara. Then over
the next few months, I became friends with her, but I did not tell her who I
was. Not right away. But our life stories did unfold as we spent time together
serving the food together. Now I know her as Hope, and she knows me, the real
me. The day I told her that I was her birth mother was amazing. A lot of
tears, but no anger. Surprisingly no anger. Just Hope, and Grace, from each
other, to each other.<br /><br />I feel Hope jump up from her chair, and then she is
running and crying. And hugging a stranger. But she's not really a stranger.
I know who she is, and I am afraid to meet her. Will she blame me? Judge me?
Condemn me? <br />No, Faith just hugs me. And thanks me. Me! <br /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;">Thank you for joining
me on this journey. And remember, every item I have shared as part of my story
is available for purchase, just click on the links below the pictures. And come
back next week as we watch Love unfold.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">Be blessed,</span></em></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">Debbi</span></em></strong></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-59602596766125243982012-09-20T16:19:00.001-07:002012-09-20T16:22:53.932-07:00The Power of Love - chapter 5 - Hope is found<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: red;">Welcome back to <a href="http://www.yankeeburrowcreations.com/" target="_blank">YankeeBurrowCreations</a> Storytime. Grab a
drink, pull up a chair, and let's see where my imagination takes us today. When
you're done reading, click on the picture links to see what cool handmade items
I found to accompany my story, that are also available for purchase.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><span style="color: black;"></span></strong></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><span style="color: black;">The Power of Love - chapter 5 - Hope is
found</span></strong></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;">It's funny the way life moves on, even when as a teenager I
would spiral into a depression and believe that my life was ending. But it
never did. I could be happy for months at a time, then suddenly, I would feel
angry, and sad. Something was missing from inside me, and I didn't know
what.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1-avYdueJFs/UFt7ljZyjPI/AAAAAAAABXk/4XJMluTSrRk/s1600/front1_cc50931052012085318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_f9nsh1="2" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1-avYdueJFs/UFt7ljZyjPI/AAAAAAAABXk/4XJMluTSrRk/s320/front1_cc50931052012085318.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Art/Mixed%20Media/Wall%20Cross%20Decoupaged%20Inspirational%20Gift/?pid=20120531085318a6f75" target="_blank"><span style="color: #bf973f;">wall cross</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mom and Dad always took me
to church when I was growing up. I would love to go, but sometimes I would come
home feeling bad about myself. All that talk about sinners and saints, and then
I would remember bits and pieces of life before Mom and Dad. Adults screaming,
sometimes at each other, sometimes at me. Telling me I was bad and that no-one
wanted me. Hitting, swearing, and the touches that made me cry. If God loved
me, why did He let those men touch me? Was I bad? How could God even care
about me when my birth mother never did?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I sneak a peek at Grace. She looks so old, so much older then
Faith, even though Faith is older then her. Wrinkles and scars, and that always
present haunted look in her eyes that speaks of pain that I can't even imagine.
I hated her all my life, yet I loved her too.</div>
<br />
<div align="center">
But Mom. Somehow I knew that she always loved me, even when
I was so mean to her.</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JTUfH9y3Ixo/UFuQcnFFovI/AAAAAAAABYk/kYGj6vipDxU/s1600/il_170x135_367344638_j21w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" closure_uid_f9nsh1="3" height="254" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JTUfH9y3Ixo/UFuQcnFFovI/AAAAAAAABYk/kYGj6vipDxU/s320/il_170x135_367344638_j21w.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/107277399/hand-stamped-necklace-the-love-between-a?ref=sr_gallery_12&ga_search_query=mother&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_page=1&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank"><span style="color: #bf973f;">hand stamped necklace</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I remember many nights that I would lay in bed after yet
another disagreement with her, and I would hear her tiptoe into my room. I
would squeeze my eyes shut tight so she wouldn't know I was awake. She would
gently brush the hair from my forehead, and whisper "I love you, my Hope". I
would feel like crying because I wanted to just throw my arms around her neck,
but I just couldn't. Then I would feel bad about that too. I just could not
understand how she could love me, when I was thrown away by the woman who gave
birth to me. The kids in high school always teased me about not "really" being
Faith's daughter. And Faith would never talk to me about my life as Mara. So
after my high school graduation, I left. No discussion, no goodbyes. Just a
note on the table. What a coward I was, to leave like that.</div>
<div align="center">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_Rphl_Ca9UY/UFuehECChDI/AAAAAAAABZk/hgrf7w_qMiQ/s320/front_thumb1_c509a13062012034613.jpg" width="228" /></td></tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Art/Photography/NY450%20A%20View%20of%20the%20Community%20Church%20of%20Wurtsboro/?pid=20120613154613cc509" target="_blank"><span style="color: #bf973f;">a view of a church</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I spent the next
18 months moving from place to place, from one dead end job to another. Till
one day I ended up here, in this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere.
Jobless, homeless, and hungry. I saw a flyer for a free Thanksgiving dinner at
a small local church so I went there. I had not stepped into a church since I
had left home, but when you're hungry, you don't care where the food is, you go
there. As I was going through the line, I noticed one of the women serving the
food staring at me. And crying. Suddenly I felt that old fear return.
Grabbing my tray tight, I turned and walked to a table to eat. After the meal,
a gentleman came to sit at my table to talk to me. He was the pastor of that
little church, and he offered me a job and a place to stay. So I did. After
some time I found a real apartment and a better job, but that church, well, now
it was home to me. And that woman at the Thanksgiving dinner? It was her home
too. <br />
I reach over and hold Grace's hand, and I can feel them shaking. So I
just hold on to them tightly. Then I feel a gentle nudge in my spirit and look
up. I see her coming down the hallway, looking so calm and composed. But I
know her, my mom, and I know she is as nervous as I am, and my heart explodes.
Before I even realized that I have moved, I am in her arms, crying, and
apologizing, and hugging. In her arms, finally, I am back home.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;">Thank you for joining me on this journey. And remember, every
item I have shared as part of my story is available for purchase, just click on
the links below the pictures. And come back next week as we talk to Grace
again.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">Be blessed,</span></em></strong></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">Debbi</span></em></strong></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-60842328361146075722012-09-13T09:40:00.000-07:002012-09-13T09:40:49.164-07:00The Power of Love - Chapter 4<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Welcome back to YankeeBurrowCreations Storytime. Grab a drink, pull up a chair, and let's see where my imagination takes us today. When you're done reading, click on the picture links to see what cool handmade items I found to accompany my story, that are also available for purchase.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><strong><span style="color: black;">The Power of Love - Chapter 4</span></strong></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;">"We are approaching our destination. Please return to your seats, and return you seats to their upright position." I look at the flight attendant as she starts her speech, and then I look at my hands. They are shaking. I put on my seat belt, then squeeze my hands together, and pray.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_PcUe_iZI6Q/UFIBzZRJxcI/AAAAAAAABME/DKKZmIX4rNQ/s1600/front1_c509a20022012045704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_PcUe_iZI6Q/UFIBzZRJxcI/AAAAAAAABME/DKKZmIX4rNQ/s320/front1_c509a20022012045704.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Quilts/Wall%20Hanging/Hand%20Quilted%20OOAK%20Wall%20Hanging%20Tropical%20Beach/?pid=20120220165703820dc" target="_blank">Hand Quilted Wall Hanging</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">That's when my Father reminds me of the last vacation Hope and I took together. Just the two of us. We decided at the last minute to hop into the car and drive to the beach. It was her 16th birthday weekend, and she wanted to spend it with me. I smile when I remember my husbands face when we told him it was just an all girls trip. First he was sad at being alone, but then the realization that he would be free for 3 days brought a big smile to his face. It took Hope and I days to get the house back in order after we got home. But that trip was worth it. 3 days of giggling, eating, sunbathing, shopping, and talking. That was my favorite time. At the end of the day we would grab a soda and sit on the deck of our hotel room and share our feelings, and our dreams of the future. But despite the comfort we were finding in our relationship, Hope was still holding something back. That last night there, she timidly asked me about her birth mother. I was stunned. I never expected that, and didn't quite know what to say, or even how I felt about the question. It was THE question I had always dreaded, and feared. And like a coward, I just changed the subject. Hope never asked me that question again.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qJ2xjnSQWAA/UFIIT8KuwMI/AAAAAAAABNA/AH70rDFny1Q/s1600/il_570xN_367956507_6qs7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qJ2xjnSQWAA/UFIIT8KuwMI/AAAAAAAABNA/AH70rDFny1Q/s320/il_570xN_367956507_6qs7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/107492738/vintage-1970s-flower-power-suitcase-by?ref=sr_gallery_1&sref=sr_ae3f78d9544f9be9735a0b9d0c1b07147b955fa0b89c7a59437c83c70f849aa9_1347551126_14158150_luggage&ga_search_query=carry+on+luggage&ga_order=most_relevant&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">Vintage 1970's luggage</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">I feel the bump as the planes touches down. I stay in my seat as I watch as the other passengers start to unbuckle. I sit as everyone grabs their luggage from the overhead carry on compartments. I sit and watch as the flight attendants assist the other passengers out the door. Finally, I am the only one still on the plane, frozen in my seat. Deep down I know why Hope left home. And I know why she has now asked me to come to this far away city. And I feel the fear deep inside me. Then I feel something else. Peace. Deep inside me. And an all consuming desire to see, and hug, my daughter. So this time I will not be a coward. I take a deep breath, stand up and grab my bag, and walk off the plane. I walk down the long hallways, lost in the crowds of rushing people. As I turn the corner I see her and stop. She is sitting next to a woman that I did not know. Yet I did know. How will she react to me? How will I react to her? Then my eyes are drawn like a magnet back to Hope. She is beautiful. She finds me in the crowd, and before I know it, she is standing before me. Smiling. Laughing. And hugging....me. And deep down I know, I am still, and always will be, her mother.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="color: red;">Thank you for joining me on this journey. And remember, every item I have shared as part of my story is available for purchase, just click on the links below the pictures. And come back next week as we talk to Hope again.</span><br />
<strong><em>Be blessed,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Debbi</em></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-60362246631897971492012-09-07T08:06:00.000-07:002012-09-07T08:06:11.385-07:00The Power of Love - Chapter 3<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: black;">The Power of Love - Chapter 3</span></strong></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fJbmsz7RlqY/UD-HQ7mYDnI/AAAAAAAABAs/UvZLnomMthQ/s1600/il_170x135_369508190_37qu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fJbmsz7RlqY/UD-HQ7mYDnI/AAAAAAAABAs/UvZLnomMthQ/s320/il_170x135_369508190_37qu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/107921026/hand-knitted-lap-robe?ref=cat2_gallery_40" target="_blank">hand knitted lap robe</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="color: black;">I look around me, at all the people walking...running...sitting...saying hello...saying goodbye. I don't think I can do this, and I peek at the sliding doors, opening, then closing, then opening again. If I time it right, I can sprint out those doors and be gone before Hope can stop me. But I've done that before, and I won't do that again. So I pick up my needles and yarn and continue to work on my blanket. And wait. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">My name is Grace.</span><br />
My mom gave me that name, and sometimes I wonder if she knew, knew my future, and knew that that is what I would need, grace. I was the youngest child in a very large family and while I always knew my mom and dad loved me, getting their time and attention was next to impossible. So I got it where ever I could <span style="color: black;">find</span> it. And usually in the wrong places. That is how I found myself addicted to drugs by the time I was 17.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: right;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jj_oMFRc8VY/UD-NCRuq6WI/AAAAAAAABBw/QSpAeIrEn4U/s1600/il_170x135_350630741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jj_oMFRc8VY/UD-NCRuq6WI/AAAAAAAABBw/QSpAeIrEn4U/s320/il_170x135_350630741.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/91116601/vintage-black-leather-motorcycle-jacket?ref=sr_gallery_20&ga_search_query=men's+black+leather+jacket&ga_order=most_relevant&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_ref=auto1&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">vintage black leather jacket</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: center;">High school started out fun, but then a boy noticed me. One of the bad boys in the school. What is it about bad boys, that just draws me to them? The idea that I can save them? But I'm the one that ended up lost. I started slowly, with some beer, then some pot. I started to skip school, go to the parties, and that's when I discovered the hard drugs. At first, I wanted so desperately to fit in with this group, but then the only thing that mattered to me was the drugs. The boy? He stuck with me, but he was as addicted to it all as I was, and by the time I was 20, we were living together, on the streets. Mom and Dad tried hard to help me, but it was too little, too late. So after stealing money from mom's purse for my fix, they kicked me out. I hopped on the back of my boyfriends bike, and never looked back. I never finished school either. Soon I was turning tricks to make money, and then I got pregnant. The boy? He took off, and so there I was, alone, but with a life growing inside me. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iKSdFFbE_ko/UD-TCwqgUhI/AAAAAAAABDA/5KgiilMTRjA/s1600/front_thumb1_6f75831012012063515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iKSdFFbE_ko/UD-TCwqgUhI/AAAAAAAABDA/5KgiilMTRjA/s320/front_thumb1_6f75831012012063515.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Crochet,%20Knitting,%20and%20Needlecraft/Baby/Baby%20Pink%20Shawl/?pid=20120131183515820dc" target="_blank">baby pink shawl</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I managed to stay sober during my pregnancy, and every pregnancy after that, but between babies? All that mattered was the drugs, so I continued to turn tricks for money. But having babies made it possible for me to get a trailer and food stamps, so I figured having kids had it's perks. Never did I give the children any attention, or even any thought. Till one day they were all taken away from me. And I let them go. I knew that they were better off without me. From there I sprialed down till I hit bottom. <br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I turn my head and look at my daughter, and I am amazed at the beautiful woman she became. No thanks to me, but thanks to Faith.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Thank you for joining me on this journey. And remember, every item I have shared as part of my story is available for purchase, just click on the links below the pictures. And come back next week as we talk to Faith again.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<strong><em><span style="color: black;">Be blessed,</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Debbi</em></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-19440664523524133292012-08-27T10:15:00.002-07:002012-08-27T10:15:52.126-07:00The Power Of Love - Chapter 2<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Welcome back to YankeeBurrowCreations Storytime. Today we meet Hope in "The Power Of Love". When you're done reading, click on the picture links to see what cool handmade items I found to accompany my story, that are also available for purchase.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"></span> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>The Power of Love - Chapter 2</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-us0AYalPH6I/UDY-BtzgPBI/AAAAAAAAA5A/DBdp_NZhEVc/s1600/il_170x135_342083202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-us0AYalPH6I/UDY-BtzgPBI/AAAAAAAAA5A/DBdp_NZhEVc/s320/il_170x135_342083202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/101177119/white-flower-hair-clip-wedding-hair?ref=sr_gallery_39&ga_search_query=Hair+Accessories&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_mh_hub=fashion&ga_mh_eid=2270998937&ga_mh_section=categories&ga_page=2&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">white flower hair clip</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Hi. My name is Hope. It hasn't always been Hope, but that is the name my Mom and Dad gave me when they adopted me. You see, I was born with a different name, Mara. It means bitter and from the fragments of my life that I do remember, my childhood was bitter. I was one of many children born to a drug addict. I remember going to bed hungry most nights, and men just coming and going into my mother's bedroom. Sometimes the men would be nice and bring me treats, and sometimes the men would hit me and push me out the front door and then lock it. When that happened I would huddle under the porch with my brothers and sisters and listen to the sounds of yelling, and crying, and laughing, coming from inside the house. Yet, despite the way my life was, the day all of us children were taken away, was the scariest day of my life.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SDGeaHFaB5Q/UDZY7DIh_tI/AAAAAAAAA54/cq5E6G_IDOY/s1600/front_thumb1_238a016072012120223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SDGeaHFaB5Q/UDZY7DIh_tI/AAAAAAAAA54/cq5E6G_IDOY/s320/front_thumb1_238a016072012120223.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://handmadeartists.com/product-details//NY904%20A%20View%20of%20Hansel%20And%20Gretel’s%20House/?pid=201207161202236f758" target="_blank">Hansel and Gretal's home</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The woman from the police department took me away from my brothers and sisters and brought me to this house. It was a beautiful house, with green grass, a swing hanging from the tree, and a man and woman standing on the front porch. They told me that I would be living there now. But no-one would tell me where my sisters and brothers went, or how long I would have to stay here. I was so scared that I did not talk to anyone for weeks. And I refused to eat any food offered to me, but after bedtime, in the dark, I would sneak into the kitchen and eat anything I could reach. After several months there, I started to relax, and my old life started to fade away. Yet, in all my life, the fear never really went away.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zYEaRRwMI-U/UDZdbP0OvdI/AAAAAAAAA6w/-N7_XzKoSQU/s1600/il_170x135_324972060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="254" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zYEaRRwMI-U/UDZdbP0OvdI/AAAAAAAAA6w/-N7_XzKoSQU/s320/il_170x135_324972060.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/96520226/fine-art-photograph-waiting-8x10?ref=sr_gallery_3&ga_search_query=waiting+room+chairs&ga_order=most_relevant&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_ref=auto1&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">waiting room chairs</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Now here I sit, almost 20 years later, still afraid, but hopeful, finally hopeful. And waiting. Waiting at the airport for my mom, Faith. It's been just over 2 years since I left home. Looking for who knows what. All I knew is that something was missing. I turn and look at the woman sitting next to me. If I was nervous, she was a wreck. Her name is Grace. She's my birth mother.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Thank you for joining me on this journey. And remember, every item I have shared as part of my story is available for purchase, just click on the links below the pictures. And come back next week and meet Grace.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"></span><br />
<strong><em><span style="color: black;">Be blessed,</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Debbi</em></strong><br />
<a href="http://about.me/yankeeburrowcreations">http://about.me/yankeeburrowcreations</a></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3319045936726748239.post-56773734219615903662012-08-27T10:13:00.002-07:002012-08-27T10:13:47.649-07:00The Power of Love - Chapter 1<div align="center"><span style="color: red;">Welcome back to YankeeBurrowCreations Storytime. Grab a drink, pull up a chair, and let's see where my imagination takes us today. When you're done reading, click on the picture links to see what cool handmade items I found to accompany my story, that are also available for purchase.</span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="color: black;">The Power of Love - chapter 1</span></strong></div><div align="center"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DG2n2xASDFs/UC4pALJJ9TI/AAAAAAAAAyA/jwtGM0w9KQY/s1600/il_170x135_353131413_8k46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DG2n2xASDFs/UC4pALJJ9TI/AAAAAAAAAyA/jwtGM0w9KQY/s320/il_170x135_353131413_8k46.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/51726618/photograph-of-view-from-an-airplane-8x10?ref=sr_gallery_2&ga_search_query=view+from+an+airplane+window&ga_order=most_relevant&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_ref=auto1&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">window view</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">I sit quietly, staring out the window, seeing, yet not seeing. I am heading to a meeting, a place, where I don't want to go. My chest hurts, my heart hurts. I am not ready for this, but then again, I would probably never be ready for this. My name is Faith, and my story is not an easy one. But stories of the heart never really are easy, are they? You see, I have a daughter, one I love with all my heart, but she is not "really" my daughter, she was born to another woman who could not love her, so my Father gave her to me to love. If I knew then the pain I would have endured these past years, would I still have adopted? I'm not so sure.</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C-Xo8ZmPfP4/UC4skAq0EoI/AAAAAAAAAy0/K20zV3ralcc/s1600/il_570xN_286667227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-C-Xo8ZmPfP4/UC4skAq0EoI/AAAAAAAAAy0/K20zV3ralcc/s320/il_570xN_286667227.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/86251991/newsboy-hats-with-flower-mother-daughter?ref=sr_gallery_15&ga_search_query=daughter&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=ZZ&ga_min=0&ga_max=0&ga_ref=auto1&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">matching hats</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Hope came to us when she was only 5, scared and angry, and wanting so desperately to belong. And I was thrilled to be a mom again, even after so many years. Foolishly I thought to myself, I've already raised children, I can do this again. I wish there had been a manual, because Hope was unlike any of my other children. On the outside, a precious beautiful little girl, with a dimple in her one cheek, and a giggle that made everyone around her giggle too. I loved to just pick her up and snuggle with her, but she never did. After a moment she would hit me, or elbow me, or kick me, then jump off my lap. The pain of her abuse, and the secrets of her past, she kept tightly sealed inside. But only for so long, then came the explosions! Anger, fear, hate, spewing forth at the slightest provocation. How could I help her? Did I help her? All I know is I loved her.</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t6HPGD3fnHo/UC4vqlJXYQI/AAAAAAAAAzo/E5gqicR0bDI/s1600/front1_a423807062011013134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t6HPGD3fnHo/UC4vqlJXYQI/AAAAAAAAAzo/E5gqicR0bDI/s400/front1_a423807062011013134.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://handmadeartists.com/product-details/Woodworking/Signs/Loved%20you%20then,%20love%20you%20now%20sign/?pid=201106071331346f758" target="_blank">love forever sign</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: center;"> I rest my forehead against the cool window and sigh. Several years have past since those days, some good, some not so good. But we muddled through, and found some semblance of a relationship. Celebrated all the milestones together, birthdays, holidays, graduation. Then she left, not off to college, but off to "find herself". I did not understand then, and I still don't understand. But I hugged her, prayed for her, and let her go. There have been a few phone calls and letters over the past 2 years, but the last phone call was different. Hope's voice was different, lighter somehow. So here I sit, in a plane, flying towards my daughter. What is my Father up to now, I wonder? I guess I'll find out soon enough.</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Thank you for joining me on this journey. And remember, every item I have shared as part of my story is available for purchase, just click on the links below the pictures. And come back next week and meet Hope.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="color: black;"><em>Be blessed,</em></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><em>Debbi</em></strong></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15304662030244771301noreply@blogger.com0