The 18th Day of Lent

Dear Rufus and Henri,

With the coming of Grace into our family, the two of you have often taken a back seat. Competing with a 100 pound puppy can be tough for two 10 pound cats, but I'll have to give you credit. . you both can hold your own with her, even if her love is a little rough.

Truthfully, though, you all were around during the very darkest of days. Henri climbed me like a telephone pole and, Rufus, you walked on top of me instead of around, just to shake things up a bit. Even in my depression you two snuggled close and expected food and a clean litter box. Petting you guys, feeling your vibrating purrs under my hand kept me grounded and alive during some pretty long nights.

Even now, when I wake up from an all too frequent nightmare featuring past mistakes, I find you stretched out next to me, assuring me that my real life is the good stuff and the scary stuff is just a distant memory.

You know, it's the behind the scenes work that is the most important. Sure, Grace gets to walk in the neighborhood and take trips in the car, but you are the guys I curl up with at night. Your work and faithfulness to me in the dark has made all my time in the light possible.

I couldn't thank you enough.
I love you.
Mom

The Seventeenth Day of Lent

Dear Mom,

I've been putting this letter off because you really deserve a well thought out, multi-draft letter, and I've been waiting for the perfect time. Since I've been in a little bit of a flat spot, I wanted to wait until it passed and I could really fire up all of the engines in my heart and mind.

On reflection, though, I realize that maybe when I'm struggling some is the perfect time to write to you. You are probably the only person who trusts in my recovery even in the difficult times. You realize how dedicated I am to my healthy rituals, and you don't sit around waiting and praying for the mental illness to go away because you know that it is part of who I am. . . and interestingly enough, because you are my mother, you love and claim all of those parts.

It would take a very large book to record everytime you have saved me over the last 48 years so I'm not even going to try. The only thing I can do is to try to pay it forward. Watch the love and passion I have for Sam, Carly and Will and know that your love has made that possible.

I wish I could promise that it's all downhill from here, but since I don't read the future I can't make that promise. However, I can say that my love for you will only grow stronger with each passing day, and for now and always, it will always be you and Jesus that I know will never leave me alone. And for that, during this Lenten Season, I will give thanks.

I love you.
Angela Lou Collins

Little Easter

If anyone cares, Sundays are technically not part of the season of Lent. In the early days, Christians celebrated the resurrection of Jesus each week, not just once a year -- hence the term "Little Easter." Sooo, if you count the days on your calendar between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday you're going to come up with more than forty, if you count Sundays. Seriously, most people could care less, but, hey, I kind of like the explanation.

Anyway, my ankle has been messed up, and I've been in quite a bit of pain. My walking has been curtailed to the minimum and to ensure that, my doctor has placed my foot in a "boot" that certainly limits my agility and speed. (I'll find out next week, if surgery is required.)

The tough part though has been the mental and emotional pain that have been a serious side effect of the ankle injury.

Walking has become my number one way to deal with my mental illness. It is my way of dealing with anxiety, offering prayers, showing my committment to continuing in recovery, moving through the crap that often gets stuck in my mind. So no walking has left me in a bind.

Thankfully, I have good friends and family that are understanding and supportive. My therapist and psychiatrist have increased my sessions and my medication. Even my orthopedist is on-board with everything and is trying to expedite my recovery.

But, in the interim, I have found myself in a funk, and I have neglected (regretfully) my lenten letters. I started to beat up on myself a bit, but remembered the mantra of every person in recovery, "Do the next right thing." So instead of calling myself a failure and quitting, I am going to celebrate "Little Easter" today and continue my lenten journey tomorrow.

Thank God for second chances.

The Thirteenth Day of Lent

To the City of Louisville,

Thank you so much for the random planting of daffodil bulbs you have completed over the years. Right when I think that I'm just going to give in to the depression of a dark and dreary winter, I'm driving down the road and see a patch of daffodils, always in the most random and urban places.

I appreciate a government who not only provides libraries, police and fire protection, but considers the beautification of our city to also be of importance. Maybe, it's a cheaper way to attend to the city's collective mental health.

Truth be told, I've never used the police or had to contact the fire department. In fact, since I got Grace - the best book-chewing dog ever - I rarely even go to the library. The daffodils, though, they inspire me and remind me that Spring will certainly come. I wonder if this is what our Founding Fathers had in mind when they declared their independence from England.

God Bless America!
Angela Collins

The Twelfth Day of Lent

Dear God,

Thank you for sticking close by on days that are a little funky for me.

I like to think that you understand when I'm weary and words don't come easily for me. Believing that you are all-knowing makes words unnecessary, and every once and awhile, even I get tired of words. On this twelfth day of lent, I'm a little weary so you were my natural go-to for my lenten letter.

Thanks for letting me see you up-close and personal everyday. If I stayed focus, I experience you everywhere. You show up in nature, in books, in friends and family, in circumstances (both good and bad), in my very being. Wherever there is love, you are there. Actually, where there isn't love, you are also there, reminding me to be your feet and hands.

So I'm going to stop thinking of words to write that will accurately and eloquently describe the feelings of gratitude that I have tonight for your presence in my life because, well, you can read my soul better than you can read my words. For that, I am thankful.

Tonight I will rest in you.

Angela Lou Collins

The Eleventh Day of Lent

Dear Erika,

Thank you.

Angela

The Tenth Day of Lent

Dear Crestwood Peeps,

I just wanted to say thanks for the collective influence you have made in my life. It's nice to want to go to work everyday, knowing that no matter how different we all are, when the shit hits the fan we have each other's backs.

Every morning, Diane greets me with a weather report and a "Have a good day." Mary Ann and I usually say hooray when we check our mailboxes and find them empty. Somebody almost always says, "Startin' already?" as I buy my first Diet Coke out of the machine at 7:08 am.

I usually get a goodmorning from the few teachers who are there before me as I walk down the hall. Peyton often stops me to show me a new American girl outfit or a picture of her dog, Cooper. Bonnie hollers, "Goodmorning, Sunshine." Then Mary says "hola" and patiently listens as I share my lists of complaints and concerns.

In the bookstore, Ms. Anna saves the thumbtacks for me and never charges me for them. In the library, Amie writes my name in the schedule even though I'm suppose to know how to do it on the computer.

Schepman gives me a hug nearly everyday, whether I'm a willing participant or not.

Throughout the day, I get a hey from the cafeteria ladies, a smart remark from Ms. Sherry. Mr. Bill asks me what music I'm listening to as he sweeps my floor at the end of the day. Ms. Kathy threatens to shake her can of coins at me if I get in her way while she cleans.

One of the PTA ladies asks me almost weekly if I'll be teaching 5th grade two years from now.

I try to go to Pam's kindergarten room to get my fix on hugs and check in with her. Of course, I check in with the Dixie Chicks plus one who are now first graders in Ms. Griffin's room. Ethan, from the autism unit, yells my name and shakes my hand.

On my way out, I tease Leah and Lauren about their bulletin boards. I really should tell them that they are actually great teachers, especially since I think they are about 12 years old.

Lori looks the other way when I'm wearing jeans, and she gives me a fairly free rein when it comes to my teaching techniques.

Even the couple of people I'm not particularly fond of stay out of my way, for which I'm extremely thankful.

Anyway, I've got a sweet gig. I'm thankful to all of you who make it that way.

Angela

The Ninth Day of Lent (posted on the tenth day of lent)

Dear Milla,

It's hard for me to believe that you are seven years old. It seems like yesterday that your Grandmom was waiting for you to be born. In that seven years, you've been a ton of fun.

We've played quite a few games, but I have never managed to win. My particular favorite has always been Mother May I, and I'm beginning to think that maybe the games are fixed, since Grandmom always seems to win at the last possible minute.

I also remember when you asked me when Cassie's wedding would finally be over. . . you were 3 1/2 and it had been a long mass. I whispered that it would be over when Cassie and Zac kissed each other. You answered matter-of-factly that you had already seen them kiss at Grandmom's. Made sense to me.

You also saved Rufus the cat by yelling to all of us that he needed to rescued as he sat on the edge of the toilet trying to drink from the bowl. We've played on playgrounds and at McDonald's. I've even sung the Cougar Song and said the pledge when we played school and you got to be the teacher.

Once, when I was hanging out with you, Jax and Cate, Cate asked you if I was your friend. You told her, "No, she's my Angela." The way you said it made me feel somehow that being your Angela was even better than being your friend.

This week you gave me a letter you had written in the writing center of your first grade classroom. It read, "Dear Ms. Collins" (you are fascinated with the fact that at school I have a completely different name), . .. "Dear Ms. Collins, You are the best Angela ever." I'm going to hang on to that letter.

It reminded me that while I have been trying to be the best mom, the best daughter, the best friend, the best teacher, that perhaps I have actually begun to be the best Angela ever. That should have been my goal all along.

Thanks for the lesson.
I love you.
Angela

The Eighth Day of Lent

Dear Mrs. Mueller,

I just finished today's crossword puzzle in the newspaper and realized that I needed to write my lenten letter. As I put the newspaper down, it took me about 2 seconds to realize who I would be writing to.

As a kid at 3rd District School in Covington, you were the first and only adult I ever saw do a crossword puzzle in the paper. I would sit in the back of your library hiding in a little closet door that was located under your desk area while you ate your lunch and did the puzzle. You were also known to sneak a cigarette at the same time every now and then.

Anyway, back then I would sometimes look at the clues in the puzzle and be completely amazed that you could make any sense from them. You told me to look for patterns; you also told me it would come with age. You said that my continued reading would be a huge asset to my future puzzle solving abilities. You said those things with a straight face to an 8 year old kid.

Forty years later, I'm not too terribly bad at crossword puzzles; I'm certainly not at the New York Times level, but I'm good enough to enjoy doing them. Actually, I love doing them because I loved you and you loved doing them.

You were probably the first person outside of my family that told me I was different. You told me I could be anything, and I believed you.

You were also the first woman I knew who didn't apologize for who she was. You were a librarian in an elementary school, who was divorced, addicted to cigarettes and enjoyed a drink every now and then. I don't think you went to church and I'm  sure I heard you say a few cuss words. I probably should have been praying for you, but you seemed cool with who you were, so I kept you off the prayer list.

I remember telling you once that I was sorry you were divorced. With a quick snap of the paper (finding the crossword puzzle, I'm sure), you said "Don't be sorry for me; it was clearly his loss." And then you laughed. I liked the way you laughed.

So, I've been a teacher for awhile now and sometimes at faculty meetings or professional development sessions the facilitator will ask us to think of our favorite teacher from our own elementary years. I always think of you, how you made me feel capable, how you trusted me with knowing who you really were, how you loved me.

I try to show up in my classroom everyday simply as myself, in honor of you. You taught me that is more than enough.

Thank you.
Love, Angela

The Seventh Day of Lent

Dear Grace,

You often find a spot in my conversations and writing. I share pictures and videos of you with my kids at school. I greet you with "Hey, Puppy!" in the morning and "Sleep well" at night. I even tell you to have a good day when I leave for work each morning. A lot of people would think I'm crazy, and they are probably right. I do think this kind of crazy is more fun than other crazies I've experienced.

So, I think you are definitely in line for a lenten letter.

I can't imagine a companion more compassionate and eager to walk the extra mile (literally) even in the pouring rain and freezing temperatures. You're always ready for a belly rub or more than willing to give kisses, even when I don't ask. And, boy, are you patient. . . you wait for me everywhere, always looking as if you knew I would come.

 You are faithful and loyal. No matter where you are or how much fun you are having, you always come home with me.

You listen to my complaints and my jokes. You don't think I'm crazy if I catch myself talking to the tv. You growl at people who seem angry with me or raise their voice at me. You also make sure that all crumbs are picked up off the floor.

When I adopted you almost 2 years ago, I knew for sure that you would be fun and that you would keep me company. I never dreamed you would be such an important part of my sanity, a full-fledged member of my family.

You became my mark on the timeline. . . you know like B.C. and A.D. or before the twins and after the twins. My life is now divided up into "before Grace" and "after Grace." And, one thing I know for sure is that the "after Grace" time period in my life also coincides with "the sweetest" part of my life.

Thank you.
I love you.
Mom

The Sixth Day of Lent

Dear George Ella,

We're not exactly best friends or anything, I realize. In fact, you probably wouldn't  even recognize my name without the story of my 5th grade class and their social activism against Mountain Top Removal in 2007-08.

 Before that school year, I had met you a couple of times at book signings and writing workshops.

I've been reading your books for the last 20 years, and some of my sweetest memories of my youngest son, Will, was reading Who Came Down That Road? every night for what seemed like months.  (He is certainly a creature of habit, even at 22 years old, but he also new good literature when he was a little boy.) Carly, Will's twin sister, took Come A Tide to bed with her during that same time.

Like you, I've been influenced by countless authors over the years, but you were the first "real" author that I ever met that proudly claimed Kentucky and eastern Kentucky, in particular, as home. The voice in your books actually sounded like people I loved. People that I was not as proud of as I should have been, until I met you.

Through your words, I learned that the stories of my family were to be honored and treasured, and that just because their accent and words might be different from mainstream literature, in reality, their uniqueness made them all the more interesting.

As a young woman, I learned to claim my heritage and culture, not deny it or belittle it, from you. I used to be ashamed of my roots, but now they are the greatest inheritance I can leave to my own children.

Thank you for being a voice for a group of people who are often forgotten. You have helped to preserve the traditions and experiences of Kentucky Appalachians by choosing their children as your audience in many of your books.

Thank you, too, for standing up for what is right, if not popular, in preserving the land and mountains that we are so blessed to claim as our own.

You will always have a place on my bookshelf. . . and my heart.

Angela Collins

The Fifth Day of Lent

Dear Cathy,

You have been my dearest friend for the last ten years, and I'm not sure what I would do without you. You've had my back in every situation, including seeing my kids through high school without any jail time.

Seriously, though, you stood by me, or should I say, you paced back and forth and talked non-stop, when every other sane woman would have left me to self-destruct. Most importantly, you broke the secret code of depression and anorexia and did what you had threatened to do all along. . . you told my mom!
Truthfully, that was the best act of treason that a friend has ever committed.

I know we're not much on hugs and I love you's. We'd both rather make a joke in a bad situation or just pretend that there isn't a problem, but I seriously love you. I hope that you know that I also have your back, and I refuse to let anyone talk about you when you're not in the room. Well, most of the time.

I'm looking forward to more movies, meals, roadtrips and flea markets. You are truly one of a kind, and I thank God each day for your presence in my life.

Angela

The Fourth Day of Lent

Dear Momaw,

I promise I think of you everytime I look in my dog's eyes. I know that's weird and everything, but the two of you are sooo alike. First, she is happy every time she sees me, even if she just saw me a few minutes ago. Secondly, she loves everybody and doesn't even know how to hold a grudge. She lives in the present, never even giving a thought as to what tomorrow might bring. I swear I think part of your soul lives in her.

I know you've been gone from this earth for a very long time, but I'm not sure I ever thanked you for the difference you made, and continue to make, in my life. I appreciate all of the stories you told me, and, trust me, I remember them all. I try to make sure that all of the "forgottens" in our family, who are now at the cemetery, have flowers on them for Decoration Day. I know Romans 8:28, even when I'm not certain there's a God. I haven't eaten a real apple pie since the last one you baked, and I smile every time I eat a lemon drop.

I could spend the next year making a list of all the sweet memories I have of you and the lessons that you taught, but tonight, I simply want to thank you for the most important gift that you gave to me -- loving my mother. Because of the love you lavished on her, reminding her of her worthiness, her intelligence, her beauty, telling her often that God had sent her straight from heaven to you, she has been full enough to give those same gifts to me. Even 20 years after your death, the unconditional love that she pours on me has more than a bit of your love mixed in it.

What  little money you left when you died was gone in a matter of a few hours. What was left of your love will be enough to keep this family going for at least another hundred years.

Thank you.
Love, Ang

The Third Day of Lent

To a nurse that worked at Central Baptist Hospital in Lexington in 1989,

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I don't remember your name. . . . or your face. . . . or the sound of your voice.  In fact, the only encounter we had lasted about thirty minutes. The impact that you made on my life though has lasted for the 22 years since I saw you.

Many hours after my twins were born, my bladder had still not been able to function on its own after several days of depending on a catheter. Nurses came in and out of my room scolding me with the threat that they would have to insert another catheter if I didn't go to the bathroom on my own. (Today, that's a little funny. I mean did they think I wouldn't go on purpose?)

Anyway to make a long story short, my nerves were frazzled and the depression that would follow their birth had already started to sneak into my core. With my body sore and my emotions at the brink, two different nurses attempted to insert a catheter with lots of pain, but ultimately no success. This is where you entered the picture.

You came into my room, started talking about my beautiful babies and acknowledging the emotional roller coaster ride I was experiencing. As you placed the catheter into my bladder and waited for its contents to empty, you silently noticed the tears that were falling quietly from the corners of my eyes down my face. With no words or sighs, you removed the latex glove from one of your hands and tenderly wiped away my tears as they fell. Your touch was that of an angel. The compassion I felt was nearly overwhelming.

You soon left my room and I never saw you again.

Since then, I've spent too much time trying to convince myself that I didn't need any one in my life. I isolated myself from others with an eating disorder and a hard ass attitude. Often during those years though, I thought of you. When I was particularly vulnerable and feeling very lonely, I would close my eyes and allow myself to remember the way I felt when your hand touched my face to wipe away my tears and for that brief moment I was not alone.

Thankfully, that has changed for me. I allow myself to be surrounded by folks who love me and I bask in their touches and compassion, but I will forever remember and be thankful for the love and tenderness in your heart that compelled you to take off your glove and touch my face.

I only pray that I will be able to pay that gift forward and trust in the fact that God witnessed that moment as well.

Thank you.
Angela

The Second Day of Lent

Dear Aunt Blanche,

I just finished walking Grace this evening, and I remembered that I hadn't checked my mail. I wasn't expecting anything so it was a nice surprise when I saw that I had received a note from you. As I read it, I could feel your arms around me and hear your laugh as well.

You probably know that you're my dad's favorite sister; but, you may not know that you're my favorite of all the aunts. You secured that first place spot when my world started falling apart nearly four years ago. You were the first to tell me that it was okay for me to leave Jeff; you wrote that it was time for me to take care of myself, that your prayer was for me to be happy. (I couldn't imagine that someone would actually pray for me to be happy.) I keep that note in my bedside table and read it when I begin to doubt myself.

When I went to residential treatment, you sent upbeat cards nearly everyday, along with flannel pajamas (that I have since outgrown, by the way) and other "prettys" to help me feel remembered and loved. Even after that phase of my treatment was over and the real work on my recovery had actually begun, your cards and prayers didn't go away. You were a constant that I desperately needed.

You never quoted me scripture or offered up solutions to my problems. You didn't even say "Why don't you just eat?" which is actually a very natural question from someone who has spent her life feeding us.  You simply and profoundly loved me, and when I doubted if God heard my own prayers, I knew that he would listen to yours.

Thank you for your faithfulness to me and for the unconditional love you have so freely given. It is amazing to me that though I rarely see you that you are one of the main reasons for my continued recovery.

Mother Theresa once said, "There are no great  things, only small things done with great love." Your cards and notes and prayers may have seemed small on the outside looking in, but the combination of your great love with those small things has literally been life-changing to me.

Now that I'm well and have a little more confidence in my own prayers, please trust that I am always holding you in my heart, praying for God to keep you close to Him.

I love you.
Angie

The First Day of Lent

Dear Mrs. Bramel,

I probably haven't seen you in close to 30 years, and, truthfully, we probably won't see each other again. Whether we recognize each other in heaven is open for theological debate, and I'm sure you'd have more convincing evidence, but let's just go with my unsubstantiated belief that we'll run into each other on the other side.

When I was young, like really young, 10 or 12 years old, I never knew for sure if I was afraid or you, if I loved you, or if I thought you might possibly be the smartest person I have ever met. You'll have to admit you weren't exactly warm and fuzzy when you gathered with us kids every Sunday afternoon at Main St. United Methodist Church to try to teach us Bible stories, crafts and songs. I don't remember you smiling or laughing too much, and I don't actually remember a full on hug or anything like that as well. By the same token, I was always amazed at how you could possibly know so much when your Bible was so small!

I DO remember that you showed up every week, no matter how we had behaved the week before. I also know that you gave us the real Bible story, complete with maps and world history, not some make-believe story with blond-haired, blue-eyed baby Jesus. (Incidentally, I've spent my life looking for the truth, the real story, that you loved so much.)

I think you may have been the one to convince me that God had given me a mind to ask questions, to doubt, to search.

Truth be told, I think most of the kids were there to paint the plaster of paris plaques you prepared for us, but I was always really, really bad at painting those little suckers, so I hung back with you with the maps, where you showed me how to use the index in the back of the Bible, and I learned the difference between John's gospel and the others.

Anyway, I was walking my dog the other night, and it was kind of chilly and the wind was blowing. I wasn't feeling so great about how the day had gone, and for lack of a better word, I think I was a bit lonely. As I was walking though, from somewhere in the dark recesses of my 48 year old mind, I heard this chorus and I started to sing along:

Into my heart, into my heart

Come into my heart, Lord Jesus.

Come in today.

Come in to stay.

Come into my heart, Lord Jesus.

The same chorus that we sang together as we held hands in a circle every Sunday afternoon. My heart was filled with sweet memories and, more importantly, with Jesus.

I just wanted to tell you thanks. Thanks for the gifts that you gave to a bunch of kids that lived around 8th & Main Streets in downtown Covington. I thought you should know that at least one of us grew into a pretty decent person, who still uses her mind (not her emotions) to search for Biblical truths and still hears the choruses you sang just at the right moment.

 Oh, and I might say, I have also grown into a woman who never claps in a church service! You taught me well.

Love,

Angie

Lenten Thanks

Ash Wednesday is in two days, and I'm trying to decide how I'm going to "celebrate." Last year, I skipped the whole season. I was in such a good place that I didn't want to jinx myself by embracing the seriousness of the season. The year before, I gave up all aspects of my eating disorder for the entire 40 days. The year before that, I went deeper into the disorder, convincing myself that my self-destruction was somehow honoring God. (That's the kind of craziness my mind comes up with when it's very low on calories!) So, this year, I'm trying something new again.

First, I've found a church, where I can receive the imposition of ashes and honor with others, NOT alone in my room, the somberness of the season. Second, at my friend Cathy's suggestion, I'm not going to deny myself anything, that simply feeds the disorder. (Get it, feeds the eating disorder, sometimes I crack myself up.) Anyway, I'm going to take on something rather than giving up something.

This year, in honor of all of the great people who have touched me with their own lives, I will give thanks. A letter of gratitude to a saint for each of the 40 days of lent. Maybe I'll mail them. Maybe I won't. I haven't thought through that part yet. BUT, during this time of reflection, I will think of the people in my life who showed up willing to share themselves with me, and I will give thanks.