I have a fairly regular reader from Lambeth, London, UK, as it says on my site meter. My first husband was born in London, Sarah's dad, and Sarah's British grandmother, Peggy, passed on Sarah's habit of putting cream in hot tea. The very sight of it curdles my stomach but the British and the Southern, in Sarah, is an interesting combination. Plop her down in a predominately Mexican family and she copes with a cookbook. She's the eldest here and we're very much alike, 19 years barely separating our two generations.
Our pastor, last Sunday, had encouraged the congregation to go home and share their born-again stories. Nope. Mine is locked away, Sarah is the keper of secrets. I don't like the, "I was this bad until Jesus saved my soul" stories.
Let's just leave it as I'm much happier now, much more fulfilled, and focused. No one needs to know where I've been or what I've done. It's boring and tedious, stupid and empty. None of the kid's business.
Jose, last week in a rage, claimed he didn't want to believe in my God. This from a boy who is truly comfortable and calmed in church.
In his anger he had physically threatened me, said, "I'm gonna go psycho on you and you don't have the big boys to protect you."
I suggested he have at it, but he was burned by the fire shooting from my eyes and he backed down. I didn't.
He's talking with Dr. G right now in the sunroom, learning that is not an appropriate reaction to one's mother.