Stone Press

Is there anyone out there who truly wants to know a woman’s heart? Oh, how deep it goes and how beautiful it is when discovered!

She waits for someone to come like Prince Charming in the story of Cinderella who saw the perfect jewel of who she was when everyone else around her had missed it. The questions of the feminine heart from the time she is tiny are those which innocently ask, “Am I beautiful? Would you fight for me?”

Too often the answers she finds are shallow and non-committal. The man she turns to is caught up in his own story. Unlike the Prince, he searches for the answers to his own questions in life expecting her to fit into his idea of who she should be for him. He thinks the source of his happiness should be this woman he has chosen.

He needs her. She fills the “gap” of emotional belonging that he craves. Out of his own insecurity and low self-image, he fears he is not able to hold her in the way he needs to so he bullies her. He is possessive and monopolizes her time and attention.

Unable to look within himself at his own lack of character because of his feelings of inadequacy or inferiority, he challenges her in all of her weak areas. She is vulnerable to criticism and to taking responsibility for the relationship because it is relationship that she has been designed to build. She becomes convinced that if she could only change, he would be happier.

But the hole within him is so large. It is too big for her to fill. And he is going to the wrong source for his answers. Unknown to either of them, no matter how she tries, she will never be enough for him.

The consequences are severe. Like rose petals in their prime discarded and ground by his heel into the dirt, her spirit is crushed.

To the outside world, her husband often appears charming, a hard worker, dedicated to his family. But his desperation to look that way is so highly important to him that he carefully prunes the image in public saving his deep-seated anger for those behind closed doors. His accusations are unreasonable and unfair always directing attention away from himself.

In her article “The Silent Killer of Christian Marriages”, Amy Wildman White says, “For anyone who works with abusive men, the most frustrating characteristic is their lack of insight. When interacting with this type of individual, one is often left feeling as if he or she has just gone in circles. Issues presented are minimized, denied, or turned around to make someone else responsible, or a host of other topics are brought in to sidetrack the conversation. The process of change is most often slow or nonexistent.”

She also says, “Although the behaviors in and of themselves are forms of abuse, it is the constant climate of destruction that leaves a woman believing she is trapped, with no confidence or hope that there is a way out. A woman in an emotionally abusive marriage does not believe she has any choices. She believes she carries the responsibility for the bad marriage and that if only she could change, her marriage would improve. No matter what she does differently, however, the marriage never gets better.”

Piece by piece, moment by moment she is bombarded with the messages: “No, you are not beautiful. You can’t get anything right. Your dreams and desires and needs don’t matter. You are such a disappointment.” Many times over different variations of these words beat at a woman’s soul.

She dies inside, the messages confirmed: I am not valuable, I am worthless.
The words to Martina McBride’s song float through my mind:

“She loved him like he was
The last man on earth,
Gave him everything she ever had.
He’d break her spirit down,
Then come lovin’ up on her
Give a little then take it back.

She’d tell him about her dreams,
He’d just shoot ‘em down.
Lord, he loved to make her cry.
You’re crazy for believin’
You’ll ever leave the ground,
He said, ‘Only angels know how to fly.”

What hope is there for us, oh women, who are convinced there is no such thing as a Knight in Shining Armor? Listen to the words of the One who tells mere man how to love you. Please know that your desire to be loved in this way is not wrong, it is inherent! This love is what was intended for you all along.

My paraphrase:

“Give your life to bring out her beauty.
Discover the mystery of who she is, of what she dreams;
watch to see what inspires and impassions her
- and then make it happen.
Don’t let anything get in the way of her becoming all she is supposed to become.
Cherish her, support her, fight for her, challenge her, refine her.

By doing this, men, you are doing yourselves a favor,
for by loving a woman like this,
she will be your most tender, loyal, powerful counterpart for life!

How do I know this is what she needs?
I know because I made her.
I know her in depth as part of My own heart.
This is how I, her Eternal Lover,
actively devote Myself to her!”

Ephesians 5:25-30

Does God know a woman’s heart? If you can get past the age old thinking in these verses referring to the “rules” of marriage, you will see the amazing sparkling diamond. God knows EXACTLY how to love a woman. He is handing her over to man with specific instructions about HOW to love her while she lives here on earth away from Him.

Woman also has been given a roadmap to a man’s heart:

“Wives, trust your husband as though you are trusting Me.
Let him be your shelter.
He is the guardian of all that I have put within you and
I have entrusted him with My own strength, wisdom and ability
to draw out the deepest beauty within you.

He would die to rescue you without thought for himself
just as I would… and did.
Let him be who I made him to be.

Come beneath his wing.”

Ephesians 5:22-24
My paraphrase

These are the instructions given to us. But in a world sadly far from its original intent, this is too often not the reality.

Raise your eyes to the Big Picture. We live in enemy territory. God’s enemy, Satan, takes whatever God pronounced good and seeks with vengeance to destroy it. Past pain, disappointment, neglect and selfishness devastate a man’s heart as much as a woman’s. The result is a paralyzed inability to love as God planned it to be.

So where do we turn when the man in our lives physically or emotionally discards us? Here is the rest of the song “Broken Wing” by Martina McBride:

“And with a broken wing,
She still sings
She keeps an eye on the sky.
With a broken wing
She carries her dreams.
Man, you ought to see her fly!”

No matter what the circumstances in our lives, there are some “unchangeables” that we must cling to:

1. God is the One Who instructs a man how to love us because HE loves us like that! When we face a break in this human love, God is still there knowing how to love us and offering Himself as our Knight in Shining Armor. He has always been in love with us and falling in love with Him is easy once we know that.

2. God has built a dream into the very depth of our hearts. Just because we lose our way or find ourselves trampled down, that dream doesn’t change or go away. It’s always there and always will be. We need to fly even with a broken wing! We are gifted and talented and strong in many ways. Finding and pursuing OUR PURPOSE can absorb hurt like a sponge!

So many women walk around like the living dead. Their hearts are crushed and they are convinced of their own worthlessness. This is a waste of something so precious! There are many that I have worked with over the past few years.

Because of my own experiences with the Prince of the Universe, I have been able to discern their own uniqueness and value; it takes time but establishing these things is like watering a desert place! At first it sinks in and seems to have no effect because the ground is so dry. But as the lies are discarded and the truth of their strengths and amazing unique qualities begin to emerge, it is as if lush green plants and beautiful flowers begin to take over the wastelands.

A new light floods their whole beings and a new reason to live begins to motivate them. They hold the hand of their true Husband and they walk a new walk with a new confidence. Truly, they begin to fly!

Yes, sometimes it means taking strong action like leaving their husbands. Unfortunately, at times, this is the only way to catch the man’s attention. When faced with such measures, he will often begin to seek the help he needs and they begin to heal the broken places in their relationship.

And sometimes he will not have anything to do with restoration. Even so, it is not the end of life. It is a new season in which a woman can begin to truly experience her own freedom and individual healing. She learns to soar despite her wounds and finds her real identity in the eyes of the One with Whom she will spend all of eternity.

Never give up hope! Reach out for help and discernment no matter how badly you feel you are to blame for the problems in your relationship. Let God into your deepest heart. Allow Him to begin to love you as you need to be loved. He will give you wings and teach you how to fly!

Bernice Lupo is a wife and mom, a Christian Life Coach, author, speaker and trainer. She lives to inspire others to discover and live out the adventure of their personal design - the gold of who they are. Her highly acclaimed system, “Refining the GOLD: Transforming Cinderella” is assisting many women in finding freedom, new love and a re-energized zest for living. Visit her site at http://www.goldrefined.com

Tonight I will sleep in the White Mountains of east-central
California at a high, lonely place aptly called Grand View
Campground. At 8000 feet on the western flank of the range,
it provides an overview of Owens Valley, and an awesome
panorama of the Range of Light, the High Sierra. A small dirt
track leads west from the campground through the sage
and Pinon Pine to some craggy outcrops distinctly
uncomfortable for sitting. I know I will stop there, facing this
awesome sweep of altitude, granite and ice, and of
time.

I have visited these mountains since I was a little kid. Dad
was a geologist, a teacher at the university, and for many
summers conducted field camps in this area for his
students. Visiting him during those summers introduced
me to this country. In 1971, years after dads involvement in
the geology camps, I returned. I wrote a line of poetry so
foreign to my life at that time that I have not forgotten: “If God
is anywhere, this is the place.”

I’m not a religious man, though I had my share of it in my
twenties through forties. Those decades of experience are
probably why Im not a religious man today. Back in 1971, in
the high Whites, religion wasn’t present in that line of
poetry.

Poet David Whyte once said, “Sometimes everything has to
be enscribed across the heavens for you to find the one line
already written inside you.” I found my “one line” sitting
among the ancient Bristlecone Pines, native to the high
reaches of this desert range. These trees are wind swept,
sand blasted, living beings of immense age. They were
both the inspiration and the only audience for the words I
wrote that day. It took the harshness of this place and the
almost inconceivable stretch of time these trees have lived
to nurse open a broken spot in the hardness of my young
life. And God showed up. I remember that feeling, that initial
breath of spirit coming to consciousness.

Tonight I will be there again.

The road up Westgard pass is steep and serpentine. This
is sun broiled country, and the sand and the rock radiate
heat upward. The canyon narrows, and around a northern
bend, an incongruous eruption of green appears. As we
approach the spring, memories stir in me. In the early
evening, after a day in the field and a good camp meal with
his colleagues and students, Dad and I would walk up the
hill to the old flat-bed Ford. On the bed of the truck, like a
blob of melted tar, was a great rubber bladder, an Army
surplus relic. This held the water supply for the geology
camp, the headwaters of a system of pipes that fed two
outdoor showers among the Pinon Pines. Each afternoon
there was a silent competition for the first water out of those
pipes, which had heated during the day. The bladder
needed re-filling every three days or so. Dad liked that duty,
and when I was in camp, it was my job, too.

After unfastening the fittings, we climbed into the cab of the
truck. It seemed an enormous vehicle to me. My chin could
rest on the sill of the open passenger window. Dad put it in
first gear, and we moved slowly down the sage covered hill
to the dirt ruts leading out of camp and onto the Westgard
road. The trip to the spring took about 30 minutes. I can’t
remember what Dad and I talked about, but it is a sweet
memory, knowing that it was just him and me. I imagine he
had plenty to think about after a day in the field with his
students. But maybe thats why he liked this particular
errand. There is something settling and simple about the
high desert; perhaps Dad and I didn’t talk much. Perhaps
silence was Dad’s way of courting solitude and teaching his
young son to do the same.

The water from the spring up on the hill was captured and
guided into a pipe that brought it down near the road. We
would park the truck next to the stone and cement trough
holding the water that bubbled out of the pipe. Dad would
tap into the supply higher up the hill so the bladder would fill
by gravity. I always liked to sit on the bladder where the hose
attached. I could feel the bladder gently swell as it filled with
the cool water. It took about two hours.

In the mild cool of the evening, as the light lowered in the
canyon, bats would rise from the dense Cottonwood foliage.
They were silent soaring shadows creating amazing
designs in the sky. Dad said they were eating mosquitoes,
and that he was glad there was something that liked eating
mosquitoes before the mosquitoes would eat us. I think he
found a joy in that thought. He said it every time we came to
the spring for water.

I liked trying to hit the bats with rocks. This was far less
possible than I liked to think. But I remember Dad
encouraging me as one of my tosses came close, and then
laughing at the futility of the effort. In these simple things, I
remember a childlike joy in my father. He loved the natural
world; he loved unfolding it in knowledge for others, and
there at the spring, his joy, and his love for the natural world
were planted in me.

On this trip to the White Mountains, I travel with my cousin,
Dave. He and I have become close over the past several
months. Dave is a landscape photographer. His love for
wilderness beauty and his quality of seeing draws me to
him. This was the first time he has come to this area,
although he knows of it through family stories and friends.
He is planning on photographing the Bristlecone Pines for
the first time.

In the morning, Dave and I drive out from Grand View
Campground, and head up hill. The first access to the
Bristlecones is at Schulman Grove, at about 10,000 feet, but
we opt to go higher. The pavement ends at Schulman
Grove; twelve miles along the dirt road we come to Patriarch
Grove, at just over 11,000 feet.

Foliage at this altitude is small and low-growing: a few
clumps of sage, mostly lichen and tiny, brilliant wildflowers.
From a distance these little flowers give the white dolomitic
soil and rock a dusting of pastel color: pink, blue, yellow.
The only other foliage are the Bristlecone Pines. Though
they are not tall as trees go, they dominate my
attention.

Neither Dave nor I speak much as we drive down the rough
spur leading to the Patriarch Grove. These trees have a
presence much larger than their physical being. Words
almost seem inappropriate. I sense in their presence a
patience, an acceptance, and a wisdom that is as tangible
as the rarefied air the trees grow in.

Dave and I walk down a trail to the tree after which the grove
is named: The Patriarch. It is the largest of the Bristlecone
Pines, with a trunk circumference of about 37 feet. I estimate
its height to be about the same. As we approach The
Patriarch, I notice how it has grown. The highest reach of
this magnificent tree is formed from long-dead trunk and
limbs. They are beautiful tan, brown and wine-colored
spears pointing into the depth of space. Out from the center
horizontally and below the vertical rise of the old, dead trunk,
the branches, needles and cones form a lush doughnut of
living tree.

I walk up to the tree. I’m breathing deeply with the altitude. I
gently touch one of the needled boughs above my head. I
walk beneath the tree, into its space, into its embrace.
Emotion rises freely. I am greeting an understanding,
compassionate seer. I touch the living trunk. I feel its rough
texture. I say “Thank you.”

Dave has thoughtfully given me space for my experience,
but I walk around the huge trunk and see that he is having
his own moment of greeting with the tree. I can see Dave’s
eyes see - not what he sees, but his intense focus, his
noticing of detail, his connected heart, his love. He moves
slowly, looking at all angles; then he moves quickly with
some silent intuition of another image that captures a small
slice of soul of The Patriarch.

Dave and I walk out across a large flat meadow of white
rock and lichen, and ascend a hill south and east of The
Patriarch. We slow our pace as we move up the slope
allowing our lungs to keep up with us. From the top of the
hill we look directly east and down to Cottonwood Basin, a
lush oasis of granite, aspen, grass and sun. The eastern
horizon draws our sight across the vast Great Basin. John
Muir described this view as “ridge upon ridge, as great
layers of ash dropped from a burning sky.” To the north,
White Mountain itself glances over the intervening ridges. It
stands as high as the highest of Sierra Peaks.

How can anything grow here? Let alone survive for almost
5000 years. These trees do. It is the unique qualities of the
Bristlecone Pine in concert with the harshness and difficulty
of this place that actually contribute to such longevity. Dr.
Edmund Schulman, after whom the Schulman Grove is
named, wrote, “…on the driest and most adverse sites it is
easier to find a very old tree than a very young one.”

I enjoy picturing Schulman who, in the mid-1950’s came
here on a whim and a rumor, and he found the culminating
discovery of his lifes work: the world’s oldest known living
thing. His love and wonder for these trees is palpable when
he writes: “There is something a little fantastic in the
persistent ability of a 4,000-year old tree to shut up shop
almost everywhere through its stem in a very dry year, and
faithfully to reawaken to add many new cells in a favorable
year.”

I imagine him walking among these trees over forty years
ago. I like to think that the trees drew out his heart the way
they do mine. I see him asking permission of the tree to
take a core sample, and the gentleness of his intrusion. And
I see him in his small lit trailer, late in the evening, counting
dense rings under a microscope. I feel his excitement and
awe as it begins to dawn on him: “That evening I had our
long cores … under the lens, and as I dated the outer
centuries of rings and then went on to a quick count of the
earlier rings, unusually crowded even for Bristlecone, I felt
excitement rise, for we were rapidly piling up the centuries.
And when I got to within one inch of the inner end of our
cores, I fairly shouted at my colleague working across the
table.”

I have already lived more years than Edmund Schulman. He
died early, at 49, which I find an irony in light of his work with
the Bristlecones. Many times in my life I have questioned my
own purpose and work: what my life means. At times this
questioning has seemed as intrusive as a core sample
must be to a tree. I feel as if I have counted the rings of my
life, identifying the growth, the hard and lean years, the
times I shut down.

Dave and I spend the evening atop a wide ridge watching
the sun drop and the full moon rise. He is absorbed in his
art; I allow my thoughts to move. It occurs to me that
personal meaning is a very present experience. Meaning
draws on history, but doesn’t live there. We bring meaning
to this moment alone.

Edmund Schulman’s work and love for these trees. Dad
and me at the spring on Westgard Pass over forty years
ago. That one line of poetry that came to me as an opening
to something greater in life. Being with the ancient Patriarch
today. Dave’s passion, focus and engagement in wanting
the world to see what he sees. All these bring meaning to
this moment, and I sense, in the presence of all that has
come before, a grand design complete now, but still
forming. From this vantage point in the high Whites, among
the ancient ones, I know that things fall into place.

Stephen Gilbert has spent more than 30 years in personal
and professional coaching, griefwork, training, ministry, and
funeral service. He is certified as a Management
Effectiveness Coach, a Griefwork Coach, and is a licensed
funeral director. He works both in corporate settings and
with individuals. Through his coaching, individuals
become more effective in critical areas of life, such as
career direction and change, addiction recovery, creative
expression, interpersonal relationships, and attaining
personal and professional goals.

He is well known as a powerful workshop leader if the field
of griefwork. His workshop, called Being With Grief, has
help hundreds of people move through some of the most
challenging of human experiences. He also offers training
and workshops care giving professionals and other that
work directly with the bereaved.

Stephen offers coaching services for personal
transformation, grief process and professional development
in either group or individual contexts.

http://www.personaLegacy.com

Autumn of ‘89 began like any other. Summer was quickly coming to a close as winter crept in. Like most years, the family was anxiously anticipating sharing the holidays together.

Although each year became a bit more difficult due to the miles that kept us physically apart, in our hearts we remained close. What I have always cherished most about time with my family is the laughter and the enjoyment of simple things.

Amazingly, even that which we appreciate we often take for granted. Without realizing it, I took for granted that my mother and father, in their early sixties in ‘89, would be around for years to come. Years that in a moment seemed to be ripped from my reality.

It was late on a Monday night in September of that year when I got the dreaded call. “If you want to see your father alive, you must come quickly.” Those words rang in my head as I carelessly tossed cloths into a bag. My reasoning was such that a tattered grocery bag would suffice as my luggage.

My reasoning was also such that rather than immediately get on the road, I felt compelled to bake my father his favorite cookies. Although I had been told he was in a coma as a result of a massive cardiac arrest, I was convinced my cookies would be the magic formula to bring him around.

As I drove late into the night, memories of long ago danced in my head. Memories of times shared with my father who, although a pillar in my life, now lay lifeless in a hospital bed. Glancing frequently at the plate of cookies that were placed carefully on the seat behind me, I tearfully wondered if I would ever see my father alive again.

The shock of seeing my father hooked up to countless monitors and machines was almost beyond belief. And yet, what my sisters and I quickly realized was the devastation my mother was experiencing. The three of us wondered if our parents would have the opportunity to celebrate their 40th anniversary together.

With no obvious change over the next few days, my sisters, mother and I found comfort in each others arms. Strangely, we also found comfort by bringing each other cuddly stuffed animals. Within days, my mother’s collection of teddy bears grew and grew.

It was as if each bear held a special meaning to her and brought what little comfort could be experienced as she diligently watched her husband lay in his own world of a coma.

After weeks of praying for the near impossible, my father slowly began to regain consciousness. Knowing a miracle had taken place, for the next few months we were thrilled at each baby step my father took in his recovery.

Having to undergo massive heart surgery to repair some of the damage, my father kept a few close companions near his bedside as he recouped from his wounds. The very teddy bears my mother found comfort in while my father was on his “vacation” were the bears he now found comfort in.

As I prepare for the holiday season this year, I wonder how much of an impact my father’s heart attack and all the experiences that went with it had on my decision to fulfill a lifelong dream.

For years, I had a secret desire to open a teddy bear store so I could share the feelings teddy bears had given me when I went through a very painful divorce. A feeling of comfort that somehow only the “right” bear can bring. The same type of comfort teddy bears brought to my mother, my father, my sisters and me in the autumn of ‘89. The same type of comfort I now have the opportunity to share with others on a daily basis.

With my father’s experience now years behind, I am once again anticipating sharing a holiday season with my mother and father who are soon going to be celebrating 57 years of marriage. Often my folks come to visit me during the holidays, as it is a very busy time of year. What with all the gift wrapping for the many people who come from all over the country to experience the unique teddy bear store that was once only a dream.

I have learned life is about having the courage to live our dreams. It is in the willingness to do what we are destined to do we have the opportunity to bring comfort, joy, laughter and love to the lives of others.

If the only lesson I learned during the autumn of ‘89 is how precious life is, I will forever be grateful. It is because of that lesson I am gifted with the opportunity to often help select just the right teddy bear for someone who is in need of comfort. Other times, it is to select a bear that is meant to bring joy, or express love, or gratitude, or just because…. because teddy bears make the world a little better one bear at a time.