Nine One One

Nine-One-One

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High God shall remain stable and fixed under the Shadow of the Almighty, Whose Power no foe can withstand.” Psalm 91:1 Amplified Bible

I probably should have died that Sunday afternoon. But I did not. I am still here. I am here with everything intact. I needed a really good massage with that great massage therapist who looks like a little sumo wrestler. I did notice that my neck muscles were a little stiffer than usual, and a week later I was sore all over, but I am here. People see me. I am eating, etc., and talking, and people talk back. Not a Dean Koontz moment at all. I am alive. I am grateful.

My friend Cynthia Clawson says that there are really only two prayers. Prayer Number One: “Help me, help me, help me, Jesus!” Prayer Number Two: “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Jesus.” I have to agree.

I was faced with a potentially fatal car accident a few weeks ago. I was driving home from the Dallas area, and was on I-45 South. Two lanes, lots of trucks, SUVs, etc., and all going at least a minimum of five miles per hour over the speed limit. I was talking with my friend Melinda; I had dropped her off in North Dallas to celebrate her birthday with her parents who live there. I‘d gone to visit with my son and grandson and his family. We were on our way back to Houston and sharing our different weekends. I was in the right lane, and had slowed down to about 50 mph since I was behind “Mr. Pokey.” Mr. Pokey was driving a rusted black Honda. Melinda and I were talking about foccacia bread, and food, our favorite subject, and the fabulous meals she had had that weekend. I checked my mirrors: left, rearview, right, rearview and left, in that order, put my blinker on and accelerated to change lanes and pass Mr. Pokey. Melinda screamed. And it was then I saw the wall of silver metal on my left that had appeared like the night, blocking the sun. A big Chevy Suburban was just suddenly there, coming out of nowhere. You know the type. A Road Bully. We’ll call him, “Mr. Pushy.” They speed as fast as they can down the highway, come upon you with no warning, hang on your tail, and if you don’t move fast enough, they zip around you to pass as soon as they can. Then they weave in and out of traffic down the road, intimidating and pushing the rest of the drivers to move over and give them passage. I never saw him until it was too late.

I cut hard to the right to avoid hitting Mr. Pushy, and ended up back behind Mr. Pokey, who was still clipping along at 50 mph or so. So I braked and screeched and cut the wheel again to avoid hitting Mr. Pokey and went into a spin. It was the whole bit: the wheels skidded , the brakes locked and seemed to be no good, the car shook as it slid down the highway sideways, then careened from one lane to the next, back and forth, and “doughnuting “down the Interstate.

In the midst of all of this I heard two things, “Help us Jesus!” over and over again: That from the person sitting next to me. And then I heard myself yell, “Turn into the spin,” (???)… I have to turn into the spin!” And on one of the slides back to the right, as I was spinning right, I resisted the urge to turn left, and away from the right lane. I closed my eyes; I took a deep breath, and I turned the wheel right….into the spin. The car flew over to the shoulder, spun around and landed in the ditch, facing the oncoming traffic…BUT, we were off the highway and stopped. We sat there; and sat. We stared. We inhaled and exhaled. And then did it again. We waited in silence. Breathing; Listening to the loud thumping of our hearts, and whispering “Oh My God…Oh My God.” We waited for the five to ten cars that would stop with people who would help us and care for us and check on us. I imagined big muscle-y men in trucks – pulling over to the shoulder - racing towards us there stuck in the ditch to see if we were all right…. And so we waited for them, and breathed…in and out. And while we waited we went through the verbal examination and checklist, just to be sure. We were both holding on to the dashboard with our arms and hands outstretched. I said, “Okay, we’re alive.” “Yes.” “You okay?” “Yes.” “‘Airbags didn’t deploy.” “No.” “We didn’t hit anyone.” “No! And I do not know why not.” “No one hit us. “ “No!?!...It’s a miracle.” And we breathed…in and out…and continued to wait for our rescuers…the big men… rushing towards us…and it didn’t happen. No one stopped. No one came. Mr. Pokey was long gone. So was Mr. Pushy. It took a while for us to connect that help was not coming. I finally quit staring ahead and looked at Melinda. She looked at me. “No one is stopping,” she whispered. She was hurt. Surprised. Stunned. We were on our own. We watched and stared as the cars zinged by us one by one.

“No one is going to stop!” “I know…I can’t believe it.” “We’re stuck in this ditch facing the wrong way.” “Yes.” “Thank God we landed in the ditch.” “And not the road.” “Thank God I can call Triple A.” “We could have killed a lot of people and died too.” “I know.”

There had been enough drama on the way there. A few miles outside of Dallas, a huge thunderstorm broke out –a really big black one with lightning and noise and lots of water suddenly cascading down from nowhere. Melinda was a little “not afraid,” but aware…. cautious… concerned… and giving voice to that. And to that I’d said, “Don’t worry. Lightning might strike all around us, but God won’t let it hit us.” And with that, a huge bolt of lightning hit an electrical pole directly across the highway from us. It blew up, exploded and caught on fire, buzzing and hissing with all sorts of noise and fireworks and electrical display or wires twisting and snaking around in the air. I swear. Really. This is totally true. That was a tad sobering! And scary. Now, on the way back home, here we were in the ditch, facing the oncoming traffic, but with our lives.

We slowly came out of shock. I tried to start the car. Nothing. Then I heard myself say, “Well, you could put the clutch in first.” I did, and held it down while I tried to start the engine again. It started. Okay. Deep breath. I shifted into first gear, and the car actually began to climb out of the ditch. At best, I had expected the spin of the rear wheels digging parallel trenches in the soggy dirt on the side of the road. Surely that was going to happen….? But instead, it was as if several large men were pushing from behind as hard as they could. I pictured them with their heads down and their feet digging into the earth, the sleeves of their blue work shirts rolled up, their hands on the back of the car, pushing with all their might. We were amazed as we bumped and chugged out of the ditch, and up and out and on to the shoulder. However, I was facing the wrong way. Heart racing, I waited there staring at the oncoming traffic for the opportunity to gun the engine and zip the car around and get into the right lane, hoping to God I would not stall.. I was a little nervous about the car being still safe to drive. So I sat there focused on the oncoming traffic, thinking of all these things. Melinda was praying…constantly. Another SUV zipped by. Then there was nothing: Nothing in either lane. I let out the clutch, pressed the accelerator, and made a hard, 180 degree right turn into the right lane. I kept shifting and accelerating until I had reached fifth gear. No shaking. No shimmy. The steering wheel was steady. I couldn’t believe it. I never had to call Triple A…

We drove down I-45 South. “That was really bad.” “I know.” “It’s like that TV program, ‘What Would You Do…?’ ” “Yeah…” “No one stopped.” “I know…” “Do you hurt?” “No…but maybe tomorrow.” “Probably.” “Maybe we should take some ibuprophen now.” “Good idea.” I handed her the bottle in the side pocket of the left door. She shook enough tablets out for both of us.
Still shaken, we travelled a few miles down the road in silence. I eventually pulled over. We pulled over and found a Starbuck’s and a bathroom. We investigated the car, the trunk and the back seat. It was curious. There was grass caught in all the wheels, and stuck to the bottom of the car, and the chocolate birthday cake Melinda’s mother had baked for her had flipped out of her carryon bag and was face down in the back seat. Her mom had wrapped it tightly in clear plastic wrap. It was a little flatter, but no worse for the trauma it had endured. But that was all. We took the birthday cake into Starbuck’s with us. We ordered our coffees, found a table and a couple of plastic forks, unwrapped the cake and prayed. Lord have mercy, that cake was good…I mean really, really good. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you, Jesus.”

Copyright: Marie Plauche’-Gustin October 2010

Repair the World...?

Repair the World…?

“Every act of loving human kindness, no matter how great, or how small, repairs the world…”
-Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.*-

‘I’ve been a victim of.. a selfish kind of love… it’s time that I realize…I see the kids in the street.. without enough to eat… who am I.. to be blind –pretending not to see their need…?”
-Michael Jackson* -

I have been working on a “Repair the World” concert since January of this year. Well, actually the random choreography, that I had no idea what I would do with, emerged in January. It surfaced after an imposed four month break from teaching. This “break” came suddenly and unexpected in September of last year.
I had arrived to teach my class one morning, and the owner of the studio where I was renting space, unbeknownst to me, was packing up and moving. Imagine my surprise! And with that, I had three classes, and no place to teach. It was one of those disorienting, unanticipated changes of plans and direction that, more often than not, come after a major event in the life and lives of Bere’sheet Ballet. We had just completed a successful presentation and participation in a sacred dance workshop…our first-ever official one. That was on 9/11 and 9/12 of 2009. 9/14 found me staring at packed boxes as I went to pay the rent. The economic disaster of last year had finally found the studio in our humble neighborhood where all of us gathered. In reality, I had been presented with a Divinely orchestrated opportunity – a badly needed break that I would have never taken on my own…some “down time.” As my sister so lovingly reminded me yesterday, “God will often do for us what we will not do for ourselves.” So, I handled all of this by immediately signing up for two dance classes in other studios. It was my turn to be on the back row, be the student, groan through someone else’s warm-up, stumble through someone else’s choreography, wonder who’s body I was inhabiting and why I could not find my left foot, and, most importantly, to not be in charge. It was wonderful. And to affirm this new season, not one studio owner where I inquired for space was interested in renting to me. Some were downright rude. And that lasted four months…
January came, and Sonia, an original member of Bere’sheet Ballet, called me after her two year break and wanted to come back to class. It just so happened that she was still working in administration in a studio where I used to rent and, “Ta Da!” there was space available for me. Somehow I had not inquired there. So I showed up with some new moves, scheduled three classes a week and prayed people would show. Most of them returned. And those who did not were replaced with new gals. It’s all good. And we started to pray together as we always do…and play together and move and dance, and God showed up to join us…as God always does. Still drawn to Michael Jackson’s stuff and that mysterious impact of global loss-the redemptive themes I had been listening for manifested in his work, and with that, a renewed passion, consciousness and responsibility to “repair the world” invaded my heart.
The quote from Dr. Remen’s book bears repeating, and in fact, I think, is even worthy of “ bumper sticker status”: “Every act of loving kindness, no matter how great, or how small, repairs the world…” I first became aware of Dr. Remen at the first “Womenspeak” held in San Antonio, Texas in March of 2007 …“Womenspeak”: a conference for women, and for a few brave, women-loving men), originated by the courageous visionary and author, Paula D’Arcy, founder of The Redbird Foundation, (http://www.redbirdfoundation.org/) . The event was one of those “game changers.” Then in 2010, March of this year, Paula did it again; this time in Mobile, Alabama. The focus once again, was “one woman can change the world.” It was held in Mobile to honor the historic and courageous Harriet Tubman, a slave in the South who organized the “underground railroad,” and helped free hundreds of fellow slaves from the Confederate South into the free Northern states. I attended as a guest artist. There was no way I would have missed this event, having been to the life changing conference that was the first Womenspeak, and mainly because Cynthia Clawson was also a guest artist and we were going to “sing and dance together.” And then there was God…and the surprise and awe of the rich spiritual meal that had been prepared for us.
As I sat there listening and entering in to the Spirit of it all, I was moved by the stories of one woman after another who had the power of God’s love and vision in their hearts. I was provoked by their life’s experiences to ask – “What am I doing? How can my life impact someone else’s for good? For changing this corner of the world?” How can my writing, my dancing, my singing, my music, my photography, my prayers, my position, my job, my public speaking, my medical practice, my priesthood, my friendship, my parenting, my cooking, my laughing and my crying, my love of God change the world for good? How can I be a part of healing the planet?
Back in the 70’s, there was a vagabond teacher/preacher who always encouraged his congregation and students to pray whenever they went somewhere to minister, “Lord, send the Lazarus…,” meaning that someone who was going to be the big impact to their community after a touch from God. Which meant for us, if we were simply faithful to do what our calling and passion was, and to “Be,” we could inadvertently empower a Moses, a Saul of Tarsus, a Gideon, a Mary Magdalene, a Martha or Mother Theresa. Their transformed lives could change a community…a world. Thus was the call to all of us who attended Womenspeak in Mobile: impact a person for good. Make a difference. Listen! BE! Follow your passion. Help repair the world.
Back at home, my choreography began to take on another layer of meaning, and about a month later, death and oil exploded into the Gulf of Mexico. At this writing, the foolishness of all of the top hats and junk shots has stopped. The well is capped, and somehow the oil in the Gulf has “disappeared.” We have seen multiple horrific pictures of greasy pelicans, dead ocean life, heard the fake and foolish non-safety rules of a huge and powerful company, seen the filthy oil-covered reeds in the marshes of Louisiana, worried about the eggs of sea turtles, seen the greasy black gooey globs on many sandy beaches, avoided eating Gulf shrimp and wondered. Now most of us have moved on. It will be a while before we feel the impact, but our lives have changed in many ways forever.
In her late 50’s my mother went back to college and got her Masters Degree in environmental science. This was long before awareness of our environment and the “move to go green” was ever accused of being political. Mother was a high school science teacher for years. I helped her grade papers, and grew up with many suspicious-looking science experiments in various parts of the house. One was the infamous Styrofoam cups buried in aquariums filled with dirt, as opposed to paper cups. We all know which one decomposed. It is how we grew up. No microwave ovens, no fast food, no preservatives; our medicine was nutritious homemade food, balanced meals, (I watched one of my brothers choke on hated spinach several times), and we were dosed with cod liver oil and liquid iron washed down with orange juice as we headed out the door to school; ‘never had a pop tart in my life. We were rarely ill. It was a way of life. When Hurricane Audrey hit Louisiana shores in the 50’s, since we had gas cooking and the electric power was out everywhere, we cooked all the food in the freezer, and fed the neighborhood. We took food to the hungry on a regular basis through the Welfare League, and when Mother, along with some of her cronies formed one of the first Ballet Companies in Louisiana and we performed The Nutcracker, she organized bus transportation for underprivileged school-aged children from all over the area so they could see a live theatrical production: Providing them with a cultural and beautiful experience, encouraging their dreams, expanding their vision. In the heated 60’s, she received threatening hate mail from violent students in her chemistry class who refused to do their homework. She did not balk. They turned it in any way or failed, and then she hauled her china and crystal to her classrooms for an end of the year party. She helped form the Children’s Museum, the Symphony, the Little Theater, etc., etc., and wrote publicity for the newspaper for different arts organizations, bribing the editor with her famous marshmallow brownies. When she died, her shoes were too huge to fill. I have quit trying…
But her greatest instinct was to “repair the world;” to make things around her better. It was how she coped with the various disappointments that life dealt her. And there were many. Or to put it her way: she was “Just doing my job.”
This morning I pushed myself out of bed. I am a chronic insomniac. I always have been. If I am asleep before 2:00 a.m. it is a successful night. Therefore, getting moving in the morning at the same time the rest of the world does, is a challenge. But today I did it, and faced the early morning not only around seven-ish, but with a cup of Jasmine tea instead of the pot of coffee I always have. I do not know how long this will last…Maybe just a day. This will take a lot of re-structuring. But I must tell you what I would have missed: Two hummingbirds battling for a purple bloom in my prayer garden, a bright red cardinal arriving to remind me of God’s flair for décor, the sun rising over the flower garden, illuminating the miniature black eyed susans, the sound of a blue jay warning everyone he was on his way, the squirrels cleaning up the ground around the statue of St. Fiocre, and a gentle breeze that has just a tiny seductive hint of a new season coming. I tried to meditate. Forget it. But I sipped my tea and watched the busy show. It was prayer; hope.
And now another September 11th remembrance has come and gone: this one warning us of yet another monumental cosmic shift. I teach class tonight in another new studio space. Thank God I did not have to wait four months for this one. It is time to get moving and repair the world -Whatever that means for you…for me.

*My Grandfather’s Blessings, Stories of Strength, Refuge and Belonging, Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D.
*Man in the Mirror, music and lyrics, Michael. J. Jackson

Copyright Marie Plauche’-Gustin. September 2010

Ode to Betty Jo - "It's About the Heart"

Ode to Betty Jo –“It’s About Our Hearts”

It was possibly as early as 1982, surely no later than 1984. I remember dates according to which baby was on my hip at the time, and whether or not I was still breast-feeding him. Since my youngest son travelled with me back and forth to Rosenberg for some of this time, (I remember putting him in the babies’ nursery and his resistance to that), I am going to assume that is was 1982 or ’83.
I was in a stand-off with God. It happens. This position is not always a wise one, I can tell you, but I can also tell you that it is proof of God’s eternal grace and patience with us…that is, that I am still here and alive to even tell you that I was in a stand-off with God. I was trying not to have any relationship with the “Eternally Divine One” for any reason; ‘didn’t happen.
My trusted friend and side-kick of many years, Cindi, observed this, and in her mercy giftings hauled me out to Rosenberg with her. She’d “discovered” the teaching ministry of Betty Jo Frank. Betty Jo and Gene, her husband, had founded a church out there: “The Church of Living Waters.” On the “Church Calendar of Historical Events and Markers,” (that exists in my mind), this type of church, being “led by the Spirit,” was springing up in many places across the nation. Leaders and followers separated from the comfort and constraint of their traditional denominations to venture out into uncharted waters, lift their sails, haul up the spinnaker, and with the wind at their backs, propel outward and onward and upward. But, as we all know now, new waters always have rip tides, swells and occasional tsunamis.
We did that a lot back then: venture out. Cindi and me. Skeptical and cynical, with a closed heart and mind and spirit, I entered the sanctuary where the Bible Study was being held. They were singing those “songs I had grown to hate.” Choruses of casual verses were now triggers for me, stimulating memories I was trying to forget: Tsunami moments. But too tired to fight Cindi, I went, I stood and I sang anyway – though in my heart and mind and inner child, I was sitting down and silent.
Then “She” got up and began to speak. Her first words pierced through all of my defenses, and like the proverbial sheep tangled in the barbed wire, cornered and rescued by The Shepherd, I was caught, placed on those really BIG shoulders, and was being brought back to the safety of the flock. Only the likes of Betty Jo Frank in that moment of the “Church Calendar of Historical Events and Markers,” would have had that sort of impact. She was the one. And over the years, as I have watched with wonder when so many other sheep entangle themselves in the barbed wire, I have either said to them or thought to myself, “What is needed here is a big dose of Betty Jo.”
Back then, Betty Jo’s message was based on the text from Hebrews Chapter 4 in the New Testament. She taught from the whole chapter, but the body of the message was from Hebrews Chapter 4: 12-15. I just looked it up in the Bible that I have had for about 34 years, and would have used back then. Those verses are carefully underlined. As I recall, the name of the teaching series was “Possessing the Land of the Mind, Will and Emotions.” She used the Greek word, “marismos,” the “dividing asunder,” to refer to the entire text, her teaching and the process. The intention of the teaching was the inner healing of the soul, the psyche, and identifying roots of pride, fear, religion, anger, rejection, etc. that so often motivate our behavior. They were the “counterfeit voices of the Spirit,” masking themselves as truth that often justified our bad behavior, cloaking it in religious righteousness. Betty Jo had done her homework, having steeped herself in the teachings of the likes of such sages as Watchman Nee and others, who, back then, were respected and sometimes revered for their deep wisdom and insight by many seekers and sailors.
For me, it was a moment in time for transformation from the inside out, and I parked there for about two years, I think. The life-changing experience was filled with monumental moments. I remember Betty Jo’s wisdom; the timbre in her voice. Her classic one-liners accompanied with her physical antics that were often met with great hilarity and joy, have come back to me on several occasions as reminders. We were able to laugh at ourselves in our healing process. I could probably quote much of her teaching on “Possess the Land…” I won’t . It not only would be worth it to anyone who is exhausted from wandering in the wilderness of their present circumstances to search this out for themselves, but also it came to me through my personal filters and history, hitting the target where I needed to heal at the time. I highly recommend her teaching from the early 80’s. Betty Jo was a major marker, and her wisdom is eternally relevant. For me, the revelation of the difference of being led by the voice of the soul, (the mind, will and emotions), versus being led by the Spirit, was an opportunity for a metamorphosis both intellectually and spiritually. It was a great epiphany, and to date, some of the most powerful and effective teaching I have ever heard. She often referred to her daughter Keitha in her talks, telling her, “Keitha, it is a matter of the condition of the heart”… “It’s about our hearts.” (i.e. as opposed to being religiously, doctrinally “right”).
Part of the purpose of the teaching was a restoration of who we were, are, and were intended to be, and embracing those gifts and talents. I, ironically, ended that season by dancing all around the sanctuary. The Spirit at that time knew better than my soul, that somewhere down the line, dance was a gift, that God, for some strange reason, would have me explore again…my dance needed reclamation. At the time, it was bewildering. So, I have Betty Jo to thank for that too.
Betty Jo Frank and her daughter Keitha were brutally murdered by her son-in-law, Keitha’s husband, this past December between Christmas 2009 and New Year’s 2010. All four of the grandchildren were present and witnessed the murder. He was a guard in the prison system out in Rosenberg. At this writing, he is still on the loose, and has made the list on “America’s Most Wanted.” The more details emerging from this horrible situation reveal how deeply sick, psychotic and troubled this man is. He is a serious danger. I was out of town celebrating the holidays with family when I got the call from Cindi. We are both still in shock about it all. She told me what she had heard, (also reported on the local news), that Betty Jo confronted her attacker, her son-in-law she had loved and tried to help. He had already stabbed Keitha, her daughter, (as she slept). But Betty Jo, urging her granddaughter to call 911, stood between him and her grandchildren, his children, saying, “You need help. God can help you. Even now, you can come to God; Even now.” She died an horrific death with God on her lips.
Of course I have wrestled with God about all of this, as all of us who knew her have, wondering “God, what were You thinking!?” I certainly asked God that when I first began the exit from the fog. In my denial and shock and need to understand, I personally wish Betty Jo would have used a shotgun aimed at a very specific anatomical area of his body, and prayed for him later. But that was not Betty Jo. I write about this incident because it has to do with domestic violence and abuse, and women’s’ special healthcare needs, and is directly related to the mission statement of Bere’sheet Ballet. In my longer-than-I-care-to-recall history with victims as well as perpetrators of domestic violence and abuse, and let me interject here, that many of the victims have been male as well as female, is that the primary and primitive instinctive and initial response of the victim is: “It must be me. I deserved this. I must have done something to make him (or her or my parent) so angry. ” That is one of the signs. It is usually the one being abused who is trying so hard to change and adjust.
The comment that I have most often heard about the murderer in Betty Jo’s case is “There were no signs. The abuse had only been verbal.” Since verbal abuse is, well… abuse, I assumed that is where it always begins. But not always. I have recently learned, after talking with a couple of therapists, though the verbal abuse can be the precursor, it does not always end in physical abuse. A friend of mine, who is a marriage and family therapist, says that in some extreme cases, nothing can really be discerned without a Mood Survey, which reveals more than outward behavior. In addition, she added, there is nothing wrong in feeling anger: “It is a secondary emotion,” meaning, behind the anger is another problem that is driving the anger. The possibilities there are numerous. “It is the problem that is under the anger that needs to be taken care of.”
Another therapist I spoke to allows couples in counseling to argue, but they cannot use abusive or angry words, curse words, foul language, profanity, accusations, shaming, embarrassing phrases, sarcasm, mocking, and cannot shout or yell. It has a tendency to take the fire and the fury out of the fight, but still allows the expression of the anger and frustration. (There is not a lot of sting in expletives like “Phooey,” “Gosh Darn it”and“Geez”). Both therapists know that in couples counseling when one of the spouses, (for example, the husband), has abusive behavior, and is taking responsibility for it, the other person, (the wife) has to look at “her own stuff.” Does she have any responsibility here? What is her part in possibly provoking the frustration? And vice versa.
Author, (I Don’t Want To Talk About It), psychologist, and psychotherapist, Dr. Terrence Real makes a distinction between a 21st century male and a 19th century male: Since men have been in power for so long, they have been slow to realize the dramatic changes that took place in their immediate world, (to them), almost overnight. It is his observation that over the last couple of decades, generally speaking, “…women have changed and men have not…” Often times the man is confused and overwhelmed with the emotional needs of his wife, and her criticism if he has not met those needs. Somehow he has to guess what that is. Males who are “verbally castrated” become highly dysfunctional. Generally speaking, with females usually the more articulate, it is easy for a woman to overwhelm a man by just talking too much: “Logorrhea,” and by nagging and criticism. And of course the reverse is true.
Chronically critical, controlling, angry and frustrated people, who talk too much, end up dominating, intimidating and controlling others with words. Perfectionists, in their demand for perfection, fear of losing control, and obsession with being right, intimidate everyone around them, because no one can ever “get it right.” It is why all of us, (viscerally), want to “get away from them.” They put out negative energy, to say the least. It was what Betty Jo exposed…those roots in our soul…fear and anger and pride and control….soul forces that bring death.
“Life and Death are in the power of the tongue.” Betty Jo challenged us often about what was “Coming out of our mouths?” quoting “Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks. “ Were we “speaking life?” ..."The Spirit, (not the soul), always brings life.” We all know that physical abuse often can be provoked by verbal abuse: By being bullied and belittled either verbally or physically. We have suffered horribly as a nation from children gone mad and violent who had been mocked and bullied, and one day they explode.
Keitha’s situation was well advanced beyond all of this, but had its beginnings and warning signals early on. Obviously her husband is a seriously sick, paranoid and dangerous person, had been that way a long time, and needs to be caught and incarcerated. It is a tragedy beyond belief that Betty Jo’s own daughter, Keitha, did not effectively get away. It could have saved many lives.
Abusive relationships: both the abuser and the abused require specific, professional help: Counseling, behavior modification, and inner transformation: metamorphosis. Metamorphosis and marismos brings me back to God and Betty Jo as a person with spiritual power and authority as a minister and her place in the “Historical Events and Markers on the Church Calendar.” She has a place there. The word “martyr” surfaced in the days of calming down after the news. During a prayer time the other morning, in my imagination, I saw her focused and intent on saving the lives of her grandchildren, standing between them and him, confronting the enemy with the hope of life in her mouth.

Right now, martyrdom is the only answer that brings me any measure of peace, which is a tiny microscopic measure. Martyrdom is something that we in the Church in America have been able to escape for several years. We prefer to read feel good books written by positive thinking Christian ministers, goading us to be and do and obtain our best and the best…instead of Fox’s Little Book of Martyrs. I know that applies to me! When that word surfaced I remembered one morning when we were “out at Betty Jo’s.” She shared her trip to the Holy Land, and how “convicted, “as a Protestant Evangelical, she had been when she had visited the sacred sites. A little nun shooed her away when she was standing on “holy ground” as a casual tourist, unaware of the significance of where she was. In her transparent way she told us the story, confessing her blasé attitude and ignorance about these holy historical places, newly realizing the respect they deserved.
And now she deserves the same. Maybe she'd visited Rome and saw the ground in the ruins of the Coliseum…

Betty Jo, thank you. Thank you, God for the gift of Betty Jo and the time she was here.

Copyright: Marie Plauche’-Gustin; Ash Wednesday, February, 2010

If you or anyone you know: (a Senior Citizen, an adult or child), may be in an abusive situation, or a victim of domestic violence, here are some sources for help:

~Adult or Children’s Protective Services of Harris County in Houston, Texas at 713-755-5000

~The Houston Area Women’s Center, 1010 Waugh Drive, 713-535-6331.

~ Mental Health America of Greater Houston Area: 713-522- 5161

~MHMRA: 713-970-7070 ~Crisis Hotline: 713-HOTLINE ~For help and support with destructive behavior at any level, and/or addiction of any category, another option is attending group support at a “Celebrate Recovery” meeting which meets in several places : (http://www.celebraterecovery.com/)

~In an emergency, call 911.