July 12, 2025 · 6:28 AM

Damaged Goods

Definition of damaged goods: inadequate or impaired. Products that are broken, cracked, scratched, etc.: a person considered no longer desirable or valuable because of something that has happened. This is a person whose reputation is damaged.

Are you damaged goods? Feel like you’re not worthy?

You don’t have to remain that way, regardless of your past, or present.

Was that ever me?

You betcha!

Read on …

Hollow. Pure loneliness. Dark, like a bottomless pit. Ripping in my chest. Piercing my heart. Again, he stays out all night. Overcome by torment. Abandonment accompanies me. Consumed with depression, isolation wraps itself around me. My mind races with wild imaginations of where he has gone, what he is doing, and with whom.

Instead of going to bed to sleep, I am wearing a hole in the couch. Every time a car approaches, I spring like a jack-in-the-box, peeking out the window, hoping he has returned. With every disappointment, my stomach turns into knots. My own sobs mock me until I cry myself to semi-consciousness. Hideous lies will follow after he returns and add to my anguish and emotional decline. 

Broken. Flawed. Undone.

That was me back then, dealing with my former (cheating) husband. His words, like rubbing alcohol pouring over fresh wounds, stung! No band-aids healed my emotional pain. No quick fixes. Deeper and deeper I sank into a dark abyss, crushed beyond repair. For several years, that was my pathetic frame of mind. I know now it didn’t have to be that way. So, what was the deal?

I had an overload of abuse: physical, verbal, and emotional. I had low self-esteem and zero self-worth. I believed and accepted a lie about me and my situation. I figured since this was my lot in life, might as well make the best of it. I had witnessed my mom go through a cycle of abuse, but I was obviously blind to my own. I made him mad again … Maybe I deserved it … Talk about co-dependency!

How do you perceive yourself? Have you ever been lied to, beaten down, and trodden upon? Feel like you’ll never come up for air? Are you tired of stumbling around in blindness, things so bleak you can’t even see your own self-worth? Drowning in sorrow, buried in self-pity? Or maybe you feel you’re at the point of no return in trying to please someone else. You compromise your values, your mental state, your resources, and your health!

Stop allowing someone’s negativity or ill-treatment to rob you of your joy and develop a callous heart. Realize you are worthy. You are valued and matter. There’s nothing wrong with being fragile … but let it be like beautiful, fine china. Just know you are not damaged goods, a throwaway, or a faded memory. Don’t be someone’s victim because you listened to their lies and empty promises. I’m living proof that God doesn’t discard what He’s determined to restore.

Get up! Rediscover yourself. Feel your wrist. What is that? A pulse? Then you have a purpose! Allow the Master’s hand to reach down and set you in high places. He’ll wipe the tears and dust the soot from off your heart. If God got me out of the pit, He can get you out, too. It takes a made-up mind. A determination that today is the best day of the rest of your life.

What’s in your hands? What’s in your heart? A dream? A gift? A precious child? You have something worth fighting for. Choose your battles.

 If you don’t know my pain, you’ll never understand my praise.

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June 28, 2025 · 6:33 AM

How Misunderstanding Love Can Impact Relationships

Gary Chapman is a well-known author, counselor, and radio talk show host on human relationships. According to him, there are 5 Love Languages. Each love language describes how we receive love from others. They are:

Words of Affirmation – Saying supportive things to your partner

Acts of Service – Doing helpful things for your partner

Receiving Gifts – Giving your partner gifts that tell them you were thinking about them

Quality Time – Spending meaningful time with your partner

Physical Touch – Being close to and caressed by your partner

While reading “The 5 Love Languages” by Gary Chapman, he explains how the concept of love can be very confusing. We love activities, objects, animals, nature, and people. We even fall in love with love. He points out that we use love to explain behavior. “‘I did it because I love her,’ says a man who is involved in an adulterous relationship. God calls it sin, but he calls it love. The wife of an alcoholic picks up the pieces after her husband’s latest episode. The psychologist calls it co-dependency, but she calls it love. The parent indulges all the child’s wishes. The family therapist calls it irresponsible parenthood, but the parent calls it love.”

Now I’m not by any means of the imagination, a psychologist, a professor, a clergywoman, or a counselor. I am just an ordinary woman. I’m a wife, mother, daughter, sister, cousin, grandma, aunt, friend, neighbor, coworker, and recently a great-grandma. But, like many, I think we often speak the wrong love language. I definitely have.

In my youth, I did some stupid things out of “love” for a guy. And because I loved him, I thought, surely he will come to my way of thinking. He would love me in return, enough to change his behavior and better himself. After all, hadn’t I bent over backward for him? Worshiped the ground he walked on? Become his doormat? In order to gain his undivided attention, I forgot who I was.

In my teens, I covered my former husband’s transgressions. I hid his secret, sin, and shame. My way of thinking was: This is why I exist, right? It’s my job, isn’t it? His wish was my command. Barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen – if only I knew how to cook then! My smile hid the pain in my heart, and makeup hid the bruises on my face. I hid the grocery money and emptied the liquor bottles, refilling half with water, hoping he’d never notice. I’d called his boss to say he was sick in bed after another blackout episode. I told myself: I protect my interests. I do it all in the name of “love.”

I was tired. Burned out. But because I loved my children, I eventually allowed them the freedom of choice. They started listening to the “hip” music their friends were listening to and watching certain types of movies. Oh, sure, I just knew they were old enough and wise enough not to repeat negative behaviors. And yes, I was inconsistent, worn-out, and haggard. I even practiced tough love. I attended church activities and adhered to rules and schedules. Then I lost the victory in my own personal life. I tossed responsibility to the wind. I got lazy. It became every person for himself. I started doing my own thing. I felt defeated. Cold-hearted. Bitter. I had lost the battle as a wife. For a moment, I forgot there was still a war to fight. That war was called MOTHERHOOD.

That was many moons ago. I have moved on—my children are adults, and I am in my second marriage, 31 years now. I continue to strive to communicate this language in a healthy manner. It is far from perfect, but I continue to improve. I aim for a method that allows me to love, if even from a distance, without being overly legalistic.

These are my rambling thoughts as I reflect on Gary Chapman’s perspective on the language of love.

What are your thoughts?

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June 21, 2025 · 8:37 AM

Finding Strength in Joy Amid Life’s Trials

What exactly is joy?

I’ve heard it said, “The world didn’t give it to you and the world can’t take it away.”

Joy: a feeling of great pleasure and happiness. At least that’s what I read online. Sounds good to me, but I know from experience that pleasure and happiness don’t last. Let’s face it, most of us look to others to please us. We often look to others to make us happy. We also look for things to bring us pleasure and happiness. But if we’re honest, that in itself is fleeting, isn’t it? Before you know it, we’re needing another fix!

So, how is “joy” different?

The Bible teaches that the joy of the Lord is our strength. (Nehemiah 8:10b); I love that! But can one experience joy while going through everyday life with its many toils, twists, and turns? To be honest, during times of trauma, the thought of joy escapes me. I mean, I’m not necessarily thinking about joy during these times. Matter of fact, I may even kick and scream (inwardly), and even have actual meltdown periods, or panic attacks.

When I read my Bible, I am reminded that the joy of the Lord is my strength. This is what it means to me: it’s a joy unspeakable and full of glory!

I may not be able to explain it, put my finger on it, or even see it. But I know it’s there – I know it in my knower. (Bear with me, please, I’m fully aware this isn’t “correct” English.) But I just know that I know. It’s not an “in your face” kind of thing. It’s not necessarily giddiness. It’s not even a denial of difficulties. For me, it’s a reassurance that everything will be all right. I may not understand some things, even while having a breakdown, feeling sad, or grieving.

The pain is real. The battle is real. But so is the joy real. This joy is indescribable. Come hell or high water, I feel safe and secure in my Heavenly Father’s arms. It feels just like when I was a child in my earthly daddy’s arms. Even in the midst of pain and sorrow, here is where there’s strength and comfort. This joy floods the heart; it brings inner peace and strength, even though everything else around may be chaotic.

I didn’t always know this or believe this. But through my experiences, I’ve learned a few things. Learn to be still. Quiet. Wait on God’s perfect timing. Life happens. Happiness is fleeting. Pleasure is temporary. But the joy of the Lord remains constant regardless of circumstances and situations.

Joy is the best makeup – Anne Lamott

Excuse me while I put on some makeup.

Have you experienced this joy?

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June 15, 2025 · 11:46 AM

“To the world, you are a dad. But to our family, you are the world.”

“A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow.”

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June 12, 2025 · 6:59 AM

Dad: A son’s first hero. A daughter’s first love.

The fathers in my family are affectionately referred to as Dad, Daddy, Pops, and Papi. Newsflash: None are perfect! But each one signifies love, courage, provision, and strength. Their eyes glow with purpose. Their smiles melt hearts. Their chest swells with pride. Their callous hands protect. They stand tall with dignity. And their embraces offer comfort and assurance. Yes, they are the pillars of our households.

It’s said that every man is trying to live up to his father’s expectations. Alternatively, he is trying to make up for his father’s mistakes. I’m not sure if that’s true. I only know that each man represented in my family strives to be the very best possible. Each holds a mantle and carries a torch for the next generation. Each dad represented in my family lays a solid foundation, even those who have crossed over to the other side. I can’t help but think about my own grandfathers. They were strong, respected, dedicated men with a constant presence. They left behind a legacy. When the tough got going, they didn’t cave under pressure. They persevered with Puerto Rican pride in every fiber of their being.

To the men in my family who are dads: I love each of you. I admire each of you. To my dear husband, who married me with four children, I share this quote. “It takes a strong man to accept somebody else’s children. It takes strength to step up to the plate, another man left on the table.” I salute you.

I salute you all. Remember: Any man can be a father. But it takes a special person to be a dad.


And to the newest dad in our family, my handsome grandson,

now with his precious

little girl. I am one proud great-grandma!

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June 7, 2025 · 3:25 PM

Beyond the Rubble: Embracing Hope and Healing

“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
that they might be called trees of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.” Isaiah 61:3

How do you find beauty in difficult times?

My devotion today is found in Isaiah 61:3. This passage of scripture brings me comfort. Yet, I wondered…

How can there be a smidgen of beauty among the rubble? Wreckage? Or ashes?

How is this even possible?

How do we see beauty amid suffering, hopelessness, or despair?

When I saw my baby sister lying in her small white coffin, I sure didn’t see any beauty in that.

As a child, I noticed my mama with bruises on her body. I failed to see them as beauty marks.

My former husband was known for his strength, vigor, and sure-footedness. After one drink of alcohol, he morphed into a sloppy drunk, miles away from anything charming.

To watch my grandpa become a prisoner in his own body was disheartening. His barrel-chested physique became sunken and scrawny. It was a far cry from what I considered alluring.

My grandma was once so robust and plump. When my eyes caressed her features, I saw her turning thin and frail due to illness. It wasn’t lovely to behold.

The day I saw my former husband turn his back on me was not a picturesque scene. He had pulled the rug from under my feet. He left me in the dust while I choked in my sobs and called out his name in vain.

My tiny 29-day-old granddaughter, swollen from fluids in a medically induced coma after her open-heart surgery, wasn’t eye-appealing.

Recently, saying goodbye to Mama was anything but a pleasant and beautiful moment.

Scars tell a story, but they are not beautiful. Neither are the hidden bruises on the body nor the scab on the heart.

Death is not cute; the grieving of loved ones taken from you is never delightful. Hunger is not charming. Loneliness is not attractive.

Repossession isn’t grand. Foreclosure is far from good.

So, how can there be beauty for ashes?

I believe it is found in hope. Hope against hope. Hope that the imperfect will become perfect. Hope that the pain will cease. Hope that there will be a day of reckoning. Hope that the scattered pieces will rebuild. Hope for healing and relief. Hope that the light will dawn and a new day will come. Hope that this too shall come to pass. Hope in heaven. Hope that the best is yet to come. And most importantly, we believe in the Blessed Hope. One day, we shall see our loved ones again who have crossed over.

I can now yell it from the mountaintop. Thank you, Lord! You have turned my life’s ugliness into a thing of beauty!

Out of sadness and hurt will come strength and victory.

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May 30, 2025 · 8:17 PM

A Breech Birth Experience

AT 19 YEARS OLD, MY MIND REELING, I tossed and turned and kicked off the covers. I struggled to get out of bed; for the fifth time that night, I floundered toward the bathroom.
“Where are you going now?” Donny demanded.
    I turned the bathroom light on. “Need to go again, Donny.”
    “Didn’t you just go?”
    “I’m feeling a lot of pressure in my bladder.” How I wished to erase the sneer from his face. “Didn’t mean to wake . . . ”
    He responded by sucking air through his teeth and then flipped over, turning his back to me.
   Unable to get proper rest, I had started cramping at 3:30 that morning. Around midday, the cramps grew stronger. By 3 p.m., the pain had become agonizing, but still irregular, followed by spotting. The instant Donny walked in from work, I said, “It’s time.”
    We arrived at Rosewood General. An attendant assisted me into a wheelchair. When I sat down, my water broke, so much for dignity.
    Once I was in my room, the nurse examined me. She discovered I was already dilated to six. This meant I was in the second stage of labor. Glancing down at my belly, I found the shape oddly lopsided, oval, no longer round. Much to my dismay, after the nurse’s probing, she mentioned in a concerned voice that she felt a foot.
    The doctor ordered an emergency X-ray. Apparently, at the last moment, my baby had turned and remained in a breech position. The X-ray also revealed that the umbilical cord had wrapped around the neck. The medical staff prepped me and gave me an epidural. They then confirmed that I needed to have a Cesarean. This time, Donny remained in the waiting room.
    During the birthing process, even though I was awake, I felt nothing from the waist down. I concentrated on trying to relax and comprehend what the doctors and nurses were discussing. A large blue drape blocked my view of the entire birthing process.
    I couldn’t keep my upper body from shaking. Even my teeth chattered, and the uncontrollable tremors caused my shoulders to ache, as if ready to fall off. Petrifying thoughts raced through my mind. I feared something was terribly wrong. When I heard someone say, “Here she comes,” the “she” rang loud in my mind: another girl.
    But why won’t she cry?
    Time stopped. I prayed. Felt like forever.
    At last, wails from strong lungs pierced the room. My doctor smiled and held my six- pound- four-ounce baby. “It’s a girl.”
    I reached out for her, anxious to see if she was all right. She looks so small, red, and wrinkled, unlike Anna Marie when she was born. And she had one purple arm!

An excerpt from “Running in Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace”

Life sometimes will throw you a curve. Ever experienced the feeling of being out of control? How about the fear of the unknown and the what-ifs? Although this was my second child, the entire process was different than with the birth of my firstborn. I was not prepared. I lacked the moral support of my former husband. All my family members lived out of state. Most of the time, I felt alone and inept in my role. But I learned to be an overcomer. And if I can make it, so can you! Want to know more about my journey? You can read all about it in my memoir,
"Running in Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace".

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May 17, 2025 · 6:00 AM

The Shadow Box

At a friend’s suggestion, my husband and I went to see a live performance of The Shadow Box. We were unfamiliar with this Pulitzer Prize-winning 1977 play by Michael Cristofer.

In a compelling, 24-hour dramatic triptych, three terminally cancer patients dwell in separate hospice cottages on a hospital’s grounds. They focus on raw emotional struggles in the face of mortality and family dynamics.

We found each actor believable and captivating as they delivered their lines. Watching the performance, deep emotions rose, but for us, void of the ‘warm and fuzzy’ feeling kind. Everyone has a cross to bear. That’s a fact. But I want to share my sentiments after we watched the play.

SPOILER ALERT:

The middle-aged married couple clearly lacks honest communication with one another. They hadn’t seen each other in six months due to expenses. The wife is in denial about her husband’s impending death. Their teenage son doesn’t even know that his father is dying. The couple reflects on the life they could have had. The husband feels that owning your home symbolizes life, now out of reach.

Another patient feels that everyone must live life on their own terms. He is a dreamer, a writer juggling between his unwelcome alcoholic, promiscuous ex-wife and his boyfriend/caretaker with benefits. The boyfriend is full of complaints and disgusted by the ex. Both lash out in anger.

“How is he?”
“Dying. How are you?”
“Well, I think we’ve got that all straight now. He’s dying. I’m drunk. And you’re pissed off.”

They continuously talked about their conquests and victories, which are not worth repeating. Trying to find common ground, they danced.

Finally, another is a blind and elderly senile patient. She is in pain. But she refuses to die before she gets a visit from her daughter. Yet, her daughter has been dead for years. She seems to ignore her living daughter, her caretaker, who remains by her side. The ‘unseen’ weary but devoted daughter does her best in caring for her dying mother. But she is giving her mother false hope. She attempts to appease her mother by writing and reading fictional letters to her. The letters come from a daughter who is long dead.

Later, her mama naps in the wheelchair, head tilted to one side. Although asleep, the daughter continues speaking to her. “Mama, if I told you the truth, would you listen? If I told you the truth now, would you think I was lying? I don’t remember the good times anymore. I used to think we had something to go back to, but I don’t remember what it is. All I can remember is this: pushing … and pulling … and hurting – this is all I can remember. It all went wrong! What happened, Mama? There must have been a time when you loved me. Oh, Mama, if I told you the truth now, would it matter?”

As I listened to the daughter’s palpable agony, I caught a snippet of my own life with my mama. We didn’t always have the best communication skills. But I loved her. Deep down, I knew she loved me. Still, her affections went toward her youngest child, her golden boy, whom she had given birth to later in life. For five years, we cared for Mama in our home. Then she developed cancer in her stomach and needed surgery. Afterwards, not wanting to do the work in rehab that required both physical and occupational therapy, Mama never fully recovered. It gave us some time, seven months to be exact. She remained bedridden, and her muscles became atrophied. In many ways, I felt helpless in knowing what to do for her. I had asked God to help me make the right decisions and be strong for her.

My heart ached while watching the play, hearing the wife tell her husband how she wanted him home.

“I want you to come home. I want you to go out four nights a week bowling. Then come home so I can yell and not talk to you. I want to fight so that you’ll take me to a movie. And by the time I finally get you to take me, I am so upset. I can’t even enjoy the picture. I want to wake up too early. And I’ll let you know about it, too. You wake me up too early to make you breakfast because you never want to eat it. You wake me up too early to keep you company and talk to you. And it’s cold, and my back aches, and we’ve got nothing to say to each other. And we never talk; and it’s 6:30 in the morning—every morning—even Sunday morning. And it’s alright! It’s alright! Because I want to be there, you need me to be there. Because I want you to be there, because I want you to come home!”

But of course, he can’t go home … because he’s dying.

In conclusion, one of the characters said, and I agree, “You always think you have more time. And you don’t.”

Although each character in this production dealt with terminal illness, my husband and I left feeling empty, exhausted, and sad. Other than the understanding that no one will live forever, there were no moral conclusions. Each character focused on their past, reminiscing about their lives before illness. Not much hope for what was to come. No preparation.

As a Christian, whether I live or die, my hope is in the Lord. “To be absent from the body and to be present with the Lord.” II Corinthians 5:8.

“Death to the Christian is the funeral of all his sorrows and evils, and the resurrection of all his joys.” ~James H. Aughey

Your turn. How do you wrestle with the reality of mortality and faith?

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May 9, 2025 · 6:03 AM

Mama

Creative Director – Charlie Duggar
featuring artists: Evan Craft, Danny Gokey, Redimi2 – “Be Alright”
Tercer Cielo – “Yo Te Extrañare”
Boyz II Men – “A Song for Mama”
Elvis Presley – “Take My Hand, Precious Lord”
Josh Groban – “You Raise Me Up”
Mercy Me – “I Can Only Imagine”

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May 3, 2025 · 8:00 AM

A Thorn in the Flesh

We all wrestle with struggles—some visible, some hidden. But can they serve a greater purpose?

Recently, I had the opportunity to fly to Miami and visit with loved ones. We helped celebrate my sister’s birthday. I met up with my daddy, step-mother, and sister, and stayed with them at a hotel. We enjoyed an excellent meal at a popular Cuban restaurant. The next day, we planned a fun outing. We met up with one of my brothers, his lovely girlfriend, and my beautiful nieces. While driving there, we heard a thumping noise that didn’t sound good coming from under the minivan. We stopped, got out, and discovered that we had a flat. We weren’t going anywhere. Locating the spare tire was frustrating, and unlocking it took even longer. Then we searched for the closest tire repair shop, wasting more time sitting there. We finally arrived two to three hours later, hot, cranky, already tired, and hungry.

At the fairgrounds, we walked around and got snacks. Then we stopped to watch a show. A man and his dog were performing tricks with a frisbee. We decided to climb the bleachers for a better view. Using the bleachers as stairs, I tripped and fell on bleacher number one, landing on my knees. I got up and fell again on bleacher number two. Ouch! Lord, have mercy on me! My brother ran to help and steadied me to finally sit and watch the rest of the show. When we left and reached our vehicle, I yanked on the car door latch to open it. I quickly found the door was still locked. I injured my finger while pulling on the handle! I still can’t bend my middle finger a month later— you can imagine how that looks!

1 Corinthians 12:7

On Sunday morning, we visited my brother’s church. Instantly, I was drawn by the pastor’s message when I heard him speak on having a thorn in the flesh. The pastor said that thorns drive us to humility. Yeah, I certainly was all that. I had fallen and landed on my knees in front of everyone.

A thorn in the flesh can derive from various situations for different people. It can mean a piercing and troubling situation, person, or task. And I’m here to tell you that thorns don’t feel so good. They prick. And they hurt! But can they show us that in our weaknesses, God becomes strong?

The pastor also mentioned that God uses brokenness in our lives. We indeed throw broken things away. But I was reminded that God will use broken pieces and broken people. Broken people know how much they need God! Our thorns in the flesh remind us of our need for God’s strength, and not on our own strength.

After the service, I determined to focus on the positives of my mini-vacation. I got the chance to get away for the weekend. I rekindled precious memories with siblings. I also spent some quality time with Daddy, who will soon turn 92 years old, God willing. His health may be declining, but he was still active and engaging with me. We ate our meals together and shared stories. One night, I brought him his favorite café con leche to the room from a restaurant nearby. He was so happy. I mentioned how he had been really eating well. He looked at me with that endearing twinkle in his eyes, leaned close, and said, “I did it for you.”

It’s always been difficult to say goodbye whenever it’s time to leave my family in Florida. This time was no exception. My stepmother cried. My sister cried. I cried. Thank goodness Daddy and I spoke earlier, and he was asleep already!

My brother dropped me off at the airport. I checked in my luggage and went through customs. I sat alone in the cold lobby, reminiscing on all that had occurred over the weekend. It wasn’t long before the airline announced several delays. These delays put my flight three hours behind. Then, the dreaded word ‘canceled’ blared over the loudspeaker. Although the airport was freezing, at that moment, the tension rose. Tempers flared with heated words from passengers and staff. Four hours later, I paid an extra airfare to fly home on another airline. I had to get off and switch flights before arriving home the next morning. The trip cost more than I had budgeted, not to mention missing an entire day of work. At that moment, I felt weary, defeated, and broken.

The pastor that morning illustrated that we are living in this flesh. Yet, as Christians, we also have the Holy Spirit. So it’s up to us to starve one and feed the other. The one who starves tends to lose; the one we feed tends to win. Let’s learn to rely more on the Holy Spirit so that we feed our inner man. Through this, we gain power in our weaknesses.

In retrospect, I had experienced a few unpleasant thorns. Yet, I realize that God desires to shape me for something greater. Thorns cause frustration, but I believe it will lead me back to the realization that God’s grace sustains me.

Lord, I know you’re trying to teach me something here. My flesh says: Can you hurry up the process so I can learn it and move on?

My spirit says: Help me in my weakness, Lord. May I rely more on you and be reminded that I am complete in you. I thank you, God, for your grace.

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