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Spirituality and Faith

My Calling_A Poem

Created with Purpose

It was there all along,
Never elevating past a whisper.
Patiently it waited,
The time would come.
Life was noisy,
I could not hear.

Selfish existence is hollow,
I always knew there was more.
But life’s purpose won’t intrude,
It wants our full attention.
Life was noisy,
I could not hear.

Sometimes bad things happen,
For me, it was cancer.
But good can come from bad,
If we simply choose to learn.
Life was noisy,
I started to hear.

Trials build character,
If we refuse to faint.
Preparation for destiny,
Often occurs through tears.
Life was noisy,
I needed to hear.

One step of faith,
Leads to another.
Confirmation, then peace,
Renews mind, body, and soul.
Life was noisy,
I wanted to hear.

Obeying without knowing,
Requires undisputed trust.
Doing what we know to do,
Allows God to do the rest.
Life is noisy,
But I finally hear.

~Viv

This is 50!

Half a hundred. That is how old I am as of 9:04 a.m. today.

Some would call 50 ‘middle-aged’. I suppose that is true, but I choose to think of 50 as a re-birth. A time of reflection – a time to look back on the past and recognize the growth that has occurred. As I do so today, I am reminded of moments of pain, happiness, fear, joy, and uncertainty. I am encouraged to worry less about things I cannot change, and to say no to things that do not matter.

I won’t lie; it is difficult for me to fathom that I have reached this age. My body reminds me often that we are no longer 20, my mind still remembers my youth as if it were yesterday. I vividly recall memories from my childhood, high school, and my twenties. Oh how I would love to go back and mentor my younger self.

The first thing I would tell her would be to stop striving for perfection; that only stresses you out and makes you miserable. Nobody is perfect. Next, I would tell her to wait for the man God has for her instead of rushing to get married right out of high school – marriage is such a gift when you marry your best friend. I would encourage her to not climb the ladder of success so quickly; there is something beautiful in pacing. I would remind her to call her parents more and not wait until she wasn’t so busy with her career – family is more important than your livelihood.  I would steer her away from bathing in the sun and visiting tanning beds in an effort to keep the cancer away. And I would tell her every day she was beautiful, especially on those days that others told her she wasn’t. I would be her cheerleader; her biggest fan, and best friend.

I cannot go back in time. And to be honest, I wouldn’t even if I could. The experiences I have had over the past 50 years are testimonies. We all have them and I believe we have a duty to share them in order to help others.

Age is just a number and today, dear friends, my number is 50!

~Viv

Vivian and birthday cupcake

Labels

Hat and flowers

Assumptions, accusations, pity, and blame

All emit from a society, uneducated in me

Questions, inquiries, probes, and shame

Try to blanket my existence; why can’t they see?

 

Offspring is tied intimately to women’s worth

But her significance is rooted deep from within

Her value is not attached simply to giving birth

A childless womb does not equate to sin

 

A nurturing spirit is a gift from above

But some tend to narrow it in scope

You don’t get to decide whom He gave me to love

For when He made me, he gave her hope

 

Two broken spirits, a single dad, a disrupted life

God chose to heal us, one-by-one-by one

Our lives were changed when I became Eddy’s wife

Abandonment faded – I became her bonus-mom

 

Women nurture pets, angels, and children of others

These words are simply a reflection of my life – my fable

I bet there’s more women like me – idle wombs, yet still loving mothers

So world, show respect to a woman – don’t judge, assume, and don’t label

 

~Viv

Pure Bread

Loaf of bread symbolizes spiritual gift of daily bread

It was nothing more than a simple loaf of bread, but its message was powerfully unique to each of us. For the downtrodden, homeless man, it symbolized hope and life. For me, it represented humility and submission. Worlds apart, he and I, yet as we sat on a cold bench in downtown Ogden, we became one. The only difference between us was the gift we would receive.

Gift exchange was a fun tradition in our Utah neighborhood. Days before Christmas, our front porch became a breeding ground for homemade treats, tins of cookies, chocolates, and bags of caramel popcorn. One afternoon, I came home to a beautifully wrapped loaf of bread. The tag identified it as one of Great Harvest’s holiday staples: orange marmalade swirl. I smiled as I picked it up and carried it to the kitchen to join the rest of the treats. Such a lovely tradition, however, the number of treats always surpassed my husband’s and my ability to consume them. I never told anyone, but every year, I set aside a few goodies for us, then took the rest to the James V. Hansen Federal Building, where I shared the bounty with my co-workers.

Located on the corner of Grant Avenue and Historic 25th Street, the “Federal Building” was home to thousands of employees serving in multiple agencies. Parking around the six-story building was strictly reserved for visitors; therefore, us Feds parked across the street. Not a big deal, it was a short walk in the spring and summer, but in the fall and winter, when daylight hours were few, the walk seemed longer. I dreaded it.

Lampposts along the street and throughout the parking lot were intended to shed light on the darkened city block. Their illumination, however, produced a shadowy-infused ambiance. This created opportunity for ill-intended street occupants to engage in inappropriate behavior. As I walked to and from my car in the early morning and evening hours, I was accosted by men who emerged from the shadows. Some wanted money, others wanted sex. Refusal of either resulted in verbal attacks of profanity. It was an ongoing ritual; one that hadn’t broken any laws. I learned to simply ignore it, which is why I crossed the street without so much as a glance at the downtrodden man on the bench.

Clutching my purse and the loaf of marmalade bread, I hurried passed him and entered the safe confines of the Federal Building. My stomach was churning. By the time I made it to my office on the fourth floor, I was sweating profusely. As I took off my coat and mittens, I stared at the loaf of bread I placed on my desk. My heart began to pound wildly as these words entered my conscious: “Give him the bread.”

“No,” I said aloud to nobody in particular. I was not going to place myself in an awkward or potentially dangerous situation. Besides, I had already taken off my coat; I was not going back outside.

“Give him the bread.”

The prompting became stronger the longer I resisted. I could not concentrate. I could not get my heartrate down, nor could I stop sweating. After about 10 minutes, I reluctantly submitted. I put on my coat and mittens, grabbed the loaf of bread, and headed outside.

His head was tilted down, but he wasn’t asleep. I hadn’t noticed before, but he was an older man. His long gray hair was curly and stuck out from underneath a red crochet hat. He had on a waist-length black coat and brown boots. Looking at this man, my heartrate settled down. My stomach stopped churning. My fear immediately subsided.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Vivian. Would you like some orange marmalade bread?”

Instead of looking up and accepting my gift, he shook his head ‘no’ and continued to stare at the ground.

“Do you not like orange marmalade?” I asked, sitting down beside him. Again, he shook his head, still refusing to look at me. “Me neither,” I confessed.

He had nothing to say to me and I didn’t know what else to say to him. I was confused at the prompting. Why go through all of this just for him to refuse my gift? We sat in silence for a few minutes before I stood up to leave.

“Well, I better get inside so I won’t get into trouble,” I said. He still would not look at me.

“I hope you have a blessed day. Merry Christmas.” As I turned to walk away, the man yelled at me. “Hey, get back here!”

From the tone of his voice, I expected confrontation. I cautiously turned around and for the first time, I saw his face. Tears were rolling down his rosy cheeks into his untrimmed beard. His expression softened. “Thank you,” he said. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

I nodded and smiled. Now I understood.

It was just a loaf of bread, pure and simple, and though neither he nor I consumed any of it that cold December morning, it nourished and filled our bodies. It was never my gift to give to a homeless man. Rather, it was a special gift intended for both he and I. It was never about the bread.

~Viv

Give us today our daily bread…
Matthew 6:11

Nervous Redemption

Water represents MemoryBlogger Vivian Cumins being baptized at age 10.

I asked to go last. There were two adults before me, a man, and a woman, both dressed in the same thin, light blue gown. I was only 10 years old, so my gown was a little big and went all the way to the floor. As I watched them take two steps down into the waist-deep tank of warm water, I suddenly questioned my decision.

I should have gone first, I thought to myself – get it over with. I wanted to turn around and leave, but that was impossible. My mom was in the way. Standing in the shadows with a big smile on her face, she held a fluffy white towel in one hand and a bag of dry clothes in the other. She was proud; she had no idea I was having second thoughts.

Panic invaded my senses as I watched my born-again brother and sister lean back trustingly into the arm of our pastor, Brother Gene Strother. Slowly, Brother Gene guided their bodies into the water until they were completely submerged. Shouts of “Amen!” and applause could be heard coming from the congregation as Brother Gene quickly snapped them to their feet. No doubt, I would receive the same reaction from the congregation when it was my turn, that is, if I had the nerve to go through with it.

Aquaphobia is a fear of water, often developed from a traumatic event during childhood. For as long as I can remember, I have had a fear of water. This is the reason I never learned to swim. You read that right: I can’t swim. I have, however, taken swim lessons – twice. Unfortunately, I was kicked out of class – twice, and my registration fees were refunded – twice. I suspect I am partly to blame. I refused to put my face in the water. The thought of it gave (and still does!) me anxiety. I begged my instructors to teach me to doggie paddle instead. Dogs were great swimmers, and they didn’t put their heads in the water! Neither instructor was impressed with my observation and neither complied with my request; one even told me I was “unteachable.” Now that was a little harsh, don’t you think?

I don’t remember the incident, but I learned years ago that I did, in fact, experience a traumatic water-related event when I was two years old. It was a sticky summer afternoon and my dad, mom, sister, and I were out on a boat on Lake Chickasha. My sister liked to lean over the side so the waves could slap against her bare hands. As is typical for a little sister, I wanted to do what she was doing, except I was at a disadvantage. My arms were much shorter. I ended up leaning too far and falling overboard, face-first into the lake. I was only underwater for less than a second before my dad immediately sprang into action and grabbed me by my life jacket and pulled me out. Less than a second, but the damage was done. From that moment on, I feared water.

Toddler Vivian and mom in boat
Before falling overboard

I didn’t think about being immersed in water when I walked the aisle of Maranatha Baptist Church in search of salvation. All I knew was I loved Jesus and wanted to go to Heaven someday. Nevertheless, Brother Gene informed me that the act of baptism followed salvation as a public expression of one’s faith. I understood and agreed it was the proper thing to do; however, I was afraid. Brother Gene promised he would hold me tight, and I could even hold my nose if I wanted to. I reluctantly agreed.

As my turn inched closer, I realized there was no turning back. I decided to go through with it even though I was afraid. Brother Gene was waiting in the middle of the baptismal with his left arm extended. I grabbed ahold of his hand as I stepped into the water. I was shorter than the two who had gone before me. Instead of my waist, the water came up to my chest and caused my heart to beat wildly. Brother Gene leaned down and whispered, “You are doing great! You ready?” I nodded my head, pinched my nose with my left thumb and forefinger, and closed my eyes tight.

I don’t remember going under, but I remember coming up because my foot slipped, and Brother Gene had to grab me to keep me from going under a second time. Once I regained my balance, I turned my head towards the roaring congregation. People were on their feet clapping and cheering for me. Brother Gene offered me a ‘high-five’  before helping me up the stairs and out of the water. Praise the Lord, I did it!

Aside from the obvious, this memory has a special place in my heart. Throughout life, there have been times when I needed or wanted to do something, but fear incapacitated me. As I grow in faith, I find the strength necessary to take steps forward – to do it anyway – to do it afraid.

I still have a fear of water. I still can’t swim. But, I have driven a jet-ski. I have waded in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. I went on a 5-day cruise across the Caribbean for my honeymoon, and crossed the English Channel from Germany to England on a ferry. I have learned that faith plus courage often produces the most precious memories. My baptism 39 years ago is one of them.

~Viv

Baptism Certificate

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